What Have You Done Today, Lazy Bones?

Wait a minute, I never explained what happened with my wardrobe. This was on Tuesday, I believe. After paying for the bike and taking care of some things, I found myself around 33rd street, right around the University. One night, last week, while studying Google Maps, I noticed that mighty Lancaster starts as a humble pedestrian path branching northwest from Market street. While I checked that out, I stopped in a 7-11 and filled my backpack with water bottles. I should’ve gone shopping at a location closer to the house.

So I decided to head up 38th and hit Lee’s for a cheeseburger or two, but not far from the store, a woman coming the other way started to stare at me and shake her head. As she passed me, she commented: “Wearin’ RED! Wearin’ RED.” I froze in my tracks. I hadn’t been being paranoid or overly imaginative earlier in the day. It really was my shirt.

Could I make it the six or seven blocks home?  For two or three blocks in from 38th, it was fine, but those last ones can be a little stressful. Plus, I got enough stares walking toward the trolley stop early in the morning, what would happen if I strolled back into the neighborhood on a perfect sunny day at four in the afternoon, with every family hanging out on the street and their front porches?

I felt around in my pockets. Should I got into a store and buy a t-shirt?  At that critical moment, I wasn’t thinking critically. All I had to do was go back into 7-11 and buy a white t-shirt, which they sell, change into it and walk home, without problem. I didn’t think of that. Instead, I wondered how my fifteen dollars could buy a Drexel t-shirt, or any t-shirt. So I spent a good thirty minutes, burning up in the sun, wandering around trying to find a t-shirt store. In vain, in vain. My next bright idea was to catch a cab. This came to mind after I realized that I probably wouldn’t be able to get a t-shirt for 15 dollars, and that, in fact, I couldn’t spend my last fifteen dollars because all I had left at home were traveler’s checks. I wouldn’t even be able to get on the trolley the next day. I would have to walk all the way down to the nearest location of my bank.

Do you see, kind reader, what a fool I am? It’s probable that I was in no physical danger at all by wearing such a shirt. Maybe it was more offensive to people than anything else. Either way, it was a mistake to wear it. I’m green behind the ears and I figured it out real quick. People on the street were kind enough to let me know. And I didn’t get to eat that cheeseburger.

Today was my first day as a waiter. I worked both the lunch and dinner shift. When I’m not doing a double, I’ll only have to work four or five hour days. The tips should make up for the rest. I guess it’s all up to me and how good I can be at it. So far it’s really exciting, being able to learn how to do it. I was thinking today, what an old profession it is, what an art form it is, but I suppose every job is. Somehow, though, it’s more elemental, essential a job than say, insurance sales.

If I didn’t do well today, I certainly learned a hell of a lot of things (with mountains more of material to learn), and, this goes without saying, I amused quite a few people as well. Just as I had feared, I have a terrible time balancing and carrying the trays. I can only hope that I get better as time goes on. Tomorrow I’m going to be on one or two of my own tables, which should be very exciting. I can shadow someone all week, but I’m not really going to learn until I make some mistakes. I have a thick skin and I won’t take it personally when I mess up an order and have the owner and a bunch of chefs yelling at me. In fact, it’s the kind of thing that I need.

Today I realized that it’s probably not worth my while to go way the hell out there if I’m not going to be working that many hours and not making that much money, but I’m grateful for the opportunity, and second, I want to be busy. I guess I won’t be lazing around, spending money. I just need money for rent and food right now, and I need to pay off a bill or two. I can’t think about anything else yet. Overall, I’m glad to be working and I like wearing my “uniform”: black dress pants, a white tuxedo shirt and bowtie. When I get off of work, everyone can see me and say, hey, that’s a waiter. Or maybe they’ll think I’m a lost wedding guest.

Tomorrow I don’t have to be in work until 4 in the afternoon, but from what I understand, I probably won’t get home until after eleven at night. Damn, I wish I had the bike. They haven’t even called me yet. If I had it, I could just zip right home from the nearest subway station. Wouldn’t have to worry about time or anything. Waiting for Via Bicycle to fix this thing up is costing me a lot of money.

What’s more, I’ve lost the ticket, as I mentioned before. It’s written quite clearly on there, that you can’t get your bike without it, but nobody gave me any stern warnings and I hope they’ll let me have it anyway. I can’t imagine them denying me such an expensive item because of the loss of a ticket; they wrote down my license number so maybe I can just show them that.

