Waffles and Time Warner

When God gave humans the ability to love, was it generous or cruel?

I bought a waffle covered in blackberries from the man in front of the Time Warner Center. The man stood above me in his waffle apron and sprinkled powered sugar over the berries. His waffle truck smelled like my first job. I remember making waffle cones for the local bagel/ice cream shop in my hometown. Occasionally, a cone would break after being extracted from the waffle press, and the only viable option was to eat the shattered pieces, as such a treat was not to be wasted.

Central Park makes its own music, so I don't bring anything to shove in my ears when I walk the pathways. The aluminum bat makes a sharp, dull sound when a ball makes contact with it. Behind the steady murmur of children and birds, there are drums, violins, and the "cha-ching" of an old-fashioned bicycle bell. Usually, when I walk the streets of Manhattan, each avenue, or cross-street, seems laborious; walking from 59th to 110th through the park is not as difficult as it would be on the pavement.

My Central Park excursion afforded me the opportunity to explore my thoughts on love. When God gave humans the ability to love, was it generous or cruel?

I walked by a couple getting married. They were sitting atop a rock overlooking a body of water in the park. I couldn't take my eyes off the way they were staring at one another. The bride's dress was the best I've seen-not overly glamorous yet stunning all the same. Her groom was sitting directly in front of her, and the connection between the two of them was drawing attention from onlookers. I have never seen such a bond between two people. The way the two of them stared at each other still haunts me.

Paths twist throughout the park, and I decided to walk the hills. I had to confront my thoughts on love... mentally... physically. The summertime afternoon sun was just enough to put my body into a constant sweat. I pushed the Earth back with each step as I ascended small hills and stone steps.

Love is a gift. Love of family is special. The love of friends gives me strength. The kind of love felt by the newly-weds, the kind of love I feel for another person, is that a gift as well? I hope that one day it will be; it's all a bit too cumbersome at the moment for me to take the "gift" side of the argument.

I recently learned that there is a difference between I love you and I'm in love with you. I suppose I didn't think about the difference between the two phrases because of my apprehension to use love in any capacity. There is a lot of risk involved with that word-my fear of rejection takes over; I usually avoid it altogether.

However, I recently took the risk and used love. I looked at newly-wedded couple in Central Park and understood the silence between them when they stared into one another's eyes: Love-pure love. It's not caught between, "in" or "you"-it's love.

I walked over fifty-blocks worth of Central Park. I started at 59th and walked to 110th. At the end of the walk, I thought I had worked a few things out; however, now that I'm away from the violins, drums, bicycle bells, and serenity, I'm back to reality and wish for the simple joy a waffle with blackberries brought me at the beginning of my walk.

Water Lilies Are Grossly Misunderstood

Fall in New England is inspiring.  Stray cats run across driveways as cars creep along newly cold pavement.  Leaves begin to die and change color--one last hurrah in a world where they're undervalued.  Wood and pellet stoves ignite and spew odorous fumes filled with Cedar and Pine into the neighborhood.  The air moves about with a new chill and squirrels scurry with a sense of impending sleep.  Do not try to catch a squirrel during his or her quest for nuts.  I recently attempted to run about the yard and gather as many acorns as I could.  My intention was to leave the nuts in a pile, a kind of gesture of aide and good will; however, my actions were met with screams from my furry friends, and I quickly disbanded the hunt.  

I found a pond in New England and launched my kayak into its undisturbed water.  I paddled against the wind, a task reserved for the determined.  I reached one end of the pond and ventured upon fields of lily pads.  I looked down into the water and little circles of dead peat swirled about the pads.  The tiny circles of decayed leaves looked like stars, an infinite amount, against the blackness of the cold water.  All of the lily pads seemed to be connected by miles of tubes, arms, and weeds.  The entire pond must have been one gigantic lily pad ecosystem, a few million leaves rose to the top to absorb sun, bugs, and air.  A flowering lily pad is grossly misunderstood.  Among the silence there rose an orchestra of crickets, birds, and little splashes of water.  A truck downshifted on a near-by highway, and was I annoyed that humans could interrupt such beauty.  The flowers that rested on top of the lily pad were white, dotted with tiny black insects, and existed among the frenzy of a world hidden behind a narrow barrier of trees.  I rested my paddle on the kayak and the pads acted as an natural brake.  My boat was swallowed among the peace of these floating green plants.  They asked me to stay, prohibited my boat from leaving, and shared the power of silently existing.  A gust of wind came along and gently pushed my kayak down stream.  The boat slowly glided on top of the field of pads.  I was a concert goer, the performers were singing their praises, and the lily pads carried me above their heads-a kind-of gentle crowd surfing.  

