Lady, You Need A Cab?

I'm a fan of gypsy cabs.

They are usually cheap, they know fast routes, and you negotiate your fare before you get in...so, if you have some idea of where you are going, you can get a decent rate. I've gone from the UWS to Tribeca for $15. They are bigger, the trunks are huge, and they are more willing to talk...usually not to you, they live on their cell phone chattering in some language sometimes known only to 627 other people in the world, all of them driving gypsy cabs...and if it's not another cab driver, it's their wives. Most of the conversations with the last group are held in a loud, angry voice.

Since my return from L.A. a week ago, I've had the occasion to use two gypsy cabs... a high percentage considering I'm a train kinda gal.

The first one was to take me from Wash Heights to my new location here in the Bronx. I had taken the 'A' up to the Heights, and slept for the morning, went to work, took the 'A' back, packed two suitcases, grabbed some bags, and schlepped them up to 180th to get a cab... before I reached that location, a gypsy found me. He was a big Russian in a big towncar. "Lady, you need a cab?"

"Sure...I'm going to blah blah in the Bronx."

He quickly calculated. "$20"

"I'll give you $10"

"Okay, lady." He stopped, put my luggage and various sundry items in the trunk, the terrier and I hopped onto the leather back seat, and we were off.

Of course, the seat belts didn't work...it's a standard for a gypsy cab, I've discovered.

I gave him directions, and with that, in his heavy Russian dialect, he started to talk about his dogs, how his wife had lost one... then, his daughter saw someone with it, and the two of them paid the guy who stole it "....much, much moneys I must work hard to pay to get dogs back. I tells them they are stupid. Man has stolen dogs. I get dogs back." He was a bad Borat, now that I think about it. He segued easily to the next dog story, and how he had to take his girlfriend's dog to the vet...hold on... his girlfriend? I listened hard. Yes..he kept talking, and it was about his girlfriend.

Okay, maybe I misunderstood the wife thing earlier, maybe he was now divorced.

The phone rang twice while he drove me....distinct rings.

Once was the wife. Once was the girlfriend. He looked back at me in the mirror and smiled his yellow toothed smile, "I must keep phone calls straight." he said, and laughed.

We are not talking Brad Pitt. We are not talking Jon Levitt. This man had skin with pores so deep, you could plant trees. The texture looked as if he washed with sandpaper....a bulbous nose, more hair spouting out of his nose and ears than on his head, and a huge paunch. I was thinking, "If he's got two on the line, and I can't get a date, I might as well go slash my wrists, fall face first and let the terrier eat me."

He fielded calls between the two women, weaving in and out of traffic, the whole time chatting with me when he wasn't on the phone.

Before I got out, he let loose the bombshell...the girlfriend and wife go to Bingo together, they pretended not to know about his arrangement.

The man must have talents I SO did not want to know about.

My second trip was the other way, from the Bronx back to Wash Heights... I had to pick up some things in order to make life a bit more comfortable in the new flat. Since my big luggage wasn't moved, and since it's beyond my abilities to move two hunking big pieces of packed stuff, I have to move bits at a time. I only had a few shirts, and needed some more, along with important things, like my credit cards and my medicines.

I flagged down a cab on Fordham, and told the driver "I need to go to 181st and Ft Washington in Manhattan... $10. Now, I only have a $100 bill, can you change that?"

"Sure, no problem."

I'd forgotten the key phrase of Russians was "Sure, no problem" for everything you ask them. "Can you fix this shoe?" "Will you be able to come out Friday?" "Do you have any whole milk?" Each question brings a nod, a pursed mouth and the phrase, "Sure, no problem.".

They lie.

During the drive, he told me his life story... he was here with his wife..no girlfriend this time, thank goodness... that he was usually a driving instructor, but... sweet jesus, I still shudder at this part... but, and this sentence was said as he went on a sidewalk with two wheels around a line of stopped cars:

"I not able to instruct now the drivers, because I have 14 points against license. Friend lets me drive cab to let me pay bills. You have to have rent and eat, right?" Big laughter followed this.

14 points against his license?? And he's driving me??

I kept asking, "Where are we going? Do you know where we are? I don't reconise this area. Shouldn't you take the bridge?"

"Sure, no problem.. I know short cut." He continued to tell me of his 14 points, and how he'd get some points back soon, as we weaved back and forth in traffic, his hand never off the horn... at this point, I'd tied two sections of seat belt around my waist, and was regretting giving my St Christopher medal to a friend.

He stops, and says, "Here, missus, here is your location. You pay."

"What?"

"You want 181st and Washington. Here. You are here."

"No, I said FORT Washington. I don't know where in the hell we are."


Laughter issued forth. "Oh, FORT Washington. English not so good." Of course not, you've only lived her sixteen fucking years. "I take you Ft Washington now, we go over bridge."

