#crutchessuck

 

Most subway riders know there’s a 3-inch gap between where a car door meets the platform. We pay it no mind. But to me, it’s a chasm, 44 miles wide, 100 deep. It’s where the tip of one of my crutches slipped through today. I tumbled to the dirty concrete platform and had to be lifted to my feet by strangers.

The mean old streets of New York are mean enough. The last thing you need is to be is "disabled". Having been struck down in the street by a speeding biker recently, resulting in a broken foot resulting in surgery, I’ve learned the hard way what it’s like to brave the big bad city, one foot forward.

I usually take the subway ride to work in the morning, arriving in roughly 25 minutes. This all has changed. First, a walk to the station, which used to take about 10 minutes (this has stretched to twice that time).  Each step, or swing, requires three times the energy, so by the time I arrive at the station, I find myself already damp with sweat.

When I enter the station, this is when the real fun begins. In a typical commuter morning, people pile on the trains, eyes either facing forward, or ears crazy-glued to their smart phones; the routine has become so burned in the collective DNA that any deviation is met with utter shock. As I try to adjust myself so I can board a car against a wave of retreating commuters, no one bothers to allow any leeway. Often rushing feet threaten to kick my crutches underneath me. Very few acknowledge my predicament and at worst, nearly send me reeling to the platform with no apology.

Once arriving to my stop, I set about the task of trying to locate an elevator or escalator. I pull out my trusty app – and lo & behold, no such luck. This means hopping up, step by step, to the street. Yes – sometimes some generous fellow commuter may offer to lend a hand, and I deeply appreciate it, but at this juncture I’m on my own.

Once I see the light of day again, I get enveloped by the wave of the crowd, inevitably traveling in the opposite direction, again completely oblivious to my plight. I bob to and fro, as if on skis - trying to be avoided being sideswiped to the sidewalk, until finally after squeezing through the revolving doors, mercilessly pushed from behind and thrust into my office lobby, exhausted and dripping with perspiration.

And so my day begins.

Bleeker Street Nigger Incident

On an overcast day a few weeks ago, The Leopard had a soul-shaking experience. I was walking down Bleeker Street in West Village of New York, when I passed by what appeared to be a middle-aged bearded homeless man. We met eyes for a second, and a few steps later, he yelled at me

 “Hey, Nigger”!

Startled, I turned around, and yelled back as loud as I could, F**K Y*U!! Then he said, “F**k You, nigger”!  It was at that moment that I almost lost control. Looking around I spotted an aluminum chair there, because we were standing in front of a restaurant. I went to grab it. Burning hot, I said, “You want your f**king head bashed in?” Not really thinking I would actually do it.  He said, “No”.  He was quiet for a moment. I turned to walk away again and he said, inexplicably:
“You don’t like being a nigger?”

In fury, I turned right around started to quickly walk towards him and screamed, “No, I don’t like ugly ass mother f••kers like you!” I must have looked crazed, because he threw up his hands, shielding himself, thinking I was going to hit him. But I turned away, still shaking.

Never thought I’d have to experience anything like that again in this day and age. It's still all true.

Biking In NYC

The Leopard drank beer and laid around in front of the TV a bit too much this Winter, so once the weather broke I finally decided to venture out and get some much needed exercise.
For me, my bike is the weapon of choice to battle the vestiges of an inert existence.

Getting into the rhythm of the city riding is another thing altogether. In my misspent youth, I was once a bike messenger, briskly weaving between moving traffic, riding down insanely steep staircases and cruising the wrong way down a one-way streets. This was second nature, never delivering a second thought during my my appointed rounds.

Nowadays, older (but probably not much wiser), helmet is firmly on head, earphones are in pockets and attention is on the business at hand. Yet even those precautions go but so far on the mean streets of New York.

