Odd

I just saw two men in blue hospital scrubs trying to hail a cab. They were both holding big lamps. One of the men looked korean, and the other looked eastern european, but the lamps were the same. They had glossy, brown bases that took two hands to hold and poofy lampshades that forced the men to lean back while they looked down the street. One driver slowed down and then passed them up, but the next cab was up to the challenge. I had to laugh as they worked their awkward cargo into the four-door Ford.

Related and weirdly fascinating:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lampshade

The Darndest Things

The laundromat I use is run by a Japanese family, who also seem to run the restaurant two doors down. I see them going back and forth between the two entrances. Today the mother and daughter were in the laundromat. The little girl was doing math problems in a workbook while her mom watched trashy TV. When I went to get my laundry out of the dryer, the little girl was watching me. I smiled, which turned out to be the authorization she'd been waiting for, because she suddenly burst out.

"Do you wanna see a trick!?"

"Sure," I replied.

"I can sit on that without even falling!" she said, pointing toward a row of single load washers.

"Wow!" I tried to sound amazed, but I had no idea what she was pointing at.

She climbed across the row of washing machines and set herself up squatting in the top of one, and smiled with her teeth clenched and her eyes scrunched; I almost expected her to say 'cheeeeese!' But she didn't say cheese. Instead, she said:

"This is my toilet!"

"I hope not!" I replied, and we both continued laughing as her mother grabbed her out of the washer and scolded her in Japanese.

Splits guy?

There is a man who calls in at the yoga studio and tries to get people to say the word "splits." I've never spoken to him, but I have watched other people talk to him for ten minutes at a time, answering question after question while exhausting every possible synonym of the forbidden word.

While I was working today, the elevator opened to a tall, thin man with a shaved head. His face was stubbly, and his eyes were bright blue, barely visible under a pair of drowsy eyelids. It's always a little out of place when people show up between class times, but on top of that, he seemed to have no agenda whatsoever in arriving.

"You have the yoga here?" he asked me in a thick Russian accent.

"Yep. Our next class is at seven."

"I look for yoga. I want know if you have sch... schedule?" He gazed around lazily.

"It's all online. I can write down the website for you, if you like," I offered.

"It's all up here, you see," he said, pointing to his head with a twinkle in his eyes.

"I see," I replied.

"I see," he repeated. "And I see that you.. also... do this yoga?" His eyes shifted back and forth between my eyes and my right arm.

"Yep." Oh goody.

"You teach yoga?"

"A little, but I'm not certified yet."

"You teach here?"

"Nope. I'm not even certified. I just teach some friends and students."

"You teach me?" He tilted his head coyly. "You teach me to do this... what is it... splits?"

"No, sorry. But you can see the schedule there and find a class that works for you."

"And what is this called, this..." he opened his feet wide and gestured toward his spread legs with both hands. "I don't know all of these words so good in English."

"Hm, I'm not sure what you mean," I said. I knew exactly what he meant.

"Yes," he said mysteriously, and started to laugh. He mumbled something in Russian.

"Sorry?" I said, playing dumb.

"I don't know the word in English."

"Oh. Well, that's alright. Thanks for coming in!" I smiled at him; I pretended not to have understood a thing.

"Okay I check online, okay? Thank you," he said. He turned for the elevator and pressed the button.

I thanked him and watched him leave. I was relieved and a little exhilarated as I thought over the encounter. It's amazing how universally we all communicate, even without knowing the words so good in English.

Growing Pains

There was an R&B beat filling the train station today as I headed down to the platform. It came from a short, stout black man, who was wailing away on a cover of Usher's "You Remind Me of a Girl." I'm not sure why, but I almost always sit on the bench next to the performers. A few families crowded around as we waited for the train. One group consisted of two brothers, a mother, and a grandmother. The ladies were clearly entertained, and the grandma gave the singer some change in his tip bin. The older son was around 13. When we got on the train, he stood holding a pole, while his family all sat down in a row. He turned to his mom, looking crabby.

"Well, that was awkward."

"What was?" she asked.

"That guy!" he replied, surprised that it hadn't been glaringly obvious to her. "That guy," he repeated. His mom told him that she thought it was nice. He mumbled something about money to his little brother, who ignored him and cuddled up to their grandma.

The Mind-Blowing Movie Event of the Summer!

The camera zooms full on the spinning top. Will it stop spinning? Will it? ...Stop? Or maybe it won't? Wait! That's the end!? Chuckle. Chuckles all around. Two and a half hours later, we all love a good chuckle.

Meanwhile

...while I discussed Russian literature with an interested neighbor on the train, a couple across from me was having a heated argument. The fighters looked strung out and filthy. They swore and wrestled in their seats. Everyone on the train tried hard to ignore them. Or at least, tried to look like they could ignore them. A mom down the train tried to distract her two little girls, who stared hard.

I continued talking to the man, trying to be heard over the combined noise of the train and the fight. I wished he would stop asking me questions, because we were way beyond the accepted volume range of small talk. The train quieted as we pulled into the next station. The couple stood up to leave, and I saw that they were holding hands now and exchanging soft kisses.

My new acquaintance had also noticed their exit. "A little bit of PDA is healthy," he said. I laughed into my shoulder as the train moved on.