Oh, well, there's a good idea.

"I'm still only paying $10." I was sticking to my guns.

Careening down some road, squealing around corners, we arrived. I picked apart the square knot, scooped up the quivering terrier, and asked for change back from my hundred.

"Why you not say you have only this? I not have change."

I considered hitting him with the laptop... but, it's still working, why destroy it.

We drove to a local deli I know, and negotiated what would stay with him while I went inside for change. He wanted the laptop or the bill, I left the terrier.

I gave him a dollar tip with his $10 fare for the scenic route to my destination.

He yelled did I think that was a fair tip.... I turned around from the sidewalk and said, "Sure, no problem."

Low Batteries, Part Dos

I may not speak janitor, however, standing on the thickest books I have here; 'Terror' and 'Princesses: The Daughters of George III', which were stacked on top of a barstool with uneven legs, I stood on tippy toe, stretched my 5'7" frame and managed to get my fingertips (oh! what I would have given for some mamiii fingernails at that point!) on the edge of the chirping fire alarm...

As I slipped off the books, plummeting to my wood floor, curses, books and barstool flying in all directions....the terrier never moving from her slumber, I managed to take the alarm with me, leaving wires hanging from the hole in the ceiling.

Yes, I am the ruler of the sub-let apartment.

Booya.

Low Battery

It's driving me mad.

I don't have any more, and I need one...I need it now. I woke up around 4A with the mad desire to replace the batteries... it was so intense, I could hear a voice saying, "low battery" in this tone I normally wouldn't use.

A tone accompanied with a high pitched noise. Yes, there is a high pitched sound accompanied by a computer voice emitting from the smoke alarm located on the ten foot ceiling that is located in the Bronx apartment that Quin lives in.

The super said he'd be up, ".....maybe sometime tomorrow." I think that's what he said. He may have said, "....baby borrow". I don't know. I kept pointing up and saying, "Fifth floor. Loud alarm. I'll knock it off the ceiling." He smiled and said, "....later. I don't know." or "....taters gonna blow."

Who in the world actually buys good batteries these days? Someone did, and it's in my smoke alarm....helping the voice announce it's going bad.

Shame more things didn't announce the battery was going bad before they did at a critical point.

You know... like flashlights.

He Spit.

Dear Bo Bice*,

I liked you lots and lots when you were on American Idol. I never voted for you, but, I didn't vote for anyone, so, don't take it personally, okay? But, I thought you were decent enough.

That was until today, when I had the unpleasant chat with your security person, Spitty.

Your bigass bus was parked on Canal, right there by West Broadway, you know where I mean. There were a few of us waiting to cross the street...and suddenly, it started to back up. It bumped one lady, who fell into another couple who yelled at the dogs and I to look out, we were going to be killed.

Being a fan of Dead Like Me, my first inclination was to look up for a falling toilet.

It was, however, the bigass bus backing up even further. We all yelled, in a polite New York fashion, "HEY, ASSHOLE!". Asshole ignored us, and kept backing up.

We crossed the street, a few of the crossers still yelling...I just crossed.

On my way back, I noticed someone walking towards the bus, so, I thought to myself, "Self, perhaps you can point out they almost hit some people." Self said, "What?"

The guy started sprinting to the bus, that had a sign on it saying, DO NOT KNOCK.

Sometimes, I pretend I don't read English.

I knocked.

Spitty came to the door and said, "Yeah?"

I took off my fine shades, and started in a nice way, "Earlier, y'all started backing up the bus, and there were a number of people back there... " I got that far when he leaned over and spit at my feet.

Spit.

A much better writer than myself, Ms. Model herself, addressed the spitting issue and how horrid it is when men decide to expel saliva from their mouth.

He spit, and I was struck dumb. "Well, we'll just have to look out for you folk, won't we?"

"You spit." was all I could say....and suddenly my voice that has never had an accent sounded like my Momma's Mississippi slur. "You spit. Son, where were you raised?"

I'd have set the pit bull on him, but, the best he'd have done was shed white hair all over his nasty black security shirt.

"M'am...." I put my red sunglasses back on, spun on my cowboy boot heel and walked away, still speechless.

He spit.

And, I couldn't even come up with a snappy retort.

I sit shamed still.

Son, where were all of you raised?


Q



*name correctly spelled, thanks to Miss Andrea.

Early Morning Coffee

My summer clock has kicked in.

I'm wide awake at 6.30, trying to tell myself to sleep in... I was up late re-reading The Road (first read while waiting to go into remission) and even though I know I should get up and time this script, I want to sleep... but, noooooooo, the eyes stay shut, the body is awake.

Make the bed... Sunday is my only day to ignore it....and off to find coffee. I guess I should buy a machine to tote with my suitcases on my monthly moves, until then, it's a morning adventure.