Yellow Jackets buzzed me in teams of four or five.  Do they nest in the lilies?  I think they do.  I'm sure somebody will contend the statement that Yellow Jackets nest among with water plants, but in the middle of the field of lilies I realized we know very little about our plant and animal friends.  "Experts" post pictures at the pond's entrance: "You might find these little creatures on your travels."  The pond's ecosystem was reduced to four creatures, all of whom I did not encounter, but I'm sure I didn't see them as a result of their careful watch of me.  I noticed a dozen wooden bird houses that dotted the pond's perimeter.  The houses were beyond fields of lilies, and I wondered how and when a human managed to drudge through the muck to the perfect spot.  My venture into the lily ecosystem reminds me of a friend's words.  A young and knavish sprite from the wood addresses mortals:

If we shadows have offended, 

Think but this, and all is mended, 

That you have slumber'd here

While these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme, 

No more yielding but a dream,

Gentles, do not reprehend:

If you pardon, we will mend.

And, as I am an honest Puck,

If we have unearned luck

Now to'scape the serpent's tongue, 

We will make amends ere long;

Else the Puck a liar call.

So, goodnight unto you all.

Give me your hands, if we be friends,

And Robin shall restore amends.

Where The Heart Is

There is a road close by that time forgot.  A family passes through the archaic wooden home.  Children take the place of their parents and then grandchildren push them away even further.  The neglected barn begins to invite ivy, dandelions, and critters.  A skunk finds residence and the old horse poop becomes a permanent fixture.  The horse has been dead for quite some time, but his poop lasts, leaves a legacy, marks what the body cannot: infinity.  Plants will grow on the mound of poop, and the horse will once again prove that only he can transcend time.  On this road that time has forgotten, a bridge is touted for its historical significance.  There isn't enough money to fix it, though, and it begins the disintegration like many other things that time has forgotten.  An old brownstone archway marks the entrance to this road.  Contemporary politicians mark the archway with a yellow iron gate--their attempt at pointing out something old that should not be touched.  High school students get lost on the road, find the river below it, and fasten the rope swing to a Red Wood along its bank.  The trees hide the secrets, the river washes away impurity, and the students pass down the secret to the next group.  Time has forgotten the family that lives in the old wooden house at the road's end.  On the other side of the river, there is the aunt.  She has a larger home.  The river, fast moving with its ability to cut and drown, separates the disappointed from the home that time has forgotten.  Builders survey the road that time has forgotten, and they leave just a quickly as the thought of gold appeared.  

At midnight I paddled my kayak out to the middle of a pond in Maine, and I looked up at the sky. Small houses dotted the shore and white lights glowed from low-watt bulbs; I was alone.  The stars above Maine are quite indescribable.  The cool air brushed my kayak with a subtle burst of wind, and tiny waves made me bob in the water like a frog riding on a leaf.  I stowed the paddles on the bow of the boat, and I rested my head on the back of my seat. 

The beauty of the unknown glowed above me, and the trivial worries I had about life evaporated.    

Phat Dadde's Dressing Room

I looked beyond the man standing by the ball room’s main entrance and noticed a large, uninviting boxing ring.  “Here kid, put this on.  Stick with me and you’ll be alright,” Russ said.  I looked down at the pin in my hands and noticed two words in large letters: “Guest Official.”  I thought of everything that was wrong about this situation: I don’t think I’m supposed to follow you back there.  Don’t you think I’ll look a little out of place?  

“They usually try to give me the biggest and meanest one.  Just stick with me and you’ll be alright.”  Russ continued to say that horrible phrase as if it was supposed to allay my fears and bring about a sense of tranquility.  In reality, his insistence of having me by his side only made me more tense.  What if we should become separated?  What if the people looked right through my “Guest Official” badge and knew exactly what I was?-- A terrified twenty-five year old who didn’t even know what boxing looked like.   

Russ was a big-whig in the world of boxing inspectors.   He was the man who taught other inspectors how to do their jobs and what to look for, and as we walked into the room with the ring, it was clear Russ was in charge of it all.  He knew Phil, the security guard, and asked how his kids were.  Russ introduced me as a “young eye,” and I nodded cordially as to not give away our secret.  

“That’s right,” he patted me on the back, “let me do all the talking.”  We walked through the room to a hidden door and plowed through it.  He barged into a large holding room where the “light weights” were suiting up.  

“We’re not going to be in here, but I wanted you to see it all,” Russ said.  He told me about the room as if it were an amusement park ride.  “This is where they new guys change, put their gloves on, and warm up.”  I looked around at various changing cubicles and saw children donning silk boxing shorts, tapped noses, and black eyes.    

