Hot Sauce Vision

Moving from Washington DC to NYC was a critical move for me that I needed to undertake on many levels. Fortunately, I was able to make this move knowing a couple other people who had made the same move. Some were friends from GW others from my post-GW DC life. One of my GW friends was my friend Jason who I lived with my freshman year at GW and maintained a friendship throughout my time there. After GW, Jason moved to Hoboken, NJ and later to the upper east side of Manhattan. When I made my move to NYC, Jason helped me find an apartment through a friend of his who was looking for a roommate. After having officially relocated to NYC I met Jason and many of this friends including eventually Jamie, a woman who later became his wife. When they were still dating, I sometimes felt like they were trying to hook me up with one of Jamie's girl friends. These would be unofficial double dates or larger group efforts with a decent mixture of women and men. One of these nights that involved a larger group came at a birthday party for Jamie on the upper west side barbecue establishment known as the Firehouse. The Firehouse was a big drinking/party/fun place that drew a large crowd. On this particular night this large crowd included several drunk women including Jamie and a few of her friends. This group of perhaps 10 or 15 also partook of the The Firehouse's famous hot wings. Get it? Fire - hot spicy food? The fire from the hot spicy food/wings is so great that it would take an actual fire hose from an actual fire house to put out your own personal fire from the great spicy food! They dare you to eat those wings!

Despite this name and the clever play on words I did not fully grasp its meaning. Maybe because I was not a particularly big hot wing eater the thought that these hot wings might be a source of great physical pain did not occur to me. For most of the night I had avoided the wings, sticking mainly to beer. I believe I had a proper meal before (Lipton Noodles and Sauce - mmmm!) and simply wasn't hungry. But after 2 or so hours of drinking and chatting up girls I began to feel a little hungry. So when a bucket of wings was placed in front of me for all to share I couldn't help but take a couple. The only thing was that the sauce was so hot (again - "Fire!") I began to sweat. Not being particularly comfortable sweating while drinking and trying to be sociable I quickly started to wipe the sweat off of my forehead and out of my eyes with my hands. Unfortunately for me, I did this wiping with my hands without properly cleaning them to make sure that they were completely free of the "nuclear" hot wing sauce. For this oversight, I payed a great price.

It took only a little bit of sauce, but it turned out to be enough to make my eyes sting and water some more. I wiped them yet again with my unclean hands before I realized what was happening. The sauce, like some active airborne virus, was in the process of completely taking over my body! It was inside me, covering my hands and had now entered infiltrated my eyes! I couldn't keep my eyes open for the pain and could barely see. I dropped the wing on a plate and without anyone really noticing, headed downstairs to the men's room to create some hot sauce-free space.

A quick washing up was all that I needed but my escape was a narrow one. My adventure with the hot sauce could've been far worse and more harrowing. This experience had given me a great newfound respect for the sauce and I knew it was not to be messed with. I made sure to properly clean my hands before touching anything - beer bottle, another person and definitely myself. If there had been a shower there at The Firehouse I probably would've used it too just to make sure that I was clear of the sauce. I returned to the party and tried to collect myself hoping that no one had witnessed this episode of the burning hot sauce.

Cool Breeze

Among the most challenging aspects of living in NYC during the summer was the oppressive heat that the city seemed to retain during the dog days of August. In other posts I've gone on about how unbearable the heat is and tricks that I've used to make the best of it. Believe it or not I lived in NYC for one entire summer without the use of any air-conditioning whatsoever. I simply took multiple cold showers every day and had a different fan for every room in my apartment. I simply assumed that on my meager salary I wouldn't be able to afford the electricity bills and without actually doing any research to confirm/deny this challenged myself to simply live without AC for an entire summer. This directive worked for one summer only. When the following summer rolled around I felt like I wouldn't be able to deal with another summer of intense oppressive heat. One could sweat profusely just sitting around my apartment without an AC Unit to blast. Moreover, sleeping in these conditions was a little challenging to say the least.

So in my second summer in the City, I broke down and picked up an AC Unit at the Circuit City on 86th Street. Without a car, my options were somewhat limited for getting the thing home. I thought about taking a cab until the salesperson asked me if he could load the AC unit into my car. When I told him I was without wheels he suggested that I borrow a handtruck and wheel the AC unit the 7 blocks to my place as long as I left my ID at the store (after all, I could've just kept the handtruck at home without a reason to go back and return it).