War and Peace

Yesterday I started reading this famously gargantuan book. It is difficult to read it on the T, starting and stopping to tune in to my location. But it is even more challenging to focus when everyone around me sees the front cover as a stimulus for conversation.

"Oh, wow! I can't believe you are really reading the whole thing!"
or
"Man, props to you if you finish that thing."
and
"Haha! Wow! I didn't know people really read that thing."

Mostly statements ending in "thing." But I should have expected this going onto the T - I've often read over my neighbors' shoulders to find the titles of their choosing. Or just to pass the time. And why should I expect them to withhold their curiosities when I have a whole blog about my own? There's plenty of time to read between the little chats.

After all, the thing's a legend. It's not going anywhere.

Paulie's New Joke

"A man goes to a gallery to sell some of his paintings. He leaves about 12 or so with the operator there and calls in a couple weeks later.

'How's my show goin?' he asks him.

'Well, I got some good news, and I got some bad news,' says the curator. 'The good news is, I had a guy come in who was very interested. He wanted to know if I thought the paintings would appreciate after your death. I told him I thought they would, an' he bought 'em!'

'Wow!' says the artist, 'that's great! So what's the bad news?'

'Bad news is, he's your doctor!' "

The Plea ($5)

This is the poem I purchased:

"The Plea"

You found a piece of clay by the roadside

and thought you had found a jewel;

and kneaded and rolled it

to change it into your dreams;

but it has travelled many a voyage,

and crossed many seas, climbing

ladders of Babel and Babylon;

molded life with a drop of nectar,

the age old juice;

crossed moats to ideals and lived the great philosophy;

take comfort; don't change me;

for our minds will unfold the

bold secrets of motion

and waves will flow as a fountain

and mountains will rise up

and hands will sift the seawater

and I'll be at your side.

- Ricardo 1975

Ricardo

I locked my bike up next to an old man on a bench yesterday. He asked me if I would care to purchase a poem. I was running late for yoga and told him I didn't have time. He said the yoga teacher had also bought a poem and that it was okay, he'd be there when I got out.

I had forgotten him by the time I left class, but he spotted me immediately from his new perch on a bench across the street. As I approached my bike, he stood up and looked left, searching the oncoming traffic for a gap to cross. I watched him cross the street. He was a short man, and his shoulders slumped forward dramatically to accentuate this feature. He wore a loose cardigan - fitting for the strangely cool morning. I wore a sweatshirt. He hugged a stack of file folders close to his chest as he met me.

"So how was your class?"
"It was really nice, thanks. Did you sell any poems while I was in there?"
"Not yet... do you want to have a look?"
"Sure," I said. He invited me over to the bench where I first saw him.
As we sat, he began to read off words from the top of each file folder. He'd read one, look up for my reaction, and then give a short tagline to support the title.
" 'Grandmothers...' " he read, "do you have any grandmothers?"
"I've lost both of mine."
"I'm so sorry about that... Well, let's see here: 'A Conversation with ___ ____' - she was a classics professor over at Harvard. These are the old poems, you see." He opened the file folder to point out the font. "These were all done on typewriter! I'm computer illiterate. That stuff is not of my generation."

He continued in that way through the entire stack, until we got to the end of the pile, and he asked me which I'd like to read. I was so content to sit there that I decided to start from the top. I read through each one, overwhelmed by the volume, trying not to read too fast, but a little too shy to fully invest in his words while he watched. People approached him as we sat. He introduced them to me by name, inquiring after their wives and children. He told me that each one was his neighbor; he was everybody's neighbor. Eventually I picked a poem to purchase.

"This one is for a man," he said, looking sly.

"Oh really?" He didn't think I had caught the innuendo. It was better that way.

"Well, for a woman from a man's point of view. You give it to your boyfriend or husband."

"Okay," I replied.

But I didn't have correct change. So he waited while I ran into Starbucks. When I returned to purchase the poem, another old man in big sunglasses and whitewash jeans approached us.

"Paulie!" he said. "How are ya? Great to see ya. This is Anna - she's an opera singer!"

"Nice to meet you," I said. We shook hands.

"Oh boy, this guy knows everyone," said Paulie. "And I only just found out he likes these double entendre jokes! We were out here the otha day just laughin'! Hey, I got another one for ya."

He told us a few stories; they were definitely clever, but they were improved exponentially by his jovial Bostonian delivery. Ricardo's whole face scrunched up as he laughed high and loud. His smile revealed more rotted teeth behind his cheeks. Paulie said he was surprised that his jokes didn't bore me. I told him I was having fun. He stepped on my foot just before he turned to go.

"Oh excuse me, young lady!"

"No problem. I didn't mean to trip you. It was so nice meeting you."

We shook hands and he walked off toward CVS. Ricardo leaned in close to me then.

"Paulie's blind," he said, "he's been going blind for years."

"Oh - I didn't realize," I replied. I felt like a jerk for being in the way.

"That's all right. I'll listen for you on the classical radio then."

"You do know I'm not famous, right?"

"Not yet, anyway. Let me give you something." He reached into his file folders to pull out another poem. He took a pen from his pocket and signed it. "This is my favorite one."

"Thanks, Ricardo. I'll be seeing you around then."

"Alright then, Anna. You have a nice day."

He shook my hand tightly and I got on my bike.