Tag: commute

Walking Cross-Town. Not Autopiloted. Not Missed. Not Today.

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It’s Hump Day. Darlene shared a wonderful video on a camel farm. In watching it more closely a second time, I catch that the camels are raised for meat. And that, was the end of that. So Caleb is taking a break this week.

Tuesday. 5:48 A.M. Metro North train to Grand Central. Train on time. Plenty of seats. No tourists chatting in Quiet Car. Everyone bathed, B.O. full contained under sprays or sticks. Fully rested with 7.5 hours of sleep. What’s up with that?

End of July in NYC. That means one thing in the train tunnels. Suffocating heat. It starts around shirt collar, sliding to jacket collar, and then sweat drips from neck line down the center of your back. It really is something special to start your day.

Walking down the tunnels under the tracks to the exit. NYC, in the top 5 of the World’s Greatest Cities. Ceiling panels missing. Electric wires protruding down, a mere 6″ above your hairline. Large giant garbage pails capture water dripping from God knows where. Giant floor fans stirring air, cooling nothing, moving around heat. We’re so much better than this.

I approach the escalator. Turtles stand on the right. DK, passing on left. Winded at the top. Too old for this sh*t.

Dark Sky app says 77% F. Heat Advisory. Wind 2 m.p.h. – 2 mph? That seems high. Nothing moving in the atmosphere here. Humidity 1237%.

I cross street. Garbage fermenting somewhere. Demolition crews are hauling out refuse on carts into large dumpster. His mask hides his face. White dust coats his black tee-shirt. Asbestos. What a job. DK, what could you possibly ever bitch about?

Continue reading “Walking Cross-Town. Not Autopiloted. Not Missed. Not Today.” →

Driving I-95 South. With Jazzman.

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5:38 a.m. T.G.I.F.

68 F. Glorious Summer Day. And, yet for some reason you’re dragging. 

I-95 S traffic is smooth.

7 1/2 hours of sleep. Yet, groggy. Eyes blink to clear.  Makes no sense, you’re so damn tired. 

Exit 8, one-half mile ahead. Get off, go home, go back to bed. Call in Sick.

I slide into the right (slow) lane. A foreign place to me. 

I reduce speed to 55. A walk at a pace uncomfortable for me.

I pass Exit 8.

I trail a Semi. “If you can’t see my mirrors, I can’t see you.” I can’t see much of anything right now Friend.

Waze signals 17 minutes to destination.

Exit 5, one mile ahead. Get off, go home, go back to bed. Call in Sick.

I pass Exit 5.

I reach for the radio.  Spin knob to find Sirius 7 on 70’s. Carole King with Jazzman

Lift me, won’t you lift me
Above the old routine;
Make it nice, play it clean, jazzman
He can sing you into paradise
Or bring you to your knees
Jazzman, take my blues away…

I shift in my seat. Snap out of it. 

Exit 2, last exit. Get off, go home, go back to bed. Call in Sick. Call in Sick? When you really aren’t Sick? Light calendar, handful of appointments. Martyr. Moron. 

I pass Exit 2.

I swing into the center lane and then again over to the left lane. I accelerate. Sigh. I’m home.

I pull into the parking garage. Near empty but for the cars parked overnight.  I walk down the empty hallway. I set my briefcase on my desk.

Lift me, won’t you lift me
Right back into my old routine
Sing me into paradise
Or bring me to my knees

Photo: Jamie Schafer

Riding Metro North. Right Place. Right Time.

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Tuesday morning. 5:33 a.m. Second morning train to Grand Central.

I pause in front of the empty aisle seat. The occupant, feigning sleep, awakens immediately after my “excuse me.” He looks up the train car wondering why I hadn’t found another seat. He slides over roughly signalling displeasure. Bullsh*t.

I set my bag down onto the floor, reach down to grab my iPad, and in doing so, I clip his arm which extends into my air space. Ladies, no worries. I size up opponents carefully before jostling them. He tucks his elbow in.  I settle in, with territorial boundaries established, and all parties now in their rightful places.

I catch a whiff, it lingers for a minute, it’s foul, and then it disappears. I go back to reading. 

The train makes its first stop at Stamford. Doors hiss, open, passengers pass by, and there it is again. B.O. Heavy, thick B.O. This time it hangs. It can’t be me. Has to be Him. It vaporizes.  It can’t be Him, otherwise it would persist. I go back to reading.