“Each fighter has a cubicle.  Once the fight is over, the ones that are still standing come back here, collect a check, and go home.”  Russ made the event sound orderly.  I was too consumed with fear to listen to him.  If we were not going to be inspecting the “light weights,” then who could be left?  Big, scary images of sweaty, overgrown men popped into my head.  These people were okay to observe from the security of a television set, but I couldn’t turn this off.  I had never sat down to a fight, or even wanted to for that matter.  Russ took a piece of crumpled paper out of his pocket and starred at it.  He slapped it with his left hand and turned to me, “Looks like we got the headliner,” he said.  

“The what?” I replied.

“Yeah, the biggest one of the night.  He’s the last fight.  This is the guy ESPN is here for.

I think Russ could see the instant panic his words incited because he patted me on the back and repeated his mantra: “Stick with me, don’t say anything.”  Russ didn’t have to worry about me saying anything because I was choking on my own fear.  

“Phat Dadde is the guy’s name.  Listen, it may get a bit ugly in there, but just stay out of the way and you’ll be fine.”  Russ walked down the long corridor to a closed door at the end of the hall.  I followed closely.  He knocked on the door and yelled: “Inspector.”  The door opened and a room full of large, muscular men fell silent as Russ said, “what’s going on guys?”  He went in and the door closed behind him before I had the chance to step forward.  

“No problem here,” I thought.  I walked down the hallway searching for the exit.  I felt a steady stream of sweat run down my forehead as the “light weights” gawked at me.  What would I do if they decided to use me as a warm-up punching bag?  

I found the main arena and sat in the last row of seats.  Twenty-five minutes later Russ languidly walked into the arena and found me pretending not to notice him .  “Phat Dadde is about to tape up,” he said.  “We gotta watch him.”  My heart raced.  “This time, stick right with me.”

Russ knocked on the door once again, and we both walked into Dadde’s dressing room.  Phat Dadde’s arm muscles were the size of my body.  Russ barged into the room and found a comfortable seat on the couch next to Dadde’s manager.  I found a comfortable corner in the room to stand in.  My eyes did not leave the floor for forty-five minutes.  The group of men started blasting rap music that instilled fear in my barely breathing 125-pound skeleton.

ESPN entered the room and starting taking footage of Phat Dadde “relaxing.”  I stayed out of the camera’s line because anybody who was watching ESPN would have questioned the lifeless, pale me standing in the corner. 

Russ announced that it was time to “glove up.”  I was relieved to find out that  “glove up” simply means taping large boxing gloves to the hands of the wrestler and was not some archaic medical exam that the words naturally lend to.  Phat Dadde stood up and noticed me in the corner of the room.  “What’s the matter with him?” Dadde said.  “You look nervous or something.”

I started seeing stars.  One of the largest, strongest men I have ever seen spoke to me and accused me of being “nervous.”  I was terrified; nervous didn’t come close to the reality of the situation.  I felt blood drain from my face as I forced a smile.  I let out a release of air from my parted lips and clenched teeth.  I tried to laugh, but the resulting sound was a mix between crying and choking.  

Phat Dadde walked over to me, introduced himself, and also introduced me to the other men in the room: family members, his father, agent, manager, and friends.  Russ beckoned me to watch him cover Phat Dadde’s monstrous hands with large, shinny gloves.  Russ taped the gloves to the Dadde’s arms and then signed them with his initials.  

Dadde stood and began to warm up.  His eyes changed from a dormant lion to a blood thirsty animal.  Phat Dadde was no longer the inviting fighter who had introduced me to his closest confidants.  He was whirling about the room, jabbing the air with his lethal arms, and making terrifying noises.  A man barged into the room and screamed, “It’s time!”  ESPN rushed a camera in front of Phat Dadde’s body and led him down the corridor to the fighter’s den.  We entered the massive arena, and thousands of people were screaming.  The room was no longer the refuge I found earlier in the night.   I stood in the back of the arena and watched Phat Dadde demolish his competition.  Sweat turned into blood, and blood turned into money.  As I watched Phat Dadde both take and receive seemingly lethal blows, I couldn’t help but think about what lied below the taped gloves of a man-eating boxer.               

Short, Fat Elevator Ride

I typed the words, "cheap hotel rooms NYC," into a search engine and found my match.  

The short, fat lady in the elevator was wearing a blue moo-moo, no shoes or socks, and swore at me under her breath when the elevator stopped to pick me up.  The doors opened, and she mumbled a profanity just loud enough to ensure I heard it but soft enough to leave the possibility for denial.  There wasn’t away way this lady would deny the profanity, though.  We rode the elevator down from the eighth floor.  When we passed the third floor, she grabbed onto the walls, spread her legs, and started to moan in pain.  I thought, Oh my God, she’s going to give birth.  The short, fat lady started to sway a little bit and proceeded to utter racial slurs.  I started to focus on my breathing.  I hoped that the elevator wouldn’t break down, and I transferred all of my positive energy toward the elevator’s ability to speedily descend floors.  The elevator stopped.  I had a brief moment of elation, but that feeling of relief was short- lived, as I realized we stopped on the second floor and not the lobby.  

