The Construction Worker

I commend you for your hard work. I don’t know how you can operate such heavy machinery in this weather. Please, take a break. Somebody get that man a drink. There’s a street vendor right around the corner. Why don’t you take a break, grab some chicken over rice while you’re at it. I’m not sure what the white sauce is that they squirt on there, but I whole-heartedly recommend it. Then, when you return, come back and have a seat with your fellow coworkers. Whistle at some broads while you’re at it, but don’t make it too cliché.

I couldn’t even begin to comprehend what it is that you are working on. I could’ve sworn I saw you guys here two months ago. This must be an arduous project. Good thing you put up this temporary path so pedestrians can squeeze through on their way to work. Don’t worry about the massive slush puddles along the way; focus on the main project at hand. We’ll deal with that. How’s the chicken? The white sauce makes it, right?

Boy I’d like to bring her home, huh? Everybody agrees, right? What an ass on her. Her skirt almost blew up like Marilyn Monroe over the manhole. Tony likes manholes? Gross! Oh, it’s a joke – I get it. Yo Tony, did you hear what Jose said about you and the manholes. Got to love that joke. Is there something you want to tell us? I’m only kidding. I’ve seen the girls you’ve brought home – real winners.

Man, I’m getting tired just looking at you. What time is your break over? No, don’t rush, I was just curious. I would take my time if I were you. It’s not like you’re getting paid by the hour or anything. God forbid if they paid you overtime too. Oh, this is overtime? Double-time? So you get paid twice your regular salary? My goodness – you guys better get back to work then.

I’m still not even sure what it is that you’re working on. But, I know how it’s intense. It would have to be a big project if its been going on for more than a month. Five months? God bless you guys. Oh, you’re going on a coffee break? Didn’t you just have a two hour lunch break? I mean this isn’t Mad Men. Is this Mad Men? It’s a show about an ad agency in the…never mind. I’ll let you guys get back to your coffee break.

By the way, what’s the estimated completion date for this project? December? Wasn’t that four months ago? No, I understand. I was just curious. Please, don’t let me bother you anymore. I’ll just take the temporary sidewalk.

God damn it! Can someone get rid of these puddles? Now my socks are all wet. They’re going to be scrunching all day. My feet are going to be wrinkled like an old man’s. No, I wasn’t blaming you guys. I’ll be back for your next break. Oh, you’re done for the day? Well, see you again tomorrow.

The Street Performers

Just what I’ve been looking for, a meaningless dance session in the middle of a crowded intersection. Let’s all gather around and gawk at performers, as they do back flips and somersaults to an over played Michael Jackson song. Who is Billie Jean anyway? Or is it Billie’s jeans? There’s an easy pedophilia joke in there somewhere, but I’ll let the man rest in peace.

Did that guy just stand on his head, while another guy did a flip over his feet? Holy shit, get the kids, we need to take a picture of this. Wow, New York City is so exciting! I could stand here and watch this all day, without regard for people who live here everyday and are no longer fazed by the dancing, and are just trying to go about their business in an orderly manner. How do I hit record on this thing?

I just love they way they clap their hands in unison. It really brings a sense of camaraderie to the surrounding spectators and myself. I feel like we should all clap at the same time and smile. This is so much fun! It’s like I’ve forgotten all the problems in my life, by simply giving in to this simultaneous clapping session.

How old is that little boy? He can’t be older than seven. How can he do all these wonderful dance moves? Oh, they want us to all move in closer now. Well, they seem to have full authority on street traffic, so I suggest we listen to them.

How long is this clapping going to last? My arms are starting to tire. How did this all start in the first place? I thought we were here to watch them perform. Now, I feel as though I’m part of the act. Weren’t we supposed to meet someone at six? What time is it? I think I’m going to stop clapping now. That guy over there with the windbreaker stopped like a minute ago. Yes, I’m going to stop clapping now. I don’t need to smile anymore either, do I? I mean they won’t mind if I transition back to my neutral face, will they?

