Moving day. Too much stuff to take. Plan on taking two taxis. We get our stuff downstairs and pick one up. Sadly we end up with the least interested taxi driver in New York City. He is smoking away, just throws our bags in. We have 4 bags to put in but due to his haphazard half arsed help he has made only room for 3. I rearrange this to hear him mutter. And to be fair mutter is a lie. He says loudly:
"Will make no more fucking point".
Problem is, we have a mirror. Big one as well, he doesn't want us to put it in the boot/trunk, thinks it will get him in trouble with the garage. My girlfriend isn't used to people saying no to her but he still refuses. So they go off down the road and I'm left on a sidewalk holding a mirror.
It's the type of situation that sticks out in your day. I'm not the sort of man who looks comfortable holding a massive mirror on the pavement in New York. I'm not sure what sort of man does, but there are men out there who do and I ain't one of them.
I'm not strong. So it's kinda resting on my foot in that way children do on a granddad when they play horses. Phone rings. Annoyed. Apparently my girlfriend has convinced the guy to take the mirror. I walk up the road with the mirror at a snails pace. Itʼs heavy. Then the taxi man comes back and says "I'll take it small British man" picks it up with one hand and walks. Still smoking. Effortless. I follow like a dog.
We take the taxi down from the upper east side down to Soho where we are living. I'm annoyed cos I hate the guy. My girlfriend is in the back texting. Half way down we are at some traffic lights. Some old fella runs across and gets in our way. The taxi driver shouts:
"Out of the way old bald man".
As a balding 26 year old I'm annoyed again. I sit there. Motionless, doing somersaults inside. Should I point to my head so he knows he just insulted me?
We get there and of course we tip the fucker. Sworn at. Smoked at. Ridiculed but out come the dollar bills.
I pick my girlfriend up from work a lot, I also walk her to work in the mornings. I have little to do in the day. Theres only so many hours you can spend writing personal statements for University.
From the short walk from the subway to her office I walk past this young man who has captured my interest. He is one of those guys who holds a sign for a living. He is there all day everyday. In the heat. Awful business. Itʼs no way to live a life. His sign reads “Sell gold here” then an arrow pointing to one of those scary “Gold for Cash” places. I feel guilty walking past him everyday. Iʼve convinced myself he is the nicest man alive. One day I walk past. Heʼs gone. Nowhere to be seen. Replaced by a small chinese girl. Next day, sheʼs gone. Replaced. Theyʼve stuck the sign into a grate.
"We get there and of course we tip the fucker. Sworn at. Smoked at. Ridiculed but out come the dollar bills."
In my mind the guy has probably been promoted somehow. Maybe it was his idea to stick the sign in the grate. Driving down overheads for the sake of the business. But deep down I know he has been upstaged by a hole in the ground. Itʼs not filling me with a lot of hope.
One click dick.
15 years ago there was a song that my brother and I could never find. We only ever heard one line of it on a TV advert for a compilation CD. “Golden brown texture like sun.” Itʼs all we had. We spent years asking people. We came close to shelling out 60 notes for the 6 disc anthology. Then the internet arrived. We “excited” it, found it. “Golden Brown”. The Stranglers. Got the bus to the nearest shop and ordered it. Weeks later we had it in our hands. Played it. Turns out we didnʼt like it that much. Standard behaviour.
Iʼm at a small BBQ. Music, food. You know the drill. Post dinner we are sat around chatting. There is an iPod playing in one of them iPod docks. I managed to sneak The Smiths on earlier but didnʼt even get through the song before it was changed. Some other song comes on. Some fella there, who Iʼve been introduced to but instantly forgot his name, perks up.
“Oh, I love this song, I donʼt know what itʼs called, does anyone know.” Nobody responds. He loves it so much he doesnʼt know its name.
He gets out his mobile phone, loads up Shazam ( The application that hears a song and then tells you what it is) and puts the phone next to the Ipod dock. He tries 5 times unsuccessfully. I venture:
“You could always just click on the ipod and it would tell you.”
He looks at me in sheer terror.
“Why would I do that? I can just find it on here and buy it with one click.”
At this moment, Shazam spites me and finds the song. He does the one and only click his body can muster per annum and itʼs downloaded. He smirks and turns to me.
Heʼs vindicated. Iʼm the fool. Foolish to think that two clicks of a device are too much. Iʼm the fool.
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