I forgot to ask when I’ll have a day off. I assume it will be Monday or Tuesday. Whenever it is, I won’t be able to sit around and play with myself all day. I’ll have to make the most of it.

Tomorrow morning, I need to do laundry and then, when I’m at the 69th Street station, I need to cross the street and see how much their cheapest black dress pants are. The other day, I was in Burlington Coat Factory, and I walked out with two pairs of pants, one of which was actually navy blue, neither of which fit me. When did I convince myself that my waist size shrunk down to 34. No, it’s still definitely 36, and my tummy roll can attest to that. If they have cheap pants, I’ll pick up two pairs because I can’t stand wearing the one pair I have.

And what happened to my black belt? I left a few things behind when I moved to Philly, but I swear that was not one of the things. Part of me remembers rolling it up and stuffing it into my suitcase somewhere. My frequent searches for the belt and the bike ticket have yielded nothing.

Wake up early tomorrow!

It’s been two days since my last post, and I’m sorry to have to cut short the rejoicing of all three of my faithful readers, but it’s to report some news.

On Tuesday, I bought a steed to ride around Philly and I’ve named her Stella.

Yesterday I talked to the owner of a restaurant about a job, showed up this morning over there and got myself a job…as a waiter. I have zero experience, zero. I’m really excited about the opportunity to learn a skill that can help me be gainfully employed always. Rich, the guy I met with, said that he and his brother, the co-owner, had something of a disagreement about the nature of the ad they posted on Craigslist. It seems Walt, the brother, didn’t want to hire anyone without experience, but didn’t make this known until after the ad was posted, after some furiously typed and enthusiastic e-mails had been received from applicants such as myself, and after phone calls from such as myself had also been received, and after it was known that a guy fitting my description was already on the way, wearing his best clothes. Rich and his brother softened up and are giving me the chance to learn how to wait tables on this busy Mother’s Day weekend, just letting me off with a sly warning, and I misquote, “We’ll see if you like it. You’re gonna have the most trouble with cocktails.” It seems they’ve never seen me try to remember if guests wanted water or water.

I’m very nervous, but I’m also looking forward to the chance to learn. It’s not easy to be 32 years old, going on 33, and being humbled to the point where I have to shown how to bus tables. I’m not afraid to say, I know nothing, please show me. That doesn’t frighten me. I’m a late bloomer. That’s a very polite way to put it to myself, because trust me, I can think of ten other ways to say it.

Just to make it known, I’m not going to reveal the name or location of the restaurant. Unlike the other businesses that will be mentioned in the blog about a guy living in Philly, I have to work at this one and even though I don’t like to be cruel, I sometimes tease and should something meant to be humorous be taken seriously, well, that wouldn’t be good to say the least.

So, Rich and Walt hired me to be a waiter at The Pearl Onion, about thirty minutes outside of the city. It’s not a bad commute. I have to take a trolley down to the nearest subway stop, then I ride it all the way to 69th street and switch to a bus there. All in all, it’s about an hour. Funny how I was just at a job where I had to leave my apartment an hour ahead of time because of the bus schedule. Where I need to go every morning, there’s a bus leaving every half hour. If I need to be in at eleven, for example, I need to make sure I’m on the 10:05 (which left five minutes early this morning). I’m thinking, then, that I need to leave the house by nine at the latest, allowing for trolley wait times. If I, for example, just miss one, I could be waiting a long time. Not to mention having to wait for a subway train and what will be a fifteen minute ride at least. Jeez, I hope I remember to bring a good book.

Which is why I need Stella. That’s the bicycle I bought on Tuesday. It’s a yellow ten speed that they’re fixing up for me down at Via Bicycle. I’m not going to mention how much I paid for it, but the service wasn’t as bad as I had read. The two gentlemen who dealt with me were very nice and didn’t make me feel dumb or ignorant about bikes, which I most certainly am. The only thing I know is that I purchased power. The bicycle is still one of the great inventions ever. Literally pedal power. This is something I can’t explain, but it’s such a strange feeling when you’re zipping along the very same streets you used to plod along. It’s so hard not to think, what’s different? What has changed? There’s metal and rubber and plastic below me. Are these the same streets, and am I the same person?