Perhaps we should get going now. It’s getting pretty crowded. Are the cops here to watch, or are they going to break this up? What does that guy want with the basket? Oh, he’s collecting money? No, I wasn’t really watching you guys. I was actually trying to get through. We’re meeting someone for dinner at six. I don’t have any bills on me. I’m sorry. I only have my credit card. You don’t take credit card do you? I’m sorry man.

Good thing we got out of there. I almost accidentally pulled out a five, when I fake searched for money in my pocket. Of course I have money on me. Who doesn’t carry money around? It’s not like I wanted to see them perform. They just so happened to be in my way as I was on my way to dinner. I can see if I went somewhere to see them. But, I’m not paying them for randomly performing in the street. They weren’t even that great anyway. I feel bad for that little boy. Isn’t there a child labor law against that sort of thing? Oh no, this guy on the corner is playing drums on buckets. Let’s cross the street so I don’t have to awkwardly ignore him while he asks for money.

The Cock Block

Could this girl be even hotter than the last? She’s looking at me right now – giving me the eye. Not the lazy eye, or the “fuck off” eye either. The signs are all aligned, like 2012. It’s like a slow motion movie scene. Either that or I’m starting to feel slightly buzzed from the whiskey. A sly tap on my friend’s shoulder, with a nod in her direction will allow for friendly reassurance. What do you think? I know, right? Awesome. I need to walk over with a drink in my hand. It’s always good to carry a prop, especially one with beer in it.

“Hey!” yelled the slightly inebriated girl with no particularly great attributes.

“Hi?”

Listen, you seem like a very nice person, but you’re jamming my radar.

“What’s up, I’m Jenny.”

Very nice to meet you. Again, if you could just step out of the way so I can keep an eye on my…shit! Where did she go? I’m not talking to this girl! She’s talking to me! Where is she? Somebody needs to take over this.

“How’s it going?” I say, without a look into her eyes.

“What are you drinking?” she asks as I take a deep chug from my Amstel Light.

“Vodka.”

“You’re funny. How old are you?”

“How old are you?”

“Guess,” she says, with a heavy dose of flirtation.

Honestly she looks anywhere from thirty to forty. So, I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt.

“Twenty-seven,” I lied.

“Ew, you’re so mean.”

Great, then get the hell out of my way so I can find that girl.

“I’m twenty four!”

“Close.”

“You’re so sarcastic. I love that.”

Jesus Christ, are you serious?

Jesus Christ: "I thought you’d like her."
Me: "No!"
Jesus Christ: "My mistake. See ya in hell."
Me: "Thanks Jesus!"

And he’s gone. Sorry about that. Now, where was I? Oh right, I’m sarcastic. Yes, thanks. I get it.

“Are those Chuck Taylors?”

They clearly are. What is she driving at now?
“Yea.”

“I once had sex with a guy just because he was wearing Chuck Taylors.”

The platter is served. But it’s more like an Applebees entrée, rather than a preferred porterhouse or lobster. Does this come with free dessert? Oh, stop it! You don’t want this. She is way too attainable. There’s nothing wrong with her though. Why does she want to throw herself at me like this? Must be a recent break up. I’m the rebound. I will rebound for no one. Well, unless the N.B.A. was thinking of recruiting five foot ten white guys without any athletic build and a sore shoulder. I could probably rebound for the Knicks or something. But, I will not be her rebound.

“That’s crazy. Did you see my friend?” I responded.

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

Don’t make me feel bad. I’m a very caring person. That’s not right. Did you just brush my crouch with your hip? That was pretty cool. Why did you have to come off so easy? That’s disgusting. I mean clearly there’s something wrong with you.

“I’m not trying to get rid of you.”

Where the hell is my friend? There he is! Get over here.

“Jenny, this is Adam.”

There you go. Talk to Adam. That’ll get you off my back. Now, where did that prize go? She must be around here somewhere. Maybe if I continue to talk to Adam and Jenny, make it look like I’m enjoying myself, the hot girl will get jealous.

