I can't sleep…
Salons require appointments.
You call in advance.
You make an appointment.
You are slotted in a open 15 minute slot.
You show up on time. (Always on time.)
You wait.
5 minutes.
10 minutes.
15 minutes.
And finally, the red line is crossed.
20 minutes. Continue reading “Red Lines, Banalities and Grumpy Middle Aged Men”
6:32 a.m. I exit Grand Central onto 47th. I glance at my watch, plenty of time for the 7 a.m. breakfast.
The crane’s steel arm groans and stretches up four floors. One worker guides the load of sheet rock in through the window. Another waves off the early morning commuters with his red caution flag. He looks me in the eye and directs me to the other side of the street.
I cross.
Have you ever walked this side of 47th? Ever? Eight years. 100’s of cross-town walks. Zero recollection of ever walking on the other side.
I glance over. It’s now free of construction. The wind whistles. Come back. Now. Come Home to me.
I lean right but resist. No. Not today. Live dangerously DK. Go way out on a limb.
I walk.
The legs and feet are heavy. I trudge on alien ground. The Amygdala twitches.
I pass delivery upon delivery truck offloading the day’s supplies.
“Fiji Water. Fiji. Untouched by man. Every drop is green.”
I pass the jewelry district
“Time in Motion – Watch Repair”
Continue reading “Walking Cross-Town. 47th, wrong side.”
It’s 7:38 am.
The train pulls into Grand Central.
I lift briefcase – oh, oh. It’s unusually light.
Meeting notes and reports were left behind on the nightstand.
Late jump. A mere hour difference from your habitual start and you’re unhinged.
First morning call is scheduled at 8:15.
Maps signals a 30 minute walk from Grand Central to the Office.
Cab v. Foot?
I check the vitals.
Temperature? Rain? Cross-town traffic? Mood? Criticality of call?
Vitals check out.
I can beat 30 on foot.
Heavy construction lines the arteries, 48th cross-town and 7th downtown. Tourists crowd the sidewalks and hover over the filming of the Live Morning show – a shapely aerobics instructor flanked by two middle aged men wearing hot green lycra pants.
I glance at Maps. I’ve lost time. Arrival time now estimated at 8:13 for the 8:15 meeting.
I accelerate the pace, and this against a wall of foot traffic heading uptown. A hurdler off-step, I hit each Don’t Walk sign.
I glance at Maps: 8:17 ETA.
Humidity surges. I loosen tie. My neck moistens the shirt collar. Fresh? Not.
The morning sun beams. A smooth thin film coats the forehead, legs and back. Continue reading “Walking Cross-Town. Blink, Damn It. Blink.”