Wednesday, July 30, 2003
Touché as they say. I got a response to my recent posting about the sailing regatta (Monday, July 28) from one of my millions of adoring fans yesterday – actually just from a friend who knows me quite well: “I note your struggle to differentiate yourself from the [sailing] elite. It is a little like Al Gore trying to convince people he is not like Bill Clinton -- completely different when examined closely, but distinctions blur quickly with a mere one step back….”
He may be right. For instance, if we pan out to the St. John’s Evangelist Church near to my subway station in the city, the nuances of what makes me much different from the yacht club crowd I described would probably be quite lost on the homeless people sleeping in the alcove of the church’s entranceway – especially if they knew the car I drive, the trip to London I have planned next week, the real estate explorations I’m making… “No but I’m different,” I would try to explain. “Here let me explain the differences…” Glazed eyes.
My encounters with the homeless are just one of the many perks of my new government job. I mean that. It keeps me appreciative of what I have. In the mornings, I circumnavigate past this potpourri of mental illness, alcoholism, drug addiction, and fragile souls -- their holey socks poking out from underneath grimy blankets as I make my way up the windy hill to my office (in the winter I call it the arctic channel). By the evening, the homeless are up and about, having staked their spot which some unwritten law has given them title to, and are busy hitting me and other passer-bys up for money.
I only give change to Ben. Into his dirt-caked hands, I give him the .25 cents he requests (no more no less). Were my pathetic state salary not so subsidized by other sources, this extra twenty-five cents would add a significant burden to my exhorbitant weekly commuter expenses (about $70 a week including gas) relative to what I make. His magnified eyes stare out from behind coke-bottle thick glasses: DO YOU HAVE A QUARTER??? Ben enunciates not only every syllable but every letter as well. Let me try that again:
DOO YOOUA HAAVVA AA QUUARRRTER?????
Here Ben. Here’s a quarter.
ARRE YOU MAAARRIEED?
Yes, I’m married.
DO YOU HAAVE CHIILDEREN?
Yes. Two.
HOWW OOOOLD AARE THEEY?
High School and College. And then Ben’s sense of humor breaks through.
HOOW OLD WERE YOU WHEEN YOU GOOT MAARRIEED? TEN?
No, five I answer with a completely straight face. An almost imperceptible smile crossed his face when I said that and we’ve gotten along ever since.
Then there are the two drunks that every time I see them look like they’ve been in a recent fist fight of some kind. They have absolutely no qualms about passing out right in the middle of the sidewalk in front of the Chinese restaurant they claim as their turf. Depending on how intoxicated they are, and how blurred their vision, you get either a really good complimentary catcall, or one you wish your forty-something ears hadn’t heard. On a good day: “Oh Girl you have a nice ass and a nice tan!” Bad day: “You’ve got a nice body for an older woman!” Those guys will never see a dime from me.
It’s kind of funny that there is another St. John’s Evangelist Church that also has a direct impact on my commuter experience each day. Unlike its sandstone sister in the city, this one is an iconic New England church located en route to my work. Its white steeple juts starkly into the sky across the street from the Atlantic Ocean and at 7:15 a.m. each weekday morning, St. John’s holds services there. UNFORTUNATELY, at about 7:40 a.m., (give or take fifteen minutes in either direction thus making it impossible to plan one’s commute around the service), services end and a small group of the doddering devout totter out to cross back over the street to get to their parked cars. The street they happen to be crossing is a major throughway to the city on which thousands of working Americans must come to a complete stop as the dodderees totter slowly across the STATE owned road on which a STATE trooper makes sure they make it safely to the other side. Now I was under the impression that there was supposed to be some kind of separation between state and church but apparently not. Nor has anyone seen fit to suggest that these retirees could perhaps possibly hold their service at say 11:00 a.m., after the commuter rush hour has passed. Doesn’t God listen at 11:00 a.m.?
He may be right. For instance, if we pan out to the St. John’s Evangelist Church near to my subway station in the city, the nuances of what makes me much different from the yacht club crowd I described would probably be quite lost on the homeless people sleeping in the alcove of the church’s entranceway – especially if they knew the car I drive, the trip to London I have planned next week, the real estate explorations I’m making… “No but I’m different,” I would try to explain. “Here let me explain the differences…” Glazed eyes.
My encounters with the homeless are just one of the many perks of my new government job. I mean that. It keeps me appreciative of what I have. In the mornings, I circumnavigate past this potpourri of mental illness, alcoholism, drug addiction, and fragile souls -- their holey socks poking out from underneath grimy blankets as I make my way up the windy hill to my office (in the winter I call it the arctic channel). By the evening, the homeless are up and about, having staked their spot which some unwritten law has given them title to, and are busy hitting me and other passer-bys up for money.
I only give change to Ben. Into his dirt-caked hands, I give him the .25 cents he requests (no more no less). Were my pathetic state salary not so subsidized by other sources, this extra twenty-five cents would add a significant burden to my exhorbitant weekly commuter expenses (about $70 a week including gas) relative to what I make. His magnified eyes stare out from behind coke-bottle thick glasses: DO YOU HAVE A QUARTER??? Ben enunciates not only every syllable but every letter as well. Let me try that again:
DOO YOOUA HAAVVA AA QUUARRRTER?????
Here Ben. Here’s a quarter.
ARRE YOU MAAARRIEED?
Yes, I’m married.
DO YOU HAAVE CHIILDEREN?
Yes. Two.
HOWW OOOOLD AARE THEEY?
High School and College. And then Ben’s sense of humor breaks through.
HOOW OLD WERE YOU WHEEN YOU GOOT MAARRIEED? TEN?
No, five I answer with a completely straight face. An almost imperceptible smile crossed his face when I said that and we’ve gotten along ever since.
Then there are the two drunks that every time I see them look like they’ve been in a recent fist fight of some kind. They have absolutely no qualms about passing out right in the middle of the sidewalk in front of the Chinese restaurant they claim as their turf. Depending on how intoxicated they are, and how blurred their vision, you get either a really good complimentary catcall, or one you wish your forty-something ears hadn’t heard. On a good day: “Oh Girl you have a nice ass and a nice tan!” Bad day: “You’ve got a nice body for an older woman!” Those guys will never see a dime from me.
It’s kind of funny that there is another St. John’s Evangelist Church that also has a direct impact on my commuter experience each day. Unlike its sandstone sister in the city, this one is an iconic New England church located en route to my work. Its white steeple juts starkly into the sky across the street from the Atlantic Ocean and at 7:15 a.m. each weekday morning, St. John’s holds services there. UNFORTUNATELY, at about 7:40 a.m., (give or take fifteen minutes in either direction thus making it impossible to plan one’s commute around the service), services end and a small group of the doddering devout totter out to cross back over the street to get to their parked cars. The street they happen to be crossing is a major throughway to the city on which thousands of working Americans must come to a complete stop as the dodderees totter slowly across the STATE owned road on which a STATE trooper makes sure they make it safely to the other side. Now I was under the impression that there was supposed to be some kind of separation between state and church but apparently not. Nor has anyone seen fit to suggest that these retirees could perhaps possibly hold their service at say 11:00 a.m., after the commuter rush hour has passed. Doesn’t God listen at 11:00 a.m.?
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