I ventured out down the city bike paths to my job the other morning thinking myself quite the adventurer, only to be thrust in a crowd of like-minded Brooklynites. Immediately, my middle-aged alarm went on as I fell back, followed by a youthful assemblage, not wanting to block anyone's path.
I had barely made it across the Brooklyn Bridge when I began to gasp for air, refusing to get off the bike and stroll, as others in my age group had done, as I rode to the top, and then coasted down the other side, incredibly grateful to ease my burning legs.
Once on the Manhattan side, cars whooshed by, making me fear I'd make my destination in one piece.

A word to the wise when navigating the clogged streets of New York: There are NO rules.
"Green" means, red; "walk" means stop.  Everything is intuitive. Somehow, I made it to my place of employment. But somehow I think a peace - keeping stint in Afghanistan would have been easier.

The Job Search Goes On

Being a freelance designer can be a lonely and frustrating experience. I consider myself to be one of those type of people who prefers to be an employee, sticking around a company for years and possibly moving up in the ranks.

The order of the day in my business, and I gather in in the whole corporate world---is freelance. It's cheaper--no benefits, and you can fire someone for any reason when you're done with them with no legal repercussions.

The Leopard has worked at well known places for up to 6-8 months as freelancer and then told the project has ended with no ceremony. I usually work longer than is initially projected, but it sucks. You have to be a wizard of economizing in order to stay on your bills--they're still consistent even if your job isn't.

I just got off a freelancing job at a prominent advertising agency. I was really happy and it seemed like things were turning around. I was told they wanted to keep me on as a freelancer for month and if I did well, they'd bring me on as a staffer.

Well, the month went by and I was praised for my work, but lo and behold, the client was having internal problems and cut their budget on the project.--They couldn't bring me on.

So now I'm back to pounding the pavement.

I've been fortunate, I know, that I've been able to work at all. But if this is the way things will be looking in the future, It's gonna be a long summer.

Parking Blues

Much has already been written about the ungodly parking situation in New York,  but because of my current mood, I'll add to the glut.

The Leopard has paid over $1000 to the city and had my car towed twice in the last two years. Why? Because a sign wasn't clearly marked; because I got out to my car at 8:30 in the morning a moment too late; because I was two inches closer to a fireplug then the law allows. 

Now most people say that you shouldn't have a car in New York, anyway. True. 

But I actually live in New Jersey and I drive into the city only occasionally; and even then, I get zapped.

The only way I can get around things is to drive around the neighborhoods from 20 to 40 minutes until I can catch a break. Often this means squeezing into a super tight space, waiting for some slow poke to move out of a space, or lining up on the opposite of the street 

and waiting for an additional hour until a space is free. 

I once worked with the great caricaturist Al Hirschfeld. He was 99 years old at the time (He died a year later). He was famous for his dead-on illustrations of Broadway stars and celebrities for the New York Times. He lived in NY most of his life and as part of his job, he went to a play almost every night. 

He drove around the city in this Gi-normous vintage Cadillac.  

He once told me that in all his  years, he always found a space right near the theater he was attending.

That's what I call some bitchin' car karma.  

Summer In New York part 1

The Leopard finds that he spends most of his time in the Chelsea area of Manhattan these days. Yesterday was the Gay Pride Parade and the neighborhood was alive with the sights and sounds of everybody's favorite alternative lifestyle.

It simply wasn't the place to be if you don't like being checked out from head to toe. But if you don't care a wit because like the leopard, you're comfortable in your manhood, there's much to be seen everywhere. Young men with carefully cultivated hard bodies on the make; comparing abs, and shorts shorter than I've seen since the 1970's NBA.

I was returning a DVD at the Blockbuster on 20th and 8th when I saw a young man dressed only in what looked like an impossibly tight speedo standing outside the American Apparel, giving out leaflets for the store. two young Latino girls, presumably from another part of town, stepped up to him, oohing and ahhing, reached out and felt his privates in broad daylight. His reaction was only a slight smirk.

This scene seemed to shock no one, and I suddenly felt old.