Gesticulating

I was on the M66 crosstown the other day when I noticed that many riders were involved in animated conversations. A woman leaned forward and whispered. A man laughed and spittle came out. A child scissored his legs while he talked about his day. Most of the conversers were gesticulating. It was like when everyone was on stage at the end of "The Night of 1,000 Sock Puppets". Fingers made points, emphasized pauses, and were wrapped around words. Some riders gesticulated in time, while others were off a few beats. For example, someone finger-jabbed three seconds before making his point. That's just confusing.
Nobody on the bus seemed cross. Some were happy to be out of the sun. Others were pleased to be off their feet. Others seemed excited to be going home. I was happy because I was on my way to a bookstore. There I would buy a book with new characters, each with their own set of gesticles.

Celebrity

Before moving to New York City I had few brushes with celebrity. When I was 11, I saw Ray Nitschke, a former Packer linebacker, speak at a rec hall dinner. I tried to speak to him, but my words were mangled. Even more mangled than his hands. A boy my age was able to speak to him. I don't know how he did it. He must not have been a Packers fan. I saw Fred Travelena at the Miami airport in 1997. He was picking up his suitcase from the baggage carousel. It looked like he had just worked a cruise. His skin was family tree brown.

I saw minor celebrities, too. For example, at university I saw many good, near great, and so-so athletes. I once sat near a Panamanian model on a plane. But since moving to NYC, I have been overwhelmed by celebrity. In the last seven months I've seen Elijah Wood's slow walk in front of the Charmin sponsored toilets in Times Square. Robert Klein's reckless walk down Broadway. Frances McDormand on view outside of Whole Foods. (I think that's how Marilyn Monroe was discovered.) Ed Harris peering over raised collars on a cold December street. And then there was Jake Gyllenhaal. My friend BA and I saw him at Spamalot. A friendly usher tipped us off. The next day we saw him with his sister in Chelsea. I identified both immediately. BA had his cultural blinders on and failed to see them. I thought that it might be funny to stop them and share the story of when the celebrity and the unknowns kept running into each other. But I didn't. If I did, then we would both have to admit that we saw Spamalot.

My Neighbors

Yesterday, I met my neighbor out on the street. I was coming home from the gym, while she was pushing her young child around in a stroller, headed in the opposite direction. I smiled. She smiled. The child was staring at a Dunkin' Donuts sign. As I made my way home, I started thinking about my past neighbors. My neighbor across the hall from me in Michigan was a little hard of hearing, so on Nascar Sunday's I usually went into work. He and I talked almost everyday. Conversations about Nascar were short while talks about basketball were longer. My upstairs neighbors in Japan had hard wood floors and three small dogs. The daughter would work late into the night and then play with the dogs upon her return. I couldn't get mad at them. First, they owned the building. Second, they were pleasant. Third, they were one of the few landlords in the area that would rent to foreigners. My real estate agent said that landlords were asked if they would rent to foreigners, members of the Japanese mafia, and water servers (prostitutes). My neighbor in Guatemala was an older gent. He lived alone and was very quiet. One day I saw his living room from my entry way. He had expensive furniture. I had a two bedroom apartment that was barely furnished. My roommate and I talked about getting furniture, but it was just talk. We both seemed content to sit on the floor. I can organize my old and current neighbors into many categories, but the relevant themes for this story are noisy and quiet. My current apartment has 2-ply walls and my neighbors are loud. The adults fight with each other. The young child fights with the adults. An adult and the child sometimes pick a fight with the other adult. The only time they are quiet is when American Idol is on the telly. I started thinking about neighbors and noise, because my neighbor is pregnant. I found out yesterday when I saw her walking down the street. Two things struck me. Even though, I hear them argue, I do not hear what they are fighting about. I'm sure this pregnancy has been argued over and about. Second, I have to move.

I Live in NYC

I was sitting on a park bench in Battery Park last Saturday when a man came up to me and asked if I was from the city. I hesitated but said yes. I was excited because other tourists were asking the park service guy for directions. I have lived in NYC for seven months. Wherever I live, I think of myself as being from somewhere else. Right now, I feel like I'm from Michigan, where I had lived previous to moving to NYC. The man stood in front of me, kindly acting as a sunblock, and asked for directions to Times Square. I had just come from there, so I confidently described the route. He thanked me and walked away. I sat on the bench. The sun shone. The tourists strolled. The memories rush inward. One thing I remembered was the actual route to Times Square. I had told the man to get on the wrong subway. I felt terrible, but the sun soon dried the guilt that had washed over me. Maybe I feel like I'm from somewhere else because I'm not ready to let NYC supplant my prior address. Or maybe I feel like I'm from somewhere else because my sense of direction takes so long to develop.