They did say it was going to be ready today, but there was doubt in Mac’s voice. That was the young guy who helped me out. He made the owner a little mad, though, because when he sent me on a test run, I guess he didn’t check to see if the wheels were on tight, and on the other side of the block, the back wheel bent in and starting getting acquainted with the frame, which was nice enough in and of itself, but I was unable to continue on and I walked the bike the rest of the way. That was the selling point for me, though. I knew I had to get this ugly yellow ten speed with “Stella” written on it. We went through so much together. She rejected me, for one thing. I’m conditioned to react to rejection with total devotion.

Once I get the bike, which hopefully will be soon, I’ll be able to ride down to the nearest subway stop and cut down the wait time for the trolley. I’m not worried about it being stolen from a bike rack at a busy subway stop in the middle of the day. I’m more worried about someone pushing me off it and claiming it for their own, which I’m told is not uncommon. I hope it helps that the bike is extremely ugly.

Wait…a thought. I’ll be working through Monday at least. That means I can’t pick it up this weekend even if I want to. I won’t be home until the evening and I don’t believe they are open that late. Oh well. Maybe it’ll give me more time to find the ticket. No ticket, no laundry. No ticket, no bike.

Alas, I’m out of time again. Updating this isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. More tomorrow.

Today was another fine day, though noticeably hotter than yesterday. Once again, I blew a fine chance at an early start. I had the alarm set for six in the morning. No, that’s not a typo, it’s true. Perhaps I was just playing a joke on myself last night. Just wishful thinking? I don’t get up at that time unless I have to be at work or I have to go on a booty call. Now, the former will be happening any day now as I’ve started looking. As for the latter, well, I’ve never actually been on a booty call, but I have covered for friends who have been on them at comparable hours of the morning. Let me just leave that be and move on to the next paragraph.

Now, yesterday I was up early but didn’t shower until nearly eleven and consequently didn’t get out of the house until quarter after that hour; today, strangely, I was showered and ready by nine or so, but didn’t get out of the house until the same time as yesterday. Why don’t I set my alarm for eleven from now on? If I do I’ll probably be out of the house by nine.

Today I blame it on iTunes. Yes, that’s right. Just when I was all ready to go and was psyching myself up to walk out the door, Party Shuffle decided to throw me little Samba party with a few Flamenco tunes thrown in. It was too much for me. I had to sit there and listen, tapping my foot (off rhythm…call it White Beat, or the inability for dudes like me to count any beat except for those featured in Creedence tunes) and, yes, swaying my head. Luckily, none of this was visible to any other human beings. Yes, the joys of being in the man cave. Space is limited at the moment, since I rent a room in a house, so I should convert the southwest corner of my room into my Man Corner!

It wasn’t just iTunes that held me up. I had to get my roomlord, Nick, to take some digital shots of me to put online. When I say roomlord, I mean he’s the guy who has the lease and is subletting the rooms to me and a few other people. He’s not the landlord, and I wouldn’t call him a simple roommate, since he’s the boss. Thus, I coined the term roomlord (I like saying it twice in a deep voice and thinking about heavy metal at the same time), and believe me, dear friends, it will soon be on everyone’s lips, right next to tomorrow’s cold sores!

He took two shots of me against a bookshelf downstairs, and I wasn’t happy with them, but they’ll do for now. I need something outside in the natural light. The flash in the dark room made me look so fat and old…it made me look like myself! Tomorrow I’ll put the camera in my backpack and when I find someone who looks like they won’t run away with the camera, I’ll have them take a picture of my nose against some historical landmark downtown. Everyone says my nose is my best side.

At roughly a quarter past eleven in the morning, I was walking the five or six blocks toward Lancaster and the trolley stop. Deja vu it was! Again the great breeze. No sign of the heat that would descend on the city just an hour or two later. The only thing out of the ordinary was the fact that I was getting some mean stares from everyone that I walked by. The topper was a gentleman who noticed me not far from Lancaster. He was parking his car in front of a church and attempted to get my attention. Since I couldn’t catch what he was saying, and I was an object in motion that tended to want to stay in motion, I did the politest thing I could think of, and answered back, “Hey, good morning to you.” I continued walking.

Now, call me paranoid, but after I was a block or two past the church, I heard him calling from some distance behind me, “Hey buddy! Hey, buddy!” I didn’t stop and find out what he wanted. In fact, I convinced myself, in the space of a second or two, that he wasn’t actually calling me. Looking back on this puzzling event, I don’t imagine he was calling anyone else because the street was empty at that time.