“So tell Adam what you were saying…”

Jenny? It’s me. The one you were throwing yourself at two seconds ago. Adam, I introduced her to you to say hello. I didn’t tell you to block me out of the conversation. She likes me, not you! At least bring me back into the group so I look important and fun again. Quickly, here she comes. She’s back! She’s looking at me again.

“Jenny?”

Shit! She saw you ignoring me. How do I get out of this situation? Now she thinks I’m a loser, who is here all alone.
Don’t look away. Didn’t you see that I was talking to a girl earlier? She totally wants to sleep with me. That’s my friend Adam. He means nothing to her.

“So, Jenny do you want to get out of here?”

“OK!”

Shit! What the hell was that? I don’t want you. I want her. Adam, talk to her again.

“Actually, I may get another drink.”

“I really want to go though.”

God she is so desperate.

“I’ll walk you home.” Adam interrupted.

“OK!” said Jenny.

Wait a second. Where are you guys going? I can’t stand here alone, and Adam you know I like Jenny. How could you not tell? How did I just go from slam-dunk to the third wheel? Oh, you guys are sharing a cab uptown? That is so not right. You know I live downtown. Yea, yea – have fun you two. I set that up you know. You owe me big, Adam! Jesus, I totally want to sleep with Jenny.

Jesus Christ: “I told you. Now you’re fucked.”
Me: “Yes, thanks God.”
Jesus Christ: “Its just Jesus.”

The Hot Chick

I can’t remember why I got out of bed today. My Asian neighbors are in the hallway screaming in…Asian? I can’t write. I can’t even keep my eyes open. If it wasn’t for the screaming I’d be in bed sleeping. What time is it anyway? Oh shit. It’s 2P.M. Well, this has been a productive day. Let’s see, I brushed my teeth…I…That’s all I did. I need to get out of here.

I still can’t remember why I awoke in the first place. Maybe a coffee will lift my spirits. I’ll have to try the local café…

Sweet Jesus of Nazareth. She could be the hottest girl on the planet. Suddenly my reasoning for getting up and going out has been quickly brought to my attention. Heart rate increasing. Sweating profusely. Nerves…nerving? Oh my God, she’s so hot. Please look at me. Is she looking at me? She could be pretending not to look at me, but secretly is looking at me in the corner of her eye. I bet that’s what she’s doing. I’ll just casually turn toward her and show her I notice her disguised gaze.

OK, so she’s reading a novel. Yes, I know, you’re way out of my league. You’re perfect. You’re absolutely one hundred percent my type. Why should you look at me? Was that a look? Fuck.

Alright, I’m going to sit down and enjoy this coffee. I’ll put her out of mind. She isn’t even real. She doesn’t exist. I have to look. She’s so hot. OK, one more quick look then back to the coffee. Are you kidding me? That is the sexiest body I’ve ever seen. Do you have any idea how hot you are? Who the hell made you? A God of some sort?

Come on, really? How could you not have noticed me for like at least a second. I’m good enough for a one second look over. I’m not repulsive. In fact, I’ve been told how cute I am on several occasions. One look. Go ahead. Was that a look? What the fuck? How good can that book possibly be? What are you reading? I can’t read the title. Let me just squint and see what you’re reading.

No! No, I wasn’t staring at you. I wanted to see what you were reading! Please don’t give me that look. I just wanted to know what you were reading. Great! Now she thinks I’ve been sitting here gawking at her, and thinking about her this entire time. That’s preposterous. I’m just enjoying my coffee. Do you honestly think you’re that hot that I would want to stare at you this whole time?

Wait a second. Was twirling of the hair with your left hand a sign? Are you subconsciously telling me that you appreciate the stare and maybe even find me attractive in some way? I may be on to something here. I know! I’ll grab a copy of The Onion. She’ll see me laughing and enjoying the articles, and subsequently know that I have a great sense of humor. Hot chicks love that, right?

Oh man this article that I’m reading is so funny. Hey, look at me laughing at this article. I’m not laughing too hard, but enough to know that I have a sophisticated, witty sense of humor. Nothing over the top. After all, this is the Onion – not Jay Leno.

