Naturally.
But, I think the activity that took home the first prize was my eavesdropping on a couple . . . of people . . . engaging in a heated disaster of an argument.
Picture it. Sicily. 1922.
Just kidding.
Picture it. New York. 1982.
Just kidding again.
Sorry.
Picture it for real now. New York. 2009. Corner of Broadway and West something St.
A man and a woman sitting on the steps of a church.
Me, sitting about 4 yardsticks away, also on the church steps, pretending to casually read my New York Magazine whilst straining my ears to hear the argument and occasionally sneaking a glance at the fiery woman who is quite blatantly winning the argument.
A note: The fact that they were both British only enhanced this argument.
It was like watching a Neil LaBute play . . . at a West End theater.
The ragged woman, 30ish, had eyes of fire and spit words at this poor bumbling little fellow that made mistake after mistake with his excuses and counter-arguments. The woman was puffing a cigarette and inhaled more vigorously and at shorter intervals as the fight rapidly caught fire.
One blunder on the man's part and suddenly the argument has turned to his mother. His poor mother. And now I don't even have to strain, because the woman is yelling aloud in a gruff, resenting voice, "Don't treat me like your mother! I am NOT YOUR MOTHER! I am not your FUCKING MUM!" a quiet refute from the man with a quick cutoff by the lady: "I am not your mother! Your mother is a fucking miserable, wicked old woman. A bitch! I am not that bitch."
I glance back at the man, but all I can see is his back. Damn. He must agree his old mum is a bitch, because for a moment all has gone quiet. She puffs away, looking off into the distance, cheeks flushed in anger. I can't tell if she's on drugs or just on fire with emotion.
He says he knows she isn't his mother.
More yelling ensues.
More quiet.
More smoking.
And thennn . . . . they are talking too quietly for me to hear.
I am bored.
I head off to Barnes and Noble to purchase the $25 book I've been waiting to buy for a month.
I don't know if it was my head cold that began yesterday or if I was a bit bewildered from somebody calling someone else's mother a 'wicked old woman', but I wasn't really paying attention when I joined the line at the cash registers. A resonant, booming, god-like voice announced "Next." I walked towards the direction of the voice and stopped in front of a short, thin-looking man. I literally look around. This must not be the right line, I thought. I turn around, attempting to find the owner of that powerful voice, looking left-and-right, all very confused. The little man is looking at me quizzically. He speaks. A loud, resonant voice cascades over the store, "Do you have a membership card?" Holy. Shit. For a minute, I ponder asking the man if he ever considered voiceover work. Anddd he's still talking. And I'm laughing. And I can't stop laughing. I have the giggles over something so ridiculous it should be in a Monty Python movie. Somehow we complete the sale and he hands me my receipt. I just stand there. Looking at him. I am waiting for him to say something else. I want to get a good look at this small body while he's talking in that voice. But nothing. In fact, now he just looks mad. And I wonder if he knows I was laughing at his crazy voice. So, out I go. Onto the street. Hale & Hearty butternut squash soup in my belly and feeling a bit refreshed from all the chuckling.
I stop to wait for the crosstown bus. A clarinet is playing behind me. It's the theme song to the Pink Panther. But the street performer keeps going flat on the last long note and it sounds so awkward that I have to turn around. And there is a young woman, a baby in a stroller and a toddler on her hip, standing directly in front of the man playing. The toddler has a wild grin on her face as her mother bounces her up and down to the rhythm of the clarinet. And maybe it was just my good mood at the time, but for some reason it strikes me as so funny. The song is being played at SUCH a slow pace that you keep thinking he's stopped the song between the notes. Badump. (break). Badump. (break) Badump badump badump. (break) Badumpa dummmmmmmmm bom! And the bouncing is silly because it's a really long bounce; like a bounce in slow motion. And the mom is laughing. And the toddler is loving every second of this slow-bounce pink panther schtick.
And then my bus arrives. I hurry to catch a seat in the middle. There's not many people on this bus. But for some reason, a young man, a smelly young man that is, has chosen a seat directly next to me. On top of that, he seems to also have decided it's time for a stretch. It's just me and him on this bus bench. And he's stretchin'. And his arms are out. Out onto the chair--my chair behind me. Andd he basically has his arm around me now. And we ride. We ride for 15 minutes. My new smelly boyfriend and I.
And there you have it folks: my yesterday after work.
Just a silly afternoon in the city.
UNT