As an AC owner I felt this renewed sense of pride - as if I had ascended to another tax bracket (although still a low one). With an AC unit to operate as I pleased I felt part of the rest of the City and found myself noticing other retailers and their summer air-conditioner sales. Now, I was an informed buyer and could judge whether or not I got a good deal from Circuit City versus the deals offered by Best Buy and PC Richard. PC Richard, a local retailer with intimate knowledge of the NYC market, knew how to move these units. They anticipated high demand for them every season and instead of asking shoppers to actually go inside their store and try out the units before buying, stacked them in 10 foot high mountains of excess stock right on the sidewalk in front of their stores in order to draw consumers in. I suppose the thinking here was if you can see the AC unit from the street (it was actually "on the street") then you would go over to the storefront and start shopping there first. Best Buy and even Circuit City didn't take this approach and made consumers go inside their store before browsing.

I liked this approach by PCR because it was uniquely New York. It appealed to consumers while they are on foot and presented no physical barriers between the buyers and the merchandise. This style was more powerful and appealed to New Yorkers' sense of being in control. They wanted the freedom to make these purchases happen on their own time and sub-consciously needed to have these shopping opportunities right in their face or they might just walk by and miss out - being distracted by something completely different. The activity of one or a group of people shopping/buying AC units on the street would of course attract attention and bring in even more buyers. PCR used their local knowledge to find a way to reach these buyers and appeal to them within their own lifestyles making the entire shopping experience seem completely normal and unobtrusive.

Fly Catcher

I know it's a cliche to say that "Only in New York" would one find oneself in certain circumstances or witnessing certain situations but sometimes there's just no good explanation for what you see. With however many millions of New Yorkers riding the subway 24 hours a day the City's public transit system is more like a common medium that New Yokers use to commune with one another than a method for getting from Point A to Point B.

One weekday evening around 8pm heading home from work I ran down the staircase of the 23rd Street station at Park Avenue South to catch the 6 train uptown to home. I always ran down these stairs assuming that my train was either just pulling in to the station or was going to be very soon and time was of the essence. However, this time, no train awaited me and I paced the platform near my waiting spot where I knew the doors of the train would open and I wouldn't have to walk in either direction along the platform to board. Within a few minutes, the train pulled in and I boarded. When I board a train the first thing I do is decide how badly I want to sit down. I could be willing to push aside pregnant women for a seat, dead-set on standing regardless of how empty the car or be somewhere between these two extremes only sitting if someone sitting right next to me got off.

There are many unwritten rules for train riding. One of them is that when a train car is crowded - you don't occupy more than one seat by spreading your legs or torso across the seat bench. You pull yourself in and allow others to sit. Sometimes, however, this rule is broken by drunk and passed out homeless people. In all their glory they stretch out and dare you to tell them to sit up. For someone to blatantly disregard the most basic of the unwritten subway rules sends the message that they don't really care about any of the other riders and are a bit of a loose cannon. If you do approach them about sitting up there's no telling what they might do. They've already set the bar pretty high by carelessly spreading themselves across 3 seats- who knows what other kind of lunacy they might try to pull off? It was this kind of communal thinking that helped explain a very peculiar sight on one of the seat benches on the Uptown 6 train on this particular evening. A sleeping African-American man, probably in his late 30's had spread himself across one of the shorter benches on the car that consisted of only 3 or 4 seats. His feet were pressed up against the wall end of the car with his body spread across all 4 seats and his head and shoulders resting on the railings that helped form the doorway on the side of the car facing me. The car itself was actually pretty crowded with other passengers but they made a respectful circle around this guy and didn't bother him at all despite the valuable space he had claimed for himself. I followed suit and was struck by how this reclining man was actually laying down at what seemed like a very precarious angle. His head was actually resting on a corner of the railing by the door with his mouth wide open and his sharp bicuspids exposed for all to see. His legs were brought together and bent at the knees balanced on the edge of the seat with both of this knees actually hanging over the seats themselves and his feet leveraged against the wall of the car. The part of his body that seemed to be most effective at keeping him in one place was his right arm that was wedged securely between the seat back and the front seat railing that joined the ceiling by the doorway.

As the train continued northward a post-work hush fell over the passengers leaving the only audible sounds the train rattling ahead at untold speeds and the soft, wheezing and slightly gagging snore of the main laying down on the seats across from me. This man and his open mouth, still frozen in a silent scream was completely oblivious to his surroundings. He had to have been drunk in order to sleep so soundly given his position and the number of gawkers he had attracted. I wondered how long he had actually been on the train - maybe he had been asleep since Atlantic Ave. - or even better somewhere out near Brooklyn College. As the train made its stops and more people boarded I enjoyed cataloging all of the strange looks this sleeping man earned from new passengers. But despite the stopping and starting and numerous passengers boarding and de-boarding this guy did not move an inch. By the time we got to 68th Street I started to give serious consideration to the fact that this person might be dead and the snoring I heard just some air backflow that had made its way into the car through an open window. With 86th Street quickly approaching I cautiously approached the doorway to the subway platform away from this sleeping passenger and prepared to embark. Before I could do this however I was gripped by some perverse curiosity to look into this guy's mouth and to see how far down his throat I could actually see. Maybe someone else at an earlier stop like Astor Place had a similar idea but had actually dropped some kind of a note or other token of good luck down there for me to find. If it was a twenty-dollar bill or something I figured I could fish it out with a pair of tweezers or something. I cautiously peered into this guy's mouth but to no avail - it was completly empty and dark. I of course, held my breath to guard against any hammer-wielding bad breath but after a quick glance I had enough of this curious sight.