Ugh, I can’t believe how perfect her face is. How can you have flawless bone structure, gorgeous eyes, luscious lips, in addition to that body? Stop reading that damn book! Acknowledge me!

I need to walk over there. That’s it! I’m just going to walk over and say something to her. No, I shouldn’t bother her. She’s reading her book. Her boyfriend is probably working hard on Wall Street. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here wasting my day in a café staring at his prize. I knew I should have switched majors to finance.

That was totally a sign. You deliberately crossed your legs in my direction. It wasn’t a crazy Sharon Stone cross, but it was most certainly a “Hey, look at my legs” cross. Well, I noticed it baby. Don’t you worry. You don’t think I have the balls to get up and walk over there? Well, watch this.

I can’t do it. Why do I have to initiate the conversation? Why can’t you? I bet you haven’t had the courtesy to initiate one conversation in your entire life. Everyone comes up to you. How spoiled you are. You know what? I’m not going to be like every other guy. I’m going to sit here and ignore you for the rest of the day. I’ve seen better. You’re average at best. Back to The Onion.

“Excuse me. Do you know if there’s an outlet in here?” the beauty asked.

Don’t panic. Don’t panic! Is there an outlet in here? What is she really insinuating? Is this an innuendo? She is definitely just trying to open a conversation with me. I knew it! If you ignore her, she will come. I win!
“Ugh, I’m not sure. What do you need an outlet for?”

“My computer. OK, I’ll just ask the waitress.”

Is that it? Do you want to talk some more? Wait, don’t go!

“What are you reading?”

“The Lost Symbol.”

What the hell is that? I don’t read real novels. Why did I even ask that? I don’t have a follow up question for that.

“Who wrote that?”

“Dan Brown.”

What an idiot. I should have known that. He’s the most popular writer in the past five years. Of course I haven’t read any of his novels. The movies sucked. I’m done. She’s leaving. Holy shit, she is even hotter standing up. I can’t take it. I need to do something. I’m getting out of here. No, don’t leave. Man up.
“Do you want to have some coffee?”

“I just had a cup.”

“Oh, me too.”

She’s laughing. That was a cute joke. She likes it. I’m so in.
“So, do you live around here?”

“Yes. Do you?”

“Down the street.”

“Cool. What are you writing?”

“It’s a book. Mostly comedy.”

“Oh, that’s awesome. Did you see The Hangover?”

Oh come on! How can people think that’s funny?! Don’t even get me started. I have to lie to her. I’m not losing her over this. I will forego my pride and pretend I enjoyed the movie.
“Great movie!” (with fake smile.)

“Oh my God, right? My boyfriend hated it! He’s more into like Woody Allen, Larry David, and all that other smart, funny stuff.”

And that’s it. You’ve officially shattered my heart. You have a boyfriend and he has a real appreciation for comedy. I can’t even be mad at him. If only we had met before you started dating him. I could’ve bored you with those Woody Allen movies. I could’ve pretended to like The Hangover with you. I could’ve disappointed you in bed.

“Are you OK?”

“Me? I’m fine.”

“You look upset.”

“Nope. Fine.”

And that was that. She broke my heart. She broke my heart. You’re not even that hot. What’s with that mole thing on your face? Your nose is pretty crooked too. By the way, don’t you work? My God your arms are flabby. I’m getting out of here. Why is she even talking to me? Go bore your boyfriend. I feel bad for him. He’s probably cheating on you as we speak. I’m so out of this chick’s league. I'm out of here...

“Wait, where are you going?”

“Have to get back to work. Was nice meeting you…”

“Mandy.”

