One Speed City

The guy is pedaling an old one-speed very slowly down the sidewalk on Waverly Avenue. He's  holding a heavy bag of groceries across the handlebars with his right hand, which he is also using to steer and hand-brake. In his left hand he carries aloft a large bag from the dry cleaners which looks maybe six slacks-and-shirts thick, while across the other side of his handlebars is another bag, contents unknown, but heavy -- it swings uneasily each time he stops for a light, or a bunch of approaching teenagers on the sidewalk, or an elderly woman in a walker, or a pothole with a construction barrier around it.

The dude is going to crash, it's just a matter of time.

Metaphor for New York? Maybe, but maybe the better point is that he's not going to crash, he's going to make it home, after all, despite a particularly difficult and complicated trip to the grocery and dry cleaner.

Did you hear me? A difficult and complicated trip to the grocery store and dry cleaner. Nothing is easy around here.

For one thing, it's very hot. You don't sleep when it's that hot, you just roll and roll, squirm and toss, get up, lie down, shake your head, think about that fog and wind you're always complaining about and how good it sounds.

On the other hand, NO sinus problems. No stuffed ears, no exhausting sneeze attacks.

Just sore feet.

At noon, straight up, the sun blasts on everyone's head, obliterating all shade. Concrete, stone, asphalt. The bus takes forever to come. And no one complains. Just the opposite. The owner of a closed pet shop sees little Isabella, sweat pouring off her face as she holds Bobo's hand, and opens the door of the pet shop so Belly can play with Midnight, the store cat, inside where it's cool, until the bus comes.

Plotnik used the car the other day -- mistake. When he got home, and found a Mush-spot to park in right across the street, the others got out first. Plot parked, then opened his door to exit and stepped in a pool of melted tar. They'd fixed the road -- who knows how long ago - but the heat had melted the asphalt patch. Sandals, did he mention that?

Don't let "Pianos" fool you. Look closer. It's a restaurant. This is what the Apple calls "recycling."

Ducknik just got back upstairs from doing the laundry downstairs. Plotnik had bought a new large bottle of the fancy-shmancy organic detergent which appears to be in favor around here. But he bought it at the Associated Market down the street.

The anise - anus -- remember?

Duck is seething -- there was a giant hole in the pour cup of the detergent bottle and they'd just covered it up with a perfectly disguised piece of tape. So when she went to pour the soap into the cup, it leaked all over the downstairs laundry room, and the bags, and the floor.

So Plot can go back, angry as hell, to get his money back. What will they do? Shrug.

See previous entry waxing poetic about this marvelous city. Scratch it out. No, don't. Just, you know, like -- shee mon.