Passenger passes by, and there it is again. I glance around to locate the source and then look up, and there resting (rotting?) on the overhead rack is a large, canvas backpack. Directly over top of Him. Cigarette smoke penetrates my suit jacket, does B.O.?

Train arrives at Grand Central. I get up quickly, woosy, with vertigo, looking up after 30 minutes with head in the morning papers. I exit into the underground tunnels.  Head spinning, ears ringing from the roar of the train engines, the heat, the crowds spilling down the tunnels, all swallow me whole. I step to the side out of traffic, slow my pace, take a few deep breaths and inhale a trace of urine and rancid food from garbage cans marinating overnight. 

I enter Grand Central terminal, look for the Lexington Avenue exit and punch my destination into the UBER app. 

I step on Lexington and cross the street to catch my ride.  We take FDR Drive South, and the morning sunrise pours through the window.  21 minutes to the office.

“Would you mind if I opened the window?”

“No Sir, not at all.”

I roll the window down.  I can smell, and taste the East River. The water shimmers and sparkles.  The Sun warms my face. The morning breeze is refreshing, and clears the head. The world is silent but for the wheels spinning on FDR Drive.  Buechner’s passage from the day before comes to mind: “we hear a whisper from the wings…you’ve turned up in the right place at the right time.”

I will remember this.

Notes: Photo via poppins-me.

Driving Kenilworth Road. With Intuition +.

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Just another morning commute. And then, maybe not so much. Like a take from Hannah Nicole’s A List of Soft Things “Watching a time happen and thinking, I will remember this.”

5:25 am. Tuesday morning. GPS estimates 15 miles in 21 minutes for the morning commute.

Traffic flows.

Body is rested. (For a change.)

Mind is clear. (For a change.)

Sirius 7 on 70’s fills the cabin with Johnny Nash. I can see clearly now, the rain is gone / I can see all obstacles in my way / Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind / It’s gonna be a bright (bright), bright (bright) / Sun-Shiny day / Look all around, there’s nothin’ but blue skies / Look straight ahead, nothin’ but blue skies.

I scan through the playlist for the Eagles’ Peaceful Easy Feeling. Can’t find it. Try to lip sync a few bars. Painful. I give up, and turn my full attention to the road.

I’m on the last leg of the morning drive. I-287 W, exit to the Hutch. I wait at the stop light. 0.3 miles from the office.

I wait.

Light turns green. And just at this moment, my skin tingles. Odd.  And then there’s a whisper: You might want to slow down here. Continue reading “Driving Kenilworth Road. With Intuition +.” →

Driving Down MacArthur Blvd. Full of Pride.

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He arrived on time. At the end of a 14-hour day. I’m bushed.

This day, which was preceded by five hours sleep on an alien mattress, which was preceded by a late night dinner, which included one oversized slice of home made peach pie (à la mode of course), and this was chased with a s’more. Yes, a S’more, you read right. With a home made golden graham cracker at its base, topped with a thin slice of Swiss chocolate, and a giant, home made marshmallow, with the waiter cautiously holding the blow torch as the sugar crackled and blackened into a light char.  Three bites, and it disappeared. A sugar addict with his fix, floating lightly above the table, abstaining from my dinner guests’ chatter, floating higher, higher, up and up in his delirium.

I slide into the back seat.

“How was your day Sir?”

I’m not in the mood for banter. Please, please, get me to the hotel. A long hot shower. Room service (sans S’mores). And early to bed.

“Great, thank you.” A.K. Benjamin’s passages dripping in and out of consciousness: “Studies have shown that your generation, our generation, lies on average two or three times every ten minutes, men to make themselves look better, women to feel good.” And he’s right.

I did not counter to ask him about his day. A direct signal that this door was not open for chatter.

“Would you like a bottle of water?”

“No, but thank you for asking.”

I pull out my smartphone, drop my head, emitting another direct signal of non-engagement. I glance up and see his eyes in the rear view mirror.  Tension rises in the cabin. He picks up on the body language: This guy is shut down.

He has a teddy bear on the console. Rainbow colored.  Odd. Continue reading “Driving Down MacArthur Blvd. Full of Pride.” →