Green Chartreuse

So, I was talking to this woman yesterday who was in town visiting from North Carolina. Not that this is integral to the story, but she was.

She was visiting her son and they were at the bar of the Cottonwood Cafe where he worked (or was a regular and/or where he once worked--I didn't catch exactly what) having predrink drinks, as they put it. He knew the bartender, and I just happened to be there having lunch (just lunch, not prelunch lunch) and dropped in and out of the conversation, which veered every which way, from work to napping to sleeping habits to family.

The talk turned to unusual liquors and how long it took the bar to go through this and that. (If you go there, don't order the Harvey's Bristol Cream--that hasn't been touched in years.) She then told this story about her father: She said when she was young, her father would take her out to dinner periodically and would always order green chartreuse after the meal for the two of them. She said it was awful, and she could never drink it, so he would drink her glass as well. (He knew what he was doing when he ordered it for her!)

After he died, she said, he had had a half a bottle left, so she poured it on his grave. What a touching tribute, I thought, until she added, "No one else was ever going to drink it!"

No, a public train is not your living room

So, I was riding the train back from New York last night and was treated to this half of a cellphone conversation...

When I started listening, this guy, Jeff (never leave your ticket stub behind if you are going to be an ass...if that's not an important life rule, it should be), was telling whoever about a conversation he had with this guy who was shining his shoes that morning. Jeff told the shoeshine guy that he had two young boys (who hopefully are getting their life education from their mother), and the shoeshine guy told him that he had three girls who he had put through college, two Harvard and one somewhere else. His comment on the price of higher education was that it was too high, in fact, given that one really couldn't do anything of substance without it, that it should be free. This prompted Jeff to tell his friend how incredulous it was that he had to listen to this. He then said, "They think they elected this monkey in there, and now it's their turn."

Continuing on this theme and talking about the bailout, prompted these two bits of dialog:

"The noise is the subsidies. You and I know how to work. I can take the reins of any of these places and turn a profit."

And, "Africans didn't come here of their own accord. We drug them here, let's send them back. They can go to Liberia or whereever. Except for the 3% who are hard workers. But Obama the Messiah is going to take care of them all. "

He then talked about his next truck, which, at least, is going to be a Ford. But he didn't mention any altruistic reason like helping the auto industry or the workers.

Finally, there was a story which really shouldn't be repeated. It was offensive to women and men, for that matter, about getting wasted in a bar with his friend, Scott, who was so trashed he couldn't speak, and the situation he "orchestrated" with a "225-pound Belgian" woman who only spoke a little English.

After all this, he pulls out a travel pillow, puts his knapsack on his lap, hugs it, and takes a nap. My guess is that he spent a great deal of time in either boarding school or summer camp and was as much of a jerk back then that he had to protect himself while he slept.

Affordable rents in Boston

They do still exist, if you know where to look. And if you aren't that fussy about who your neighbors are.

This guy at a cafe I frequent in the South End (where the best descriptor for the few low-rent apartments I've heard is: You get what you pay for, but you don't pay much) was talking about his apartment. He lives closer to downtown, in a neighborhood that is a crossroads for the South End, Chinatown, and the Theater District.

He was saying that, even though there were million-dollar condos nearby, his block was pretty safe: "Within walking distance there's Rosie's Place, the methadone clinic, and Liquormart. The Devil's Triangle. My rent will never go up."

New York moment

So, the other other day I had to spend the night in New York and stayed at this hotel in the upper East Side.

I had a late dinner at the hotel restaurant and stuck around at the bar for a little while...the conversations were just too good to up and leave, and I wasn't in a rush.

It was a local crowd. First we talked about eyebrow grooming. (I am oftentimes amused at the conversations that seem to fall in my lap.) The bartender, a man, was explaining eyebrow threading, which apparently is about the same painwise as tweezing, but a lot quicker. I had never heard of it. The other guy who was there and I both were champions of the tweezer method. All three of us were in agreement, however, on waxing. The threading guy had tried it. I've had it done elsewhere on my body and can think of better things to do. That seems painful and risky...I mean one false move and there goes an eyebrow. For the record, I can't imagine I'd try the threading thing, either.

The conversation eventually meandered around to the different boroughs of New York. The consensus amongst those present (besides me) was that Brooklyn was for lost souls, Queens was for families (or at least family-oriented), and the Bronx was a place where if you were born there you loved it and would probably die there. The woman who was there, who had been out on a cigarette break during the whole eyebrow conversation, said that she had lived in Brooklyn for a couple of years, until her father told her about the whole lost souls thing, so she moved. I don't know...I never listened that closely to my parents, but who's to say that's a good or a bad thing.