Wow, that name is so hot. Shit, I should stay. She’s so damn hot. Ugh, she’s wearing high heels too? Look at her abs. I didn’t even see that…

The Card Hander-Outer

These guys are at every street corner, outside every barbershop, and of course recruiting for that class-A “Gentlemen’s Club.” Which quickly brings me to my first tangent. Why are strip clubs called gentlemen’s clubs? Has it become a gentlemanly trait to stare at a woman’s tits while trying to land dollar bills on the stage from ten feet away? The only gentlemanly thing I’ll ever do at a strip club is look at that forty-something year old beat up stripper just so she doesn’t think she repulses me (which she does.) But, I feel bad. I mean I want the little dignity remaining with her to at least last the next two years. I think that may be about the only gentlemanly thing that occurs at a strip club - the courtesy look of interest out of pity.

Anyway, to get back on track to the guys who hand out those cards or flyers. They’re usually some poor schmuck or Mexican immigrant, who can care less about annoying the general population, so long as they make five dollars an hour under the table. I don’t blame them entirely, but do owners really see an increase in profits from these people? I’ll be walking down the street, thinking up the best way to justify being an hour late to work, when all of a sudden a card is offered to me. Now, I will instinctually grab one out of every twenty-five cards handed to me. In fact, they throw it out there so quick; I may even accidentally grab it if it was a used condom. Let’s hope Trojan doesn’t start an out of the box guerrilla marketing campaign this way.

So I have the card in my hand. It’s a five-dollar psychic reading. How karmic that this is placed into my hands. Certainly this is ingenious marketing by Chloe, the psychic. Really though? Do I even need to get started on this? First of all, for those of you who actually think there are supernatural people out there who can read the future, there aren’t. It’s a big scam! Even if these people do exist. How great can a five-dollar psychic be? A Doublecone from Mr. Softee costs more than that, and the only prediction a Doublecone yields, is that you will need to use the bathroom within an hour. If this person were legitimately capable of reading your deepest thoughts, your love life, and your future, wouldn’t they be paid more than a psychologist? Of course not. They would only pay that person five dollars for their time. That is all one’s life is worth according to Chloe’s pay scale.

The cards vary from psychic to religious jargon. I would like to speak on behalf of the average pedestrian. I have nothing against you personally, but next time you see me just skip me. I don’t feel like saying, “sorry,” or “no thanks,” when you hand me a dollar off for a foot rub card. Let me give the card-hander-outer man a tip of advice. You can cut out the middleman by simply tossing your stack of cards directly into the nearest trashcan. Because let’s be honest, nobody holds on to those things for longer than a block and a half. They are sloppily folded in half, sometimes more than once, and quickly dispersed of by the time we reach the next trash can. And hey, if you’re all out of cards, then you’ve done your job, and you should still get paid. Now that’s win, win.

The Crack Addict

There is no smooth transition into describing this guy. He is as abrupt as an unplanned pregnancy. He is like a child who lost his way. A loner, with a deeply disturbed past. His demeanor is…

Addict: “That’s the problem with the white man!”
Me: “I’m sorry?”
A: “You shouldn’t watch the chickens run!”
M: “What chickens?”
A: “I saw the bus coming. Don’t you tell me about the bus stop! I’m a grown man. Fuck you!”
M: “You spit on me.”
A: “Excabible dad grosh.”
M: “That’s not English…Well, I suppose dad is a word.”
A: “The fuck you ain’t.”
M: “I should be going now.”
A: “God bless you.”

What a nice man.

The Degenerate Gambler

While it’s depressing just how low this guy can sink, I can’t help but love this all too familiar personality. I’ve sat down on a Saturday afternoon, with an ambient unknown college football game on in the background. I won’t ask why the game is on, because I assume no one is watching. Suddenly, I’m startled with an unexpected outburst from a nearby friend.

“Fuck you Boise State!”

“Really? You bet on Boise State?” I asked.

“No, are you kidding? I bet Hawaii would have the first field goal.”

So, just to clarify, my friend, who has never been to Hawaii or Boise State…In fact, I’d bet a hundred dollars he doesn’t even know where Boise State is. No, Sean I don’t actually want to bet you on that. I’m just making a point. Anyway, he made a bet that Hawaii would make the first field goal of the game. This is what I’d call a minor degenerate. It’s pathetic. It’s absurd. But, I’ve seen worse. You have ways to go Sean. Oh sorry, that’s his name. Let me introduce you to a real degenerate.