Smelling Like Roses

With my own personal Jazz Education well under way, the CEO of the label at which I worked had a bright idea for promoting one of his new artists. This new artist was actually not that new, but heretofore had never been promoted as a soloist and was therefore relatively new to the Jazz buying public, small and loyal as they were. T.K. Blue, otherwise known as Talib Kibwe, was a reputable sideman for African-Jazzman Randy Weston as well as some other well established jazzers. Taking the opportunity to craft an artist according to his vision, Arkadia Records' CEO borrowed from the nickname-related history of jazz and renamed Kibwe (playing off of his initials) T.K. Blue. With a new album in the can and a nationally underexposed name/brand, T.K. needed to get his name out in the market. Arkadia's CEO decided that New York City as the nexus of jazz, would be a great place to start. In an aggressive 30 gigs in 30 days performance schedule entitled "The Blue Blitz" these NY-only gigs ranged from small, free afternoon venues like Starbucks to nights at the Jazz Standard or at Sweet Basil's two of the better known jazz clubs on the circuit.

One of the more interesting jazz clubs on T.K.'s itinerary was the Jazz Gallery downtown on the west side of Manhattan. As the name would imply, the Jazz Gallery was a unique studio/gallery space with a rotating collection of jazz-themed artwork from Jazz inspired oil paintings to photography and the occaisonal live performance. The Jazz Gallery was part of the Blue Blitz on a coveted weekend evening slot and many of the label staph showed up in support of T.K.'s fine new album. Holding maybe 100 or so people in an upstairs loft/gallery space, the Jazz Gallery was packed to capacity and buzzing with excitement. While it was a good turnout I remember that the facility itself was not completely equipped to handle live performances. The sound was a little muddy and the chairs for the audience were of the metal folding variety. After stting in those things for more than 30 min. I felt like my tuchus was being pinched with metal clamps instead of metal chairs supporting my weight.

I arrived a little too early with my date and the CEO arrived by himself later after most of the crowd had moved into the performance space. We greeted each other warmly - I always felt well appreciated by him when I saw our artists performing live. Another characteristic I noticed about my boss was that at times he seemed to forget to apply deoderant. The smell that sometimes eminated from him in these situations was that of old b.o. Not necessarily wet, stinky, rank b.o. that told you that maybe he had been sweating profusely a couple hours ago but old b.o. that let you know that while he wasn't really perspiring at the time he hadn't actually used any deoderant in at least 36, perhaps even 48 hours. The night of the Jazz Gallery I shook his hand hello and held back a cough that somehow shot down my nostrils and into my respiratory system. After a brief conversation we each began to work the room on our own. About 20 minutes later I noticed that our CEO's wife had arrived and was talking to her husband as well as a photographer we frequently used as well as a jazzbeat writer. As I moved towards them to say hello, my boss left the small group and headed directly to the men's room. I joined the group he had just left and made some harmless conversation. Within minutes the CEO had reappeared and when I acknowledged him I couldn't help but notice that his old b.o. smell had been replaced by a sweet powdery smell that could only be described as freshly applied Ban or Dry Idea. Apparently his wife, used to his tendency of not always remembering to apply deoderant, was carrying around a small deoderant supply in her purse for just such an occaison. Noticing her husband's earthy smell, she must have surreptitiously slipped him the deoderant accompanied by a slight nod towards the men's room.

Overall, I never chalked up this habit on the part of my boss to uncleanliness or being unconcerned with personal hygiene but being more about his being too busy and overworked to remember to do everything he was supposed to do. He kept long hours and seemed to be working all the time both day and night. Sometimes he would tell me how he was getting into the office later than usual because his home phone was ringing with work-related matters and he simply couldn't get away. With this type of schedule maybe he thought to himself "Look, with everything I have going on who cares if I forget to swipe my pits every now and then?" This would be one of those rare stories where personal hygiene is sacrificed for overwork and stress.