Street corner philosopher

One reason to support the bailout (this according to the fast-talking guy at the bus stop): The Commons are already too crowded. We don't need to add more white-haired guys sitting on the park benches playing checkers huddling over the board when the wind blows. He demonstrated this, laughing, and explained, you know, to keep the pieces from blowing away.

I say fast-talking because in just under ten minutes we—I use the term loosely, my part consisted of smiling and nodding knowingly—went from the financial crisis to sex education (These kids don't know anything about the birds and the bees. They think they can just love each other.) to the value of a good woman. (Every man needs a "first lady," which, as it turned out, was someone who paid the rent and did the laundry.) From there we tackled local government spending. (The city is dark, except for the bus stop, which is so brightly lit you can see it from all the way down the street.) That led fairly seamlessly to a fear of city hall officials. (They are scarier than anyone you'd run into on the street.) And, once we were on the subject of the everyday guy on the street, what is up with having prisoners cleaning the streets? (They should just have them clean the streets around the prisons and give the jobs cleaning the rest of the city streets to people who didn't get in trouble and are just trying to get by. And, BTW, people would take these types of jobs if there wasn't so much paperwork involved in the whole job process.) And, finally, to get back to the whole financial thing, did you ever notice that there's an open enrollment for healthcare but not the stockmarket? (Healthcare is more important, but even if you have a crappy plan, you can only change it once a year. But if you want to invest in the stockmarket, they'll take your money any time of the year and let you chase that dream, even though your dollar is like the silver ball in a pinball machine, ricocheting and bouncing around. Maybe you'll get an extra game, maybe you’ll lose it all, maybe you'll tilt.)

"Joe Bracchitta, that's B-R-A-C-C-H..."

He used to be a musician, until he fell under the spell of disaster-recovery sales.

That’s why I love writing. Everybody, everywhere has a story. I regularly travel by train between Boston and New York, and there’s always someone interesting to talk to. In the past several months, I’ve met an executive who works for fun at a friend’s tree farm, a lawyer for a terrorist, and my all time favorite: the divorced lawyer and his ex-wife who were coming back from their daughter’s law school graduation. (The lawyer’s latest girlfriend was the same age as his daughter.)

Yesterday it was the disaster-recovery sales guy. If he had told me what he did first off, he might have had a sale. If I could use anything, it would be disaster-recovery insurance. Unfortunately, they don’t offer that to writers, for good reason. But I digress.

He told me the company in first class was generally boring—mostly business people and sales people (and people like me who get bonus upgrades) talking about their kids and “shallow stuff.” Joe clearly doesn’t like pools and golf courses. What he does like is cooking. He learned technique from his mother, but not recipes. He says if you ask his mother for a recipe, the first ingredient is always a big sigh. He cooks the same way—off the cuff, not full of sighs. One gets the impression that his family recipes are full of laughs and smiles, not sighs, the best kind of cooking.

He describes himself as being a Guinea ADD-type of from Yonkers. He got off in New Haven, so I guess you can take the guy out of Yonkers, but you can’t take the Yonkers out of the guy.

Joe and his wife, Lori, recently went on vacation to Italy, a small town outside Rome, to visit family. He said he could have sat the whole time—either watching the world pass by or just watching the world (nature is a wonderful thing if you can find it.) And, guess what? That’s exactly how he spent his vacation. He claimed he wasn’t exaggerating, his wife had to go back to Italy, with his mother, to see the sights. (They left Joe at home.)

As a final note, or coda if you will, Joe and I have an understanding. Even though he ’fessed up to being on the phone with his lawyer while we were on the train, he won’t sue me because I warned him I would be writing this after a couple of glasses of wine. He said he understood, writers being tortured souls and all that. As for Lori, well…hopefully she’s as understanding (and doesn’t have a lawyer on speed dial). Again, the reason why a writer never qualifies for disaster-recovery insurance, but should probably have a disaster-recovery plan…

City Snapshot

So last night when I was walking the dog--yeah, it was kinda of late--this guy fell into step with me for part of the way. He clearly had had a few. The conversation started with comments on my dog's markings and went on from there. This guy was on his way home to Southie and was talking about helping his buddy look for an apartment. The conversation then turned to who actually lives in the South End (he decided that I fell under the "artsy" category). We also talked about street smarts...well, I called it street smarts, he called it always expecting to get your head kicked in.