This next degenerate gambler is one of my favorites. If you ever want to escape Manhattan, without actually leaving the city, go to Chatham Square in China Town. Then venture into the O.T.B. (Off Track Betting.) Now, you’ll have to know the lingo, the tracks, and knowing the horses may help. Fortunately, I had a friend working behind the glass. He explained how to bet, and I still didn’t understand. Of course I pretended to know what was going on. After all, degenerate gamblers encircled me, and I didn’t want to disappoint. Give me the three horse at Belmont – straight up. Loser. Whatever, I don’t have a clue what’s going on. I’m not the degenerate here. Well, at least not today.

The main reason for my trek was to see what it’d be like to live in Beijing, and to see what this OTB was all about. Plus, I got to bullshit with my buddy. We started to talk, about nothing in particular, when an extra from Goodfellas approached the glass. I’m not even trying to be funny. This was a legitimate extra from Goodfellas. I’ve seen the movie countless times.

He was adorned with black pants, a black T, and topped off with a top hat. He wasn’t very tall, but his presence was unmistakable. First of all, he was the only Italian guy in Chinatown that night. Well actually there were three others, but we didn’t look Italian like he did. This guy was old school Mulberry St. He paced and bantered with everyone who crossed his path. Nobody knew what he was saying, and he obviously didn’t know what the Chinese folk were saying. So it was a mutual misunderstanding. He had bet the three horse, like me, only this three horse was from Yonkers. Wait a second. He meant to bet the three at Lone Star. Woops. My friend may be bright, but he’s not very attentive it seems.

“That fuckin’ jerk off gave me Yonkers!”

He makes it sound like a venereal disease. I would hate to have an upstate New York STD. It sounds pretty boring and overpriced.

The degenerate went on and on, tearing into my friend over the wrong betting ticket. He even contradicted himself on occasion, discussing with Ping and Yang how the kid isn’t so bad – he just made a mistake. It’s not totally his fault.

The race on his ticket came and went. He did not win. He wouldn’t even have won his original bet. He’s an all around loser. In more ways than one.

“Ah fuck him! He’s a fuckin’ moron!” he concluded.

Obviously another bet was overdue. Try the four horse at Santa Clara. Surely this horse is pulling for you. Now the events that proceeded are not made up or exaggerated. His horse went neck and neck with the two horse. Literally, they were nose to nose. It would take a magnifying glass to determine the winner.

“I’m going to have a heart attack!” he yelled. “I don’t know why I keep coming back here!”

He turned to Ping, who had an amiable grin painted on his face. “What are you smiling at?”

“You win?” Ping asked, sincerely.

“I hope you die in your sleep!” the man answered.

Ping didn’t understand a word he said. He nodded his head and continued about his own degenerate ways.

“Please God, let me win this bet. I won’t make another bet in my life.” The man continued.

Hey, God? I know we haven’t exactly started off on the right foot, but here’s a little advice: I wouldn’t make that bet with him. He’s definitely lying. OK, suit yourself. After twenty minutes of deliberation, the man’s horse was declared the winner. Praise the Lord! Maybe prayers can be answered after all (Can you sell this book for me God?) Hey Goodfella, you should go to mass and thank God for this substantial win (like $40.) And remember, you promised not to bet again in your life.

Hey, you didn’t have to push me. It was too late. The man put his $40 on the next race. It may have been the seven horse at Belmont, or the nine at Yonkers. It didn’t matter. This guy was in a never-ending cycle of gambling. His appetite would not be content, until his misery reached its peak. He still had money in his pocket, and that could only mean one thing – place a bet.

There is a moral to this story somewhere and that is to never trust an OTB clerk. Well that and gambling is a horrible, addicting disease. However, I couldn’t imagine a world without characters like these. Sure they’re suffering, but at what cost? Their loved ones? Their own self-respect? Yes. But, man what an entertaining Saturday evening it was for me. And that’s all that really matters, right?