Walkin' On a Thin Line

Living on 91st St. at 1st Avenue in NYC put me in the general proximity of the 86th Street subway station, the 4, 5, 6. This is a very busy station that features local train service via the 6 and express train service via the 4 and 5. The upper level trains are local running in both directions while the express trains run on the lower levels in both directions.

One evening while waiting for the downtown local train on the upper level I saw a guy kneeling down onto the edge of the platform and then saw him turn so that his legs were swinging over the side. I've seen people do this before and have always been annoyed by it because when a subway driver sees someone sitting on the edge of the platform they'll throw on the emergency brakes and slow down the train which in turn slows down my own personal travel time in the process. This is of course, unacceptable. I have no tolerance for this type of nonsense and I was braced for another nuisance subway rider when the guy sitting on the edge of the platform did something I had never seen anyone else do on the subway up until then. In one smooth and fluid motion he pushed himself off of the platform and onto the dark filthy subway tracks below. The track area of the subway is a scary subterranean netherworld fit only for rats and other vermin. It seemed inconceivable to me that anyone, even an MTA worker, would be walking down there. But this guy, with no regard for the various creatures he might encounter on the tracks and obviously a little fed up with not being able to change direction from uptown to downtown and vice versa on the 86th street station, started to actually walk across the tracks. With barely enough time for me to register what was happening I saw him glide across the tracks, deftly navigating his way around the third rail and then as if he was not doing anything particularly out of the ordinary he nonchalantly propped himself up onto the uptown platform. Dressed in black, wearing a pseudo-cool, felt painter's cap, a black canvas bag swung over his shoulder and with a chinese character tatooed on the back of his neck, this guy's head was always looking forward and I never got a good look at his face. The only things memorable about him were his unique tatoo and the deliberate way by which he crossed never hesitating or tripping around the 3rd rail or even looking nervously about for oncoming trains.

Through all of this none of the other passengers so much as looked in his direction. There were no gawkers, people muttering in mock disbelief or any citizen's arrests made. Just a guy making a nice big "fuck you" to the MTA system.

Street Hassle

It's a well documented fact that New York is among the most expensive cities in the world. While living there I was always looking for a way to cut corners on my expenses. Oddly enough though, at work, I never once considered bringing my lunch instead of spending a few dollars each day to feed myself. I relished the challenge of finding lunch for the least amount of money while also providing myself with the greatest amount of food. My food quality standards, as you can imagine, were not very high. I was a regular patron of McDonald's, Burger King, Wendy's and in one of those low moments, Taco Bell. One of the ways by which I discovered I could save $.50 or more each day was by purchasing a soda from a street vendor rather than a fountain soda from a fast food or deli-style restaurant. These street vendors were strange little kiosks, really, with one person holed up inside all day. With precious little more room than a phone booth, these stands seemed like they were independently run and freewheeling. I tried out the various street vendors near my office for their soda selection and in so doing discovered that their prices on cans varied. You'd think a can of soda would be the same from corner to corner - but oh no - the (mostly Indian) men who operated these "establishments" were free to set their own price within certain parameters. One vendor was selling at $.75, another at $.85 and then I found a guy who would sell me a can of soda for $.65! This was my man!

For several weeks I paid this street vendor a regular visit. It was always the same guy who always gave me that same cock-eyed grin until one afternoon I walked up looking for my soda when I noticed that a different clerk was manning the kiosk. A bit older (but still Indian) this new "minder of the store" looked at me a little more severely. The other younger clerk seemed to be a lot more spacey and easygoing compared with this guy. I had a bad feeling when I put my can of Sprite on his makeshift counter that the days of my $.65 cans of soda were coming to an end. Sure enough this new clerk saw my soda, looked me squarely in the eye - as if to say I know who you are and I'm onto to your scam. No more $.65 sodas for you pally - and said
"Seventy-five cents."
But I was not having it and protested as if he was way out of line for increasing his prices. The other guy and me - we had a deal! Who did this numbskull think he was???
"What do you mean seventy-five cents I always come by here and get my sodas for sixty-five cents!"
"Seventy-five cents", he persisted.
"That's bullshit. Fuck you!" I exclaimed as I threw my money at the clerk and stormed off.
"Fuck you" he answered in a softer tone heavily accented by Hindi.
You'd think after that exchange I'd never return to that kiosk but instead I kept checking back to see if my guy would return. A few days later he did and I resumed my sodas for $.65 "scam" avoiding the kiosk when the stern "older brother" was there. But eventually the younger clerk stopped showing up at all - maybe he was promoted to another, more profitable kiosk in mid-town and I found somewhere else to get my sodas. But no one else would sell me sodas at $.65.