Now, normally, I just get a cup from the pizza guy on the way to the train. He knows already how I like it, we chat, and I balance my $1 cup...a blow against the evil corporate giant... you can't FIND a Starbucks around here... the computer bag and the terrier (how you doin' anon?) I head for the train. With the new wide awake at this hour, I'm searching out coffee at a closer spot, and I found one... the deli on the corner.

The best thing there is the little group that gathers in the doorway. Same group, every morning...three women, and Flava Flav's look-alike cousin, Dinky-Dave. I'm not sure that's his name, but, it works for me. The women seem to have six words in their vocabulary, 'I', 'tolt', muthafucker', 'bitch', 'ah-huh' and one I can't understand. Oh, and girl or sista is thrown in on occasion.

Dinky-Dave has the FF glasses, the clothes, the big ass clock thing on his neck. No, really, he does. And, he has Ft Knox in his mouth. I spend my time trying not to stare at his teeth while he speaks to me.

I fail.

He has a cocker spaniel mix named Bubbles. He called her Bubbles because she farts all the time. He didn't have to tell me about the farts. The air around Bubbles is ripe. Since he stands by the counter, you order your coffee in this manner: standing outside, you take a deep breath, dash past the cursing Fates, and speaking quickly, say, "Onelargecoffeeonesugarcreamthankyouverymuch" give them a dollar and back towards the door.

At this point, DD will move towards the terrier and I to see how we are. "How you doing my fine thing?"

"Oh, just fine, thanks."

The Fates turn, too. "Sista, isn't this a fine day. I tolt that bitch if that muthafucker came to my house, I'd kill his ass... and you know what he did?"

"Umm.. did he come over?"

"NO!! Muthafucka went to that bitch's house instead. I'm tolt him, I'm gonna kill his ass. Bitchass fucka."

DD at this point is standing by me flirting. "So, my fine lady, what are you doin' today?" Bubbles lets go with a particularly Olympic quality fart. DD is impervious to the cloud that rises from her rear end. The terrier backs away.

"What? Oh, yes, work. I'm going to work."

The guy behind the counter finds this vastly amusing, and calls out, "Mamiii, your coffee is here."

I wade though clouds of Bubbles, curse words, cheap aftershave and brush the dangling clock to grab my coffee and retrace my steps.

"Later!"

Exiting, I hear, "I'm going to that mutha's house and if that bitch is there, dey both gonna die."

"Ah-huh, I hear dat, sista."

Sweet Mother of God.

Food On The Streets

No, not ON the streets, I mean, vendors... sheesh.

There is this woman, I've no idea what her name is... we communicate by me saying "Dos" (yes, I've added another word to my vocabulary) and her saying "Quatro dollars"....and we exchange money for the best tamales I've ever put into this mouth, ever.

They are wrapped in banana leaves, then in foil...you get them still hot, with the masa just the right texture, and the meat..whatever it is, I didn't ask... is flavoured so that you wish you'd bought more than dos.

I always remember the story my dad told of the tamale store in Monroe, Louisiana when he was a kid... he'd get his paycheque from delivering papers, and take a dollar to buy a bakers dozen, eating one on the way home. They were closed down when it was discovered they were buying dead horses. He maintained they were the best tamales, ever. Of course, he also ate dog in Korea...so, he wasn't too picky.

She asks if I want the picante... and gives me a sly grin...I can barely get the regular ones down. I eat them with a quart of milk to coat my throat... my stomach asks me what in the hell I'm doing, my lips burn, and I know I'll be burping all evening.

It's SO worth every single bite.

Mother's Day

Was today.

My kids all checked in, with a variety of times in between calls...one told me he'd failed to get a card, but, go to the store, find the card I liked the best, put it in an envelope, open the envelope, pretend he'd signed it, and there I was...a card from him!

I've never had a Mother's Day away from all of my kids...oh, one or two, but, never all of them. Eldest daughter is ready to pop... the only one missing from the photo attached, taken two years ago. Jarhead is getting things together before coming here in June, the Tall one is going to start a new job...the Boy is still my nerd, and HRH is studying for finals, her smile in her voice when she talks to me.

I miss all of them, their laughs, their bad jokes... the Tall one tricked HRH into seeing 28 Days later, something I'd have been there for...both of us screaming at the gore. Ah, fun times!

I made the call to my mom, timing it for exactly 15 minutes... and a longer one to my loved Aunt. C is better, and we'll have a long catch up conversation tomorrow, so, that helped the day be a good one. I scored a paying script supervision job...no low pay indie job, a real one. woot.

Still...no kids, and the mamiiii's of the neighborhood don't really make up for it... I've had Chinese food two days in a row, mango sherbert, and two bottles of lemonade.

Nothing like missing family to make your food consumption go up and get weird.

Love you, kids... love you forever, like you for always.. as long as I'm living, my babies you'll be.