Being There

I spent yesterday talking to a friend. The whole day. It was one of those conversations that starts over a meal, walks to the park, outlives the sunset, and finally heads up stairs and into a warm room. We haven't had one of these, so it was new, overdue. We were totally cracking up, we got sad (this month has kicked both of our asses), we started to fill in some of the many gaps. And some other thing was happening, but it took me a few hours to put my finger on it. Both our phones were letting out various chirps and rings throughout the day, texts blinking up on our screens, cases vibrating. That part was normal, we both have kids, lots of people. The part that stood out, the thing that was happening, was that with each ring, he didn't blink. He kept listening or he kept telling me the funny story, or he just sat in the silence with me. He would get to them later.

It strikes me as sad that that is worth writing about, but it is. I love my crazy-capable phone as much as the next person, spend hours a week on the bus, looking for music and messages and, well, love. But eight hours into what started as a breakfast date, I hit a new level of respect for someone who can leave a trembling device in it's place.

Busted

So we get to the ice rink tonight, Christmas Eve, and it's empty, save the woman behind the skate rental counter and us (me, my sister, our kids). At first we feel all cocky in our private rink, but after a few times around we realize that we miss the jostling with teen boys and the near-collisions with toddlers and the noise. Plus the lights are too bright and the only thing straining over the not-very-loudspeakers is an instrumental Christmas carol. We discuss. We try singing ourselves but unless we skate right next to each other only every third word makes it across the oval (I WANNA ROCK!...ALL!...DANCE! YOU! IN!...SUNLIGHT....!). It starts to feel kind of dire, so I approach the rental lady and she gladly hands over her banged-up CD collection. To say there is not a lot to choose from is an understatement, but I am with my sister and there is a "Best of Disco" compilation and the nice lady even lets me show her how to work the amp. Then she gets really into it, flicking on the disco ball (who knew?) and dimming the lights with a giggle. By the time I get back out, my sister is working her ice moves circa 1978, the kids are whooping and zipping around and it's a RINK. When the door opens and the security guard struts in I get a flicker of nerves, taking her for a cop and thinking she's going to...what? Turn off the little mirrored ball? Take us downtown in O little town of Pennsylvania? Instead she wishes embarassed me a happy holiday and heads toward the cocoa. Rental lady is fully rocking out in her booth now, even giving me a thumbs up through the glass, and over glides my sister, hollering, "Oh my god! Did you see the COP? I thought she was going to bust us for having too much fun!"

Honor System

You know you're not in New York when your car winds through coastal Maine marshes and ends up at a freestanding flower shack. The owner sets out bunches, posts the prices, and leaves for the day. There is a tin box inside for cash.
A few years back I heard she had some health problems but then a few years after that I think she recovered. I don't know her but I love what she does and I always buy her flowers. Just seeing a box of money sitting on the side of the road, waiting for the right person to come and collect it is enough to make any urban dweller kind of weepy. The zinnias are so vibrant and sturdy they remain proud, even after a week in a rusted coffee can.

The Regular

Every time I have ever been to this cafe on 2nd Avenue, a cute, white-haired lady in her housecoat has been sitting in the same spot, munching on bread and sipping a mug of coffee. It's unclear whether she pays for her food but the guys treat her well and something about her presence makes the place seem sweeter. Every now and then she calls out to the waiter to top her off and she talks about the weather to anyone who will listen. This time, I got there first, and as she shuffled past me I looked up in time to see the soft, wispy whiskers sprouting from her chin. At the same time, she noticed the waiter and said, "oh, you didn't shave today?"
"uh, no."
"Why not?"
"Well, sometimes I like to let my beard grow out a little." She paused, not thinking much of his new style.
"Well," she said, "we all have our reasons."

Prime Digits

Three of us on the Monday morning elevator, going down: hot young suit with slicked back hair reading the Wall Street Journal, my 7-year old sporting a milk mustache and pulling on her coat, pajama-clad bus stop escort (me).
"What if my head keeps hurting?"
"Just call me."
"What if my ear hurts again?"
"Call my cell and I'll come get you."
"What if I don't want to go on my play date?"
"Then I'll pick you up. Just call."
"What if I just don't want to be at school?"
"Then call me and we can talk about it."

Long pause. Suit looks up and asks, "Hey. Can I get that number, too?"

Two words:

Film. Students.

Filthy the Snowman

It was seriously dirty snow, even by New York standards. But they didn't care. They were 11 years old. In an hour homework would start, dinner, all that. So why not at least try, even if there were five cigarette butts in the torso alone. When I asked them for a picture one of them pulled a tiny, wilted carrot out of his pocket and held it proudly near the "head" while all three mugged.