A tall, blond, and seemingly nice young man was standing beyond the elevator’s doors, and I tried to make eye contact with him.  I attempted to open my eyes wide enough for him to detect a sense of panic or receive the message that he should wait for the next one or take the stairs.  He smiled, walked in, and in a British accent said, “hello, good morning.”  The young man was wearing a bright blue T-shirt, plaid shorts, and a camera around his neck.  His appearance stood out in sharp contrast the the old, fat lady’s dull blue moo-moo.  I think he realized something was amiss in the elevator because he positioned himself directly in front of the closed doors and didn’t move.  The short, fat lady began to mumble disturbing things about “foreigners, the color blue, and tourists.”  The young man didn’t acknowledge the lady’s attacks, as he remained stoic for the rest of the ride.  I wanted to reach out and inform him that we, New York, are not like this lady, but the very thought of simply breathing without the short, fat lady’s permission terrified me.  

Finally, we reached the lobby.  The young man dressed in blue exited right away, I followed immediately, and the short, fat lady wandered out of the elevator.  She moved at a pace that could only be equated to that of a pained snail.  She was eager to exit the elevator.  There were two people waiting to board and ascend the floors of the Carter Hotel in the warped mechanical box.  The short, fat lady waddled about a eighteen inches into the lobby’s main area, grabbed her lower gut, and ran back into the elevator as the doors were closing.  I stood in the Carter’s lobby, watched the little numbers above the elevator’s doors light up...2....3....4....  I turned, looked for the man with whom I shared a priceless ride, and ventured onto the street.    

Plastic People HOLLER(ster) At Me

Yesterday I had a panic attack in little store I refer to as HOLLERster.  Just now, as I sit here and write about the experience, the very utterance of the store's name insights dark flashbacks of children laughing at me.  Sure, the outside of the store looks inviting, after all, that's the reason I stepped into it in the first place.  The nice, tan plastic men and women give the illusion, "Hello, you look trendy, we're trend too, why don't you come in, the water is fine!" The store's exterior encourages the average passer-by to escape into a land of tropical goodness.  The windows have shutters over them, as if to protect the store from off-shore hurricanes.  There are palm trees adorning the entrance, and racks of clothes on the promenade suggest the boutique is reserved for any individual looking for a simple shirt adorned with pineapples and palm trees.  

I walked into the store.  The nice plastic men and women seemed convincing, but the thing that really got me was the smell.  An occasional wisp of something delicious smacked me, and I had to find out what HOLLERster was all about.  

I was okay at first.  There was one path in the store, so I couldn't really get lost.  I ventured further into the jungle/beach-like atmosphere, but I did not stray from the path.  There were little alcoves along the way, but as I did not have bread to leave a trail, I decided against exploring the dark, unpredictable corners.  As I walked, the store got darker and the music got louder.  I enjoy loud music, especially when I'm listening to my African chants, but this was not comforting music.  It reminded me of some documentaries I've seen of human sacrifice.  A man, who always wears a bone through his nostrils, rips the beating heart out of the "lost" tourist.  As I thought of the tourist, I realized that I was getting lost, and I did not want to be fed to the HOLLERster breed, so I decided to turn around.  I did.  I turned around.  There were people behind me, so I turned back around, as this path was reserved for one-way traffic only, and it was at this moment that panic began to set in.  I could not find any exit arrows, lights, or paths.  I began the game I often play in large, uncomfortable places: Let's look for the (pretend) person I came with.  I started to make sure everyone around me could see I was looking for somebody.  In reality, that person was the exit, and I was desperate to find him/her.  

I continued on the main path.  I ventured off on one of the smaller paths and happened upon a dark alcove.  There was a nice person in it gathering errant hangers.  I assume the person worked in this confusing horseshoe, but I don't really know.  I was sweating, my heart was pounding, I was raising my arms up to my face and away and up and away, and I could feel the "fake" smile I often use to mask extreme discomfort.  The nice person looked at me and said, "Hi dude, can I help you?"  

"Dude" increased my panic, as I never really know how to respond to people who use "dude" freely, so I took in one deep breath and vocalized the only word I could push out, "EXIT."  

The nice man told me to follow the path, as it would eventually lead to the store's one entrance/exit.  I did.  I followed the nice man's advice, and I eventually made it out of the land of plastic palms, dark crevices, sacrificial music, and distinct odors.  

On the way out, I passed by the same plastic people who welcomed me.  I thanked them for the journey and informed them that I would be seeking out my own tropical paradise.