I got to Lancaster seconds behind the trolley. I had never seen the back end of one of the trolleys before, and at the same time I stood appreciating it, I swore I didn’t want to be left behind again any time soon. I crossed over to the other side of the street to wait for the next one. This ended up taking at least ten minutes.

During that time I noticed a few more stares. One gentleman, walking northwest up the other side of Lancaster, gave me a good look up and down several times, frowning right at me. Well, it was either me or the sign marking the location of the bus stop, and only one of us was people watching.

This next part is true, believe it or not (and I suspect you don’t), but a light went on in my head at that moment. I looked down at my wrinkled t-shirt. Bright red. I was wearing a bright red t-shirt in the hood! What was I thinking when I got dressed that morning! Going out and walking around the hood in red! Some nerve I had!

But wait. My reasoning kicked in, and said, no, you racist fuck. Of course, white boy living in the hood for the first time, you think everyone standing on the corner is a drug dealer and you think if you wear red they’re going to… No, no, no, I said to myself, shaking it off. Don’t be silly.

Around that time I boarded a lumbering number 10 trolley, sat down in a seat and assumed the position: that is, with my arm up on the window sill and my chin resting in my palm, drinking in the view outside like it was the first time I was seeing a city or human beings. That’s the way I am, and it’s one of the few things about myself that I wouldn’t change if I could. Anyway, more on my wardrobe later on.

So, where was I? I was in the bathroom. Oh, yeah. In regards to today’s activities?

I had to go to 44th Street to sign up at my local health clinic, Number 4. I took the subway for the fist time and I liked it. Reminded me a lot of other subways in a lot of other cities. That’s a good thing, actually. I’d hate to have ridden it and said to myself, “You know, I’ve never seen a subway like that. There was vomit on every seat, spit covered the floor, and I was pick-pocketed.” No, instead, it was clean, fast, and efficient like a lot of other places I’ve been. I guess since you have to pay and I didn’t see anyone jumping the gate, that you only get regular, working people who need to get to work or school or whatever.

The nearest stop was 46th, I think, and it was surprisingly close to where I needed to be. I walked north up 46th, hung a right onto Haverford, and there it was, so close. Really easy to get to. I didn’t know if you needed a PA driver’s license to join or qualify for care, but evidently not. After I signed up, I walked out and headed right, hoping to head toward 38th and home. Haverford came out onto Lancaster around 40th, so I overshot my target, but I was glad because I want to get to know as many streets as possible. What’s more, I found a place on Lancaster that makes their own donuts. You could smell it ten yards away. Looks like it’s run by an Asian family. I’ll have to check that place out.

Before I headed home I went to Lee’s Deli. They own a deli and a laundromat on Spring Garden and 36th, I think it is. Really nice family. I don’t know. I think because of my travels in Asia and being around Asian people, it just makes me proud to be an American when I see a family running their own business, working hard and living the dream. Lee’s place not only inspires me in that way, but makes me hungry. You can get a great cheeseburger with the works on top for like three bucks. I was worried about eating on a budget and it looks like the problem is solved. I shouldn’t forget that there are literally dozens of places like that scattered around the area.

I came home not only with a juicy cheeseburger, but with my backpack full of groceries, mostly junk food I guess.

And that’s when Michael Jackson came into the picture. Perhaps I should file this under suspicious happenings, I don’t know. Does my being on a unsecured network have anything to do with the fact that when I turned on my laptop, there was a shared folder showing up in iTunes that was called “Michael Jackson’s limewire tunes”? I suspect I have a neighbor named Michael Jackson, because the songs were all hip-hop and trip-hop. It’s a common enough name, and a quick look through the phone book will prove that, but how…? I’m no good with computers, so I can’t answer my own question. I could call up a friend and ask, but people don’t usually believe me when I tell such stories, and of course this only makes things worse. Either way, when I switched my wireless off, the folder disappeared. Hmm. Strange. I thought that when my laptop is in sleep mode, and the wireless light goes off, that my computer can’t be accessed. I was probably wrong. Could someone be using my laptop when I’m not home? Is there a way to bypass my sign-in password?

From the time I got home, what have I accomplished? Well, I started this blog today. I think it’s a great idea to just focus on simple, blow-by-blow accounts of my daily adventures. There’s always a wealth of material to write about and it’s great exercise for the typing fingers, and hopefully sometimes, as I’m sifting through the mud and the silt, a few little shining gems will catch my eye.