Somehow, the conversation turned to how he recently broke a few toes. No, it didn't happen on the streets of Boston...it happened in his bathroom. It wasn't too spectacular of a story, just a little odd. Apparently, a picture that had been hanging there forever fell as he was standing there and landed on his toes. What was funny was that halfway through telling me, a complete stranger, he realized what he was describing (he was making sure he demonstrated the stance properly), but he just shrugged and continued on with the story.

A walk in the park

Yesterday, I took advantage of a sunny day with no calendar obligations (rare when the two coincide) to take a walk down by the river. In addition to getting a much-needed dose of sunshine, there was plenty of other environmental stimuli as well:

Did you ever walk in front of someone having a conversation where you just have to turn around to get a glimpse at the people talking? Usually they are talking loud enough as if their intent is to entertain the world, but it's almost a little sad when you realize their conversation is serious.

For quite a ways, two young women were having a conversation sparked by a puppy playing in the grass. It went like this:
"Oh, how cute."
"Yeah."
"I want a puppy."
"You always say that."
"You know what I really want, is a baby."
"You always say that when you see a puppy."
"I know. I see a puppy and I want one to play with it, then I think, why just a puppy? If I had a baby I could be playing with that."
"But if you get tired of the puppy, you can give it away. You can't do that with a baby."
And on it went. (Believe it or not, there was more.)

As if that isn't enough, off to the side, along with all the people sitting and laying along the Charles, there strode a man who was looking for just the right spot to get a little sun. (The first nice weekend day, there was a lot of people there.) What set him apart from everyone else doing the same thing? He had stripped down to absolutely nothing but a thong. And there he was, weaving through the crowd flashing his bare butt like it was the most normal thing in the world.

The only thing I could think of was that it was a good thing these two didn't meet....

My all-time favorite train story

I ride the Acela back and forth to New York every week. It’s always pretty much the same: The morning train is pretty relaxed, mostly business travelers, the evening train, the last one of the day, is always crowded.

Now, before I tell this story, let me just say that it doesn’t mean that I advocate what this guy did, but I appreciate the humor of the situation (especially since I was just a casual observer).

I was sitting in an aisle seat one night and just happened to notice this guy sitting a row or two up. He borrowed the cellphone of the man next to him and called home. It was the same refrain of most of these types of conversations, “Darling, I’ll be home soon.” No big deal.

About ten minutes later, he had a seizure. Everyone, of course, reacted. Someone got the conductor, who called over the loudspeaker for any doctor on board to come immediately. They called ahead to get an ambulance at the next available stop. Two doctors came, but since they didn’t really know anything about him they couldn’t be sure if it was a seizure or not. The man was either sleeping (as one does after a seizure) or was unconscious. His seatmate remembered the phone conversation, so one of the doctors redialed the number.

He talked to the man’s wife and explained the situation and told her not to worry, etc. She filled him in on his medical history, and they told her what station they were going to get to and that they would get her the hospital information.

Finally, the man woke up. He was still groggy, and they explained everything to him, including the phone call. They said he’d be fine. He said no, he most certainly would not be fine. As it turned out, his wife didn’t know he was on the train.

By then we were in the next station. He wanted nothing to do with the ambulance. They, of course, insisted that he at least let the EMT’s check him out. After awhile, he came back and the train left.

He explained to his seatmate that he and his wife had been having problems and that he was seeing someone in New York. He had told his wife that he was going somewhere else locally for the day. He then borrowed the phone again.

This conversation was a lot different and far from routine. He told his wife that he wasn’t on the train, that he had been driving by a train station when he felt the seizure come on and pulled into the station just as a train was arriving. What a lucky coincidence. That the doctor who called her was confused and thought he was a passenger on the train. (I hope for the sake of women everywhere that this woman did not believe this story.) She, of course, insisted on coming to pick him up because surely he couldn’t drive the rest of the way home. Of course, he had to refuse, because while his car was at the station, he wasn’t there yet. At some point she did hang up on him. Several times, in fact.

I don’t know what the lessons here are. Of course, there are the obvious ones. In addition to that, I guess, make sure you have a clean bill of health before you embark on a mission of folly, and if you are going to do something questionable or even stupid (who am I to judge), at least get a story out of it. Granted, this guy wasn’t laughing that night, but hopefully after he picked up the pieces and sorted out what was important, he appreciated the humor of the situation. Because sometimes, that’s all we got.