Step aside, speed the ride.

I was recently going through the "Memos" application on my phone, and I found three lists that I started a few years back. They made me smile, and I thought that I'd spend a minute and update them a little.

MY FAVORITE THINGS TO SEE ON THE SUBWAY:
1. Mariachi bands. Not those "two Mexican kids and a guitar" rackets. I'm talking old dudes, full cowboy regalia, two guitars, a violin, maybe a stand-up bass, and errant tambourines and shakers. I've only seen the real deal once or twice, but you better believe that I took my earbuds out, smiled, nodded in approval, applauded, then acted like I didn't have any money when they walked by.

2. Hot dads. With their infants kid(s). And no wife in sight. Sexy.



3. An oldie, but a goodie. The "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" gang. They were at their height when they had a large, in-charge black lady soprano with them to do the high stuff. Man, would she nail it.

4. People who look lost. Look- I'm Midwestern. I love interrupting the terrified, confused conversations of tourists and setting them back on track. Once, a family was so far off track, that I got off the subway with them and rode with them for several transfers until they were where they needed to go. I'm a nice person. GET OVER IT.

5. Adorable older couples that are dressed up really fancily. Self-explanatory, but I only love them when they're REALLY old. And the lady MUST have some gharish shade of lipstick smeared all over her upper lip. LOVES.

MY LEAST FAVORITE THINGS TO SEE ON THE SUBWAY:
1. People I used to wait tables with. Ok, listen. There's nothing hard and fast about this. I've made some great friends waiting tables and bartending. I keep in touch with many of them. But I always manage to run into some dumdum on the train who used to annoy me when we waited tables together five years ago... and they always want to talk about our old times waiting tables! I don't want to talk about that! Let's just smile, say hi, and pretend that we're not standing next to eachother for the next twenty minutes.

2. The parents of casual, going-out/audition acquaintences. Yea, parents tend to not understand how New York works, socially. I may "know" your kid, we may say we're "friends," but, honestly, I only see your kid when we're both out, usually wasted. I usually know nothing about their hometown, their college, their siblings. I probably don't even know your last name. And I don't care. I don't know about your kid's book that he's writing or where he lives. And no, I won't join you for dinner or drinks. Well, maybe drinks.

3. Panhandlers. Duh, I know, who doesn't. But here are some SUPER hates:
-The "Out-Loud Bible Reader" lady
-The guy who says he has AIDS and HEP-C
-The bald guy with the crazy fro hair who gets right in your face. It should be noted that the back of his sweatpants is ripped, too, and you can see that, in lieu of underwear, he's tied a few bandanas together and fashioned them into a thong. FML.
-The keytar/harmonica lady. She's got a few things right. "La Cucaracha" is short and sweet, as is "The Girl from Ipanema." But she can't sing. AT ALL.

4. Teenaged tourist girls in Ugg boots and sweatpants. Girls, you're talking too loud. You're in public. And, no. There's nothing "Juicy" or "Pink" about your disgusting teenaged ass.



5. Bottles of urine. Duh.

THINGS I WISH I WOULD SEE ON THE SUBWAY:
1. Bollywood performances! Shaka laka, baby! I might actually dig around in my pocket or backpack for some loose change for that shit! But probably not.

2. People who are selling really big, soft, homemade chocolate chip cookies for a DIME! THEY'RE ONLY A DIME? THAT'S A GREAT DEAL FOR A HUGE, HOMEMADE COOKIE!

3. My parents or siblings. Well, it would be a great surprise if I busted them, in town to surprise me. If I saw them and they were, like, trying to sneak in and out of New York without letting me know they were in town, I'd probably have a nervous breakdown. But that wouldn't happen. ...RIGHT???

4. Niecy Nash.

BOOM!

Hey Sesame Street! Hire me!

I can smile real, real big!



I can talk slowly and wear safari outfits!



And other outfits!





I'm cartoonable!



I get along with people! And I sing!



Thanks, Universe!

These are a few of my favorite things.

1. Halloween
2. Dogs
3. D'Arcy
4. Talking into a microphone
5. Costumes
6. Prizes
7. Food
8. Candy Corn/ "Treats"
9. Tompkins Square
10. Dog parks



Did your head just explode?

Do you think?

Serendipity and craigslist.

As it happens every few months, I found myself looking through the craigslist JOBS category one night. Amid the scams and bullshit, I found a few ads that actually sounded legit. The ads that I responded to were posted by people seeking personal assistants.

Now, first things first. In reality, I'm not sure that I really want to be someone's personal assistant. Worst case scenario, you're signing yourself up to be someone's bitch. But, you know, maybe it could be fun? Something different?

