Transit Strike

I woke up early this morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed ready to take on the MTA strike commute challenge. I boarded a taxi not very far from where I live. After about 30 min of waiting and arguing with a group of money hungry Indian cabbies who were taking advantage of New York City’s momentary disadvantage, I boarded the taxi of a New York old timer by the name of Seymor Korn, a 70 something Brooklyn born Jew. We waited around long enough to board another three passengers to meet the capacity requirement for entering Manhattan on this day. The rest of the caravan party under Mr. Korn’s direction was an American business gal, a thuggish camouflaged African American and a French teacher. The first hour of our ride, we were stuck in traffic less then a quarter mile from were we boarded. During which time the French passenger made a series of phone calls to everybody and anybody in her cell phone’s directory. We all kept giving each other looks of shared annoyance and prayed that she would soon stop. Our prayers were answered by Seymor who flat out told the French woman, “Please no more calls.” She gave him looks of contempt from above her spectacles the entire rest of the way while looking at us for some sign of sympathy. No signs of which, ever came and we diverted our attention to Seymor’s story of his experiences during the strike of ’67.

The urban brother had no cash on him because the ATM machines were all out of money near the location we hoped on. At some point nice old Seymor pulled over for him to withdraw money. Mrs. French then turned around and seeing that business gal had her eyes closed and head back, initiated a conversation with me. “Ver a iu going”, She asked. The girl next to me jumped with an oh-no look on her face and hoping that she wouldn’t be next on the interrogation line. I replied more then once, “I am heading to work.” Mrs. French would cringe her forehead and squint her eyes with the look of someone who is either hard of hearing or beckoning a repetition without the annunciation of any sound. The girl next to me began to tap her feet and, equally annoyed, I told the croon in French, much to her ethnocentric pleasure, “Je suis etre en route a le travail.” My thoughtless statement brought about by four C and D grade-average-years of French studies resulted in a rushed spew of mostly incomprehensible French words. The girl next to me turned my way with slightly puckered lips that conveyed a why-are-you-provoking-her message. Annoyed, the young girl gave up, paid her share and walked out of the cab prior to her stop. Seymor, began to shake his head and also walked out of the cab, leaving it parked on the curve, and went to check on the whereabouts of the ATM challenged passenger. He shortly returned complaining that the guy had stiffed him and disappeared.

The French teacher adopted a face of appall and said under her breath, “You can not trust zee blacks. You are lucky e did not rob or kill iu.” As my jaw sagged ever lower she continued, “They vare liars…” Mr. Seymore, who once after mentally confirming that he was actually hearing racial slurs from a great-granddaughter of those who helped shape our views on equality and democracy, jumped in and said flat out in his Brooklyn finest, “What is wrong with you lady?” “That’s not a very nice thing to say”, he continued. “I have met many great people who are black! Many of which I would trust much sooner then a non-black. That’s not a very nice thing to say” Quietly I was screaming, “Hurray Seymor! Good for you!” Then there came a long silence and more sub spectacle looks of contempt.

After several minutes of non French accented atrocities she turns to me once more and asked where I was from. After saying Cuba, she gave me a long up and down look from head to torso, from the front seat, and nodded her head as in a silent unneeded approval which reeked of hidden judgment. Then she turned to Seymor who with out missing a beat, almost in expectation of the yet unfolded, stated, “I’m Jewish.” “Oh, iu must be very wich then”, she replied. “All Jewish people are wich”, she continued. “Lady, all Jews aren’t rich. That’s why I drive a cab”, intervened Seymor who had a flustered air to his voice. She assured us that all her very richest friends were Jewish and how one friend named so-and-so had the second biggest diamond in who-cares-where.

After, several minuets stuck in her banter stereotype hell I began to realize that I needed to escape out of fear of calling the old bat an idiot. I asked Seymor to please let me off at the next corner, thank him, told him he was a good man and bid farewell to the loon.

I got off of the cab on 14th and enjoyed a beautiful, not so crowded, day on Broadway all the way down to Canal Street. I even had time to buy a book at The Strand and some supplies at Staples. I got to work at noon and found out that the scheduled waiters were unable to make it in to work and so, I threw on apron and took on the responsibility. I worked my butt off and made $250 dollars in tips and after dividing that share based on an internal point system, took home $87 dollars. Not a bad take for a Tuesday morning.

After being on my feet all those hours, I began my walk home from Canal Street to Queens. On my way, I stopped at the Apple store to buy a Christmas present and hated the line much more than I would the walk ahead of me. I walked endlessly but in good spirits and for some reason or another was able to really enjoy my 60 something blocks of a hike. Finally, tired and starting to feel the affects of the long walk, I decided to take the Aerial Tramway into Roosevelt Island to escape the inclined hardships of the 59th Street Bridge. For the record I hate heights. I mean, I can walk to an edge, look down and admire the view, but after however, if I have no business left so close to an edge its time to move. Willingly riding a box, full of forty people, suspended by a rope is not my idea of fun. I have lived in NYC nine years and never had the desire to ride it and now I found myself in it and perhaps on the fullest day of the year. That 6 min ride resulted in many milliliters of involuntary sweat from my palms and forehead. The rest of my walk was a piece of cake. I made it home about 3 hours later, went out for dinner, shopped for groceries, cleaned, watched TV, did my laundry and managed these few words.