Trees and Bags
Today I walked into a tree. Just like in a cartoon. I swear, it was sad. I was looking behind me, and the second I turned around, there it was. "Hi!" it said. "Oof!" I replied. The man getting into his car in Union Square gave a look of disbelief and either annoyance or pity. Not sure, because I was quickly getting my cell phone out. I spoke into the reciever: " I just walked into a tree." No one was on the other end. I hadn't even dialed. But I was despearte to do anything but walk by the disbeliever with no defense or distraction. He must have known I wasn't speaking to anyone. I would have realized it myself. I was too distracted from being body-slammed by a tree to do the logic. I wonder if he decided I was already nuts, or I had gotten clubbed hard enough to knock a few screws loose?
My night was better than a novel. I left Times Square at one in the morning, a few hours early to cushion my transition to the day-shift. I carried two heavy bags full of soda cans and bottles out ino the street. The office building that I work in does not recycle. I have made the decision to do it for them (at least on the eighteenth floor). I thought to myslef "It's early, why not take the subway rather than a cab?". And so I proceeded into the gritty intenstines of Manhattan with my fingers already starting to go numb from the weight of my bags of reducable, reusable, recyclables. There is a certain prowess granted to he or she that carries bags of bottles. While it punished my digits, it also freed me to act as if I were outside the scope of etiquette. I could spit, curse, make eye contact for more than a second, sing to myself (out-loud), and just generally be obnoxious. I've always wondered at what point somone becomes a bum or bag-lady. They don't awake one morning and gather their things up in bags and start wandering. Where is the transition? Have I taken the first step? Have I leaped into it and discovered the liberating effects? The bags were from the Gap - the ones with strigs like nooses on my fingers.
People make assumptions about those carrying cans and bottles in used Gap bags. People were afraid. They avoided me. They moved seats when I sat near them on the train. They whispered and oogled and pointed. "That boy isn't dressed like he should be carrying bottles", I imagine they said to eachother. But on second thought, I was, wasn't I? My fingerless gloves were fraying at the edges, my jeans had several large holes with long-johns underneath. My hair was a crime scene. On second thought, they were saying "look at that boy," period.
Still high on my new freedom, I realized the train I needed to transfer to was not running.I left the subway to find the bus. I was followed by a police vehicle for about 10 minutes. Finally, they decided to ask me what was in my bags. They did not believe I was recycling at two in the morning, so they searched my bags and let me go "haha...recycle", as one of the officers put it.
Three hours later, after getting on the wrong bus once, and the wrong train twice, I arrived home and deposited my "haha recycle" into the appropriate bin.
My night was better than a novel. I left Times Square at one in the morning, a few hours early to cushion my transition to the day-shift. I carried two heavy bags full of soda cans and bottles out ino the street. The office building that I work in does not recycle. I have made the decision to do it for them (at least on the eighteenth floor). I thought to myslef "It's early, why not take the subway rather than a cab?". And so I proceeded into the gritty intenstines of Manhattan with my fingers already starting to go numb from the weight of my bags of reducable, reusable, recyclables. There is a certain prowess granted to he or she that carries bags of bottles. While it punished my digits, it also freed me to act as if I were outside the scope of etiquette. I could spit, curse, make eye contact for more than a second, sing to myself (out-loud), and just generally be obnoxious. I've always wondered at what point somone becomes a bum or bag-lady. They don't awake one morning and gather their things up in bags and start wandering. Where is the transition? Have I taken the first step? Have I leaped into it and discovered the liberating effects? The bags were from the Gap - the ones with strigs like nooses on my fingers.
People make assumptions about those carrying cans and bottles in used Gap bags. People were afraid. They avoided me. They moved seats when I sat near them on the train. They whispered and oogled and pointed. "That boy isn't dressed like he should be carrying bottles", I imagine they said to eachother. But on second thought, I was, wasn't I? My fingerless gloves were fraying at the edges, my jeans had several large holes with long-johns underneath. My hair was a crime scene. On second thought, they were saying "look at that boy," period.
Still high on my new freedom, I realized the train I needed to transfer to was not running.I left the subway to find the bus. I was followed by a police vehicle for about 10 minutes. Finally, they decided to ask me what was in my bags. They did not believe I was recycling at two in the morning, so they searched my bags and let me go "haha...recycle", as one of the officers put it.
Three hours later, after getting on the wrong bus once, and the wrong train twice, I arrived home and deposited my "haha recycle" into the appropriate bin.
posted by Joshua Oshua at 12:27 AM
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