So, I only responded to ads for private people, not companies, and, of the ones I responded to, the "private people" were primarily artists, architects, and entrepreneurs who would need an assistant to help, maybe twenty hours a week. In my mind, these people would be looking for another set of hands, another brain, maybe someone younger and more current than themselves, to pitch in and help out. A different task every day. Challenges. Problem-solving. It could be fun. I convinced myself that that would be the case.

Here's one of the ads I responded to. I'll insert my inner monologue in italics:

Personal Assistant for Former Hollywood-Based Entrepreneur (Sounds wishy-washy. But, shit, I like potentially famous people.) (Union Square)

A personal assistant to work with a musical entertainment pioneer (Pocahontas) who deals with "Great American Songbook"-style material. (Shit! Is it Rod Stewart?!?!? RODDDD!!!!!)

Applicant must have excellent organizational and writing skills (spelling and grammar). (OH ROD! I got mad spelling AND grammar skillz! Pick me!) A knowledge of the 'Stage and Screen' is helpful (Why not real quotation marks? Why just apostrophes? ...and is "Stage and Screen" an actual thing, like a book? Or just plays and movies, like, in general?) but great phone skills are mandatory. (OH, BUT ROD, I'M GOOD WITH DAT PHOOOONE! Making calls, answering calls, EVERYTHING!!!!!)

BA or a 'business experience' counterpart is required. (Business in the front, BA in the back! BUT ROD, I GOT A BACHELOR OF SCIENCE! IS A "BS" OK?????? TELL MEEEE!!!)

Our standards are quite high. (Duh. You might be Rod Stewart.) The applicant will be replacing our current assistant, who was just awarded a Fulbright Scholarship. (This means almost nothing to me, but it does make me think that you're lying.)

Responsibilities will include: maintaining files, drafting business correspondence, and a bit of cold calling. (No wiping down your white leather tuxedo, Mr. Stewart? Another Diet Cherry 7-Up, Mr. Stewart? None of that?)

The applicant should also have a sense of humor that reflects ours. (Uh oh. Have I been missing all of the hidden humor in your post? Am I already just another Rachel Hunter to you, Rod?)

The job is five days a week, for approximately 5 hours a day-- to start. (--TO START! Yea, this is not Rod.)

The ad is still on craigslist, I'm sure. Check it out, if you want. Godspeed.

So, I emailed this person at, let's say, three in the morning. At eight o'clock in the morning, someone calls and starts hollering into my phone. Having "great phone skills," I turned the volume down. It sounded like an older man, very jovial, energetic, jokey... maybe a little hard of hearing. And he didn't introduce himself or where he was calling from. He just started jibber jabbering about gmail and about "the agency" and about dates and times to meet. Falling back on my "great phone skills," I slowly untangled his knot, figured out who the fuck he was, where he was calling from, and what he wanted.

Phew.

No British accent.

Not Rod Stewart.

Nuts.

I hastily agreed to a meeting the following day, and Jibber Jabber did his thing for another several minutes while I continued turning down the volume on my phone.

I didn't go to the meeting. And I didn't call.

I KNOW. Terrible. I was at another "thing" that was running long, and the more I thought about our conversation, the more I imagined myself working for my grandfather. I should've called, I should've emailed. I didn't. Bad decision. I'll own it. The end.

Imagine my delight when, this morning, I wake up to find a blank email in my inbox from "not Rod Stewart." The email, as I said, was blank. The subject line, was not.

"What a self-defeating, Irish thing to do."

LOLOLOLOLOLzernuts! Holy 1860's, Batman!



Hilarity. I mean, what is an "Irish thing," anyway? Amazing.

So, after some Lucky Charms, blood sausage, and a little famine, I emailed the idiot back:

Sir,

I sincerely apologize for missing our appointment. Regrettably, on Friday, an earlier appointment ran very long, and I found myself stuck in a meeting, unable to excuse myself as four o'clock neared and, eventually, passed. I'm not in the business of wasting people's time, and I do send my most sincere regrets for mishandling yours.

Although, now, I do find Friday's events and mishaps to be quite serendipitous. I'm not in the habit of associating with people in business who, when slighted or wronged, resort to childishly hurling passive-aggressive one-liners from behind their computer. Nor do I find it prudent to align myself with those who have an itchy trigger finger when it comes to their own racist remarks and beliefs.

Best of luck in your search for a suitable personal assistant.

Irish and Italian,
Timothy Dunn

As I was typing this, he responded to my email:

Sir,

All well and good, but a simple phone call after the fact would have sufficed. Even some communication the next day, though that would not have given me back the hour.

Regarding your racist charge, I'm Irish on my mother's side and I know whereof I speak.

Besides, I thought you're an ageist.

So there.

I can't. I. Just. Can't.