I learned two more Brazilian songs on the guitar, in the bossa nova style! Yes! It’s been about a week since my “breakthrough”, that is, since realizing that I can play the basic rhythm. How my heart sang out that day last week (wouldn’t this be so much more poetic if I could remember the name of the day?) when I first locked into the swinging groove of “Morena do Mar” by Dorival Caymmi? It was like the first time I rode a bike without training wheels. No, this is Brazilian music we’re talking about, so I need a better analogy. Okay, how about this: it’s like being inside of a woman for the first time!

Today I learned “Estate” (the Bossa version) and “Para Ver as Meninas” by Paulinho da Viola. Now, the challenge is, can I sing over such a syncopated rhythm? It’s just too much for a gringo to handle.

I’m writing a list and getting prepared for another day. Tomorrow that is. Sometimes you forget that there is going to be another day. At least I do. Yeah, I shouldn’t speak for anyone but myself. My comparing playing a Bossa Nova rhythm on guitar for the first time to losing one’s virginity? That’s proof, people, that I don’t speak for YOU.

Via Bicycle opens at ten tomorrow morning, thank you very much, barring some hipster emergency. I just want my bike and that’s all. Oh, and I read online that they don’t sell safety gear, in which case I’ll have to ride over to a place that does. Need me a chain, a real, physical chain and a helmet. Will tomorrow be the day that I finally find a helmet, made for humans and by humans, that will fit this misshapen skull? (Evil laugh. Another evil laugh. Stop to take a piss break. I’m back.) No, friends, I seriously doubt it.

And whether I do or not, you’ll be hearing about it regardless.

I woke up early enough. That means around eight in the morning. Things were looking good until I began, shortly after opening my eyes, to fret, pace, worry and waste time. In fact, things were looking so good for the first few moments after exiting dreamland that I was beginning to get suspicious. Maybe somebody had given me a lobotomy in my sleep. No luck, sorry friends…I know you were holding out hope for such an outcome.

So, by the time I shined, shaved and showered (I got that phrase from either Julius Caesar or Lefty Frizzell’s bass player) it was nigh eleven in the morning.

I hit the street at quarter after and was headed toward Lancaster to catch the 10 trolley. What a gorgeous morning, I thought as I strolled along in the sun and the breeze. Would’ve been even better if it had been a nine a.m. sun or a nine-thirty breeze, but I was MADE this way, as they say.

I was on my way to a used bike shop on South Street and 9th, but I decided to walk from City Hall because it was such a nice day. Took me a good twenty minutes. Even though I had only been on South Street for the first time a few days back, I had nevertheless forgotten how many block it was from Market. My eyebrows started to migrate toward each other, a sure sign that I was getting frustrated, and sure enough, I found myself standing on the intersection I had sought. There was the very Starbucks I had seen on Google Street View. Where was the place called Via Bicycle? I didn’t see any bikes lined up on the sidewalk as I had seen a few days before on my way back from the Italian (Mexican) market. Sure enough, continuing a little bit down 9th I found the place, but the sign informed me (or the guy who wrote the sign, but there’s no way of knowing who he is) that Via Bicycle is closed on Mondays. In fact, the hours strange. Place must be run by hipsters. I’m not even sure I’ll buy a bike there.

No, just kidding. I’ll be there tomorrow morning with enough money hidden on my person (it’s mine, not yours) to get a working, decent street bike. I want all my socks to be ruined by next week. Those are exactly the words I’m going to use tomorrow when I talk to him. And I’ll ask him if he’s the same guy who made the sign. And if he’s a hipster. No, I’ll be able to tell just by looking at him. If he is one, he should be dressed exactly like the guys on the Sarah Silverman show.

With nothing else important to do, I started wandering west on South Street. That’s when I remembered I needed a haircut and digital camera. Well, let’s not get into whether I really need a digital camera. I’d like to have one for my other blog, A Connecticut Yankee in Philly: A Photographic Journey. It’d be nice, after nine long months, to actually have photos in it, instead of text and commentary on imaginary images I wish I had taken. It can’t hurt to have a good photo in case I need one for a job application. Or in case I want to find a mail order bride. Cough.

I got the camera at a place I disremember the name of. It didn’t take long to actually pick out the camera, an eighty dollar point-and-click that boasts a battery life of fifteen minutes. This is the norm, I’m told. It took another fifteen minutes to convince the cashier that I didn’t need any accessories, membership cards, or damage protection. (I dropped the camera, by the way, when I got back to my room in West Philly.)

More a little later.