Anecdotal Interlude #2 — Skunk on the Subway

I am up north in Mount Kisco last weekend. Shortly before I leave, the skunks under the deck start fighting, possibly with the raccoons that also have an encampment under the deck.

I hear the scuffle, and a minute later comes the smell, which is not so bad in small doses. This burst is big enough to enter into the living room, and later I discover, my stuff.

An hour later, I take a Metro North train to Grand Central and catch the subway downtown. I get off the train at Union Square to transfer to the Q.

On my way up the steps, a young black guy points to the computer case in my left hand and asks: “You got weed in there?”

I tell him it’s the bottle of whiskey I just buy, and walk on.

I guess people really do like the smell of skunk.

Sadie Hawkins on the Subway

Friday morning I’m riding the Q train to work, standing at the doors in my usual spot.

During the ride, I’m consumed with my usual morning miscellany: wiping my nose, my watery eyes, adjusting my headphones, reading the paper.

At Union Square a girl exists at my door. She smiles at me. I smile back.

I look back waiting for the doors to close and I see her hesitating on the platform.

I turn my gaze back into the car.

Through my headphones I hear a faint voice and turn around.

She hands me her card.

I say thank you; the doors close.

I look at the card when I get to work. It’s a card from the School of Visual Arts Career Placement Office. No name.

I can’t tell if she’s the patron or the professional.

On the back her cell number is scribbled, a 212 rarity.

It says: let’s grab a coffee sometime.

A premeditated encounter. I admire her approach. Though, she is shaking when she hands me the card.

And I am flattered.

Maybe…

Anecdotal Interlude #1 — Cellphone Scolding

I am sitting in Gorilla Coffee, 5th Avenue, Park Slope, Brooklyn. It’s Saturday; I’m reading the papers, the usual punk-rock soundtrack plays in the background.

There’s a guy sitting behind me talking on his cell phone to his kid. He’s attempting to level authority through a cell tower transmission.

My mother once calls my dad an armchair disciplinarian. What do you call this guy?

As final ultimatum he brings out the count down.

“On a count of three,” he says into his cell phone, “I want you to be quiet.”

one. Two. THREE.

I’m not sure if this quiets the kid down, but it stops conversation at the coffee shop.

Nobody wants to hear a count down unless it’s a rocket launch, or a rock band.

His pleading continues, now louder.

I turn to him and say: “On a count of three, I want you to be quiet.”

one. Two. THREE.

The whole place, including the staff, starts laughing.