CAN YOU IMAGINE IF I WOULD'VE ACTUALLY STARTED WORKING FOR THIS OLD, ELDERLY, AGED, um, OLD and AGING, OLD, DECREPIT ROTTEN BASTARD?!?!?!? I JUST LOVE BEING SO YOUNG AND YOUTHFUL. It's, like, my everything, you guys.

FUCK OLD PEOPLE, RIGHT????????????????????????

Blame my parents.

Do you ever see me in the street and wonder, "Does he know that he has an afro?" Or maybe you'll see a picture of me and think, "Does he know that he's unphotogenic?"





I WAS RAISED THIS WAY!

I enjoy sports. I played soccer my entire life. And I was good! I really do like playing and watching baseball, too. But I HATE basketball.



I WAS RAISED THIS WAY!


Fuck yourself.

wtf

I was so excited.

I was heading to Brooklyn to spend the day with Blackstone, his sister Laureve, and her husband, Jason. We were going to get some food, hang out, and go see the 30th Anniversary showing of THE MUPPET MOVIE at BAM! Wheeeee!

So, there I was, sweating, sleepy, and happy to be on the 34th Street subway platform, waiting for an F train to save me from the subway heat. I was zoning out a bit, and, in my periphery, I saw some kind of commotion. I sluggishly turned to see what all the activity was, BOOM! A dreadlocked man in a wife beater came barreling into me, full speed! The guy's identical twin was close behind him, sprinting down the subway platform, with some iPod earbuds flapping behind him like a finish line ribbon.

My first thought was, "What the fuck? I almost got leveled by Milli fucking Vanilli!"

But then I saw the third party in the chase scene that was unfolding. A guy who looked just like me. Sweaty, dazed and bespectacled with giant backpack. He was sprinting after these guys, trying to find words to yell. About ten feet past me, he found some words, "Stop! They're... robbers!"

I mentioned that he found "some words." They were probably not the best words.

My mind started churning. Very slowly, but churning still. I looked around, and the ten people around me looked similarly helpless and confused. I craned my neck to see what was happening further down the platform, and I saw dreadlocks bounding up the "down" escalator, and the clumsy guy in the backpack struggling to weave through the crowds. A large woman sitting on the bench said to me, "Did those guys steal that dude's iPod or something?" It was like we were all underwater or swimming in molasses or something. My brain was slowly clunking into gear, struggling to assign familiar words to what I had just witnessed. It was 2:00 PM on a Tuesday. On a crowded 34th Street subway platform. Someone got robbed?

I was standing there, sweating, no doubt with some dumb, gawky expression streaked across my face, when, in my periphery, I saw dreadlocks and a white wife beater bouncing back towards me. Again, I turned to face the action, and, sure enough, the same guy who had barreled into me was careening, full-speed, towards me. He was fifteen feet away.

Without thinking, I stepped right into his path and stuck out my arms in front of me, the stance that Superman takes when he stops the speeding train. The guy was about six feet from me when I realized what the fuck I was doing, and I stepped aside. He was running fast. And, if his arms were any decent indication, he was built like a cement truck. Before I could think of anything to yell or, really, anything at all, he was sprinting right next to me.

And I kicked him.

I wound up, like a soccer player taking a penalty shot, and kicked him as hard as I could in his legs.

My flip flop flew off of my foot, and I lost track of it as I watched the thug flail through the air. He landed on his forearms and shoulder with a dull smack. And he slid about five feet, his legs still churning the entire time, finally crashing into one of those giant black, cylindrical subway platform trash cans.

Without missing a beat, he leapt to his feet and skirted around the trash can, barely missing an old man hobbling by with a cane. And he disappeared, behind the subway stairs. Seconds later, the backpack guy trotted by, grimacing, defeated. He, too, disappeared behind the stairs where, I'm guessing, he sat down and cried.

I retrieved my flip flop, totally dazed, and resumed my lame stance, facing the F train tracks, silently willing the train to come.

The fat lady on the bench squished out the words, "Good job, man." She was being serious.

I turned to her, frowning and confused, and said, "He got away."

She opened her palms to me and shrugged, giving me a "Who knows?"

A dude in glasses chimed in, "Yea, man. You tried, though."

I wiped the sweat from my face and starting replaying what had just happened in my head.

I had just fucking KICKED a dude, a total stranger, totally as hard as I could, on the subway platform.

The person that I had kicked was brazen enough or reckless enough or crazy enough or scary enough to rob a guy. On a crowded subway platform. In broad daylight.

What if, when he stood up, the dude had turned out to be just another guy in a wife beater who running because he was late for a meeting... and NOT because he was the thief?

What if, when he stood up, the dude turned out to be the thief, but with a gun or knife?

What if, when I had kicked a random stranger, he had fallen onto the subway tracks? And died? Fallen onto the menacing third rail?

What if...

The F train pulled up.

I stepped onto the train and grabbed the silver pole. It was freezing cold.

And I started shaking like hell.