Lubricant

June 30th, 2009 by Waiter

On Sunday night my air conditioner emitted a stifled scream, thunked heavily several times, then died. My A/C’s demise wasn’t a surprise, mind you. I figured it was going terminal when the compressor started groaning several weeks ago. I should consider myself lucky. I bought the unit second hand off a waiter six years ago and I’m amazed it lasted as long as it did. What can you expect for a hundred bucks? And since I can’t stand the heat, not having air-conditioning classifies as an emergency. I was hoping my old unit would rattle on for one more summer, but now I have to bite the bullet and buy a new one. Buying new appliances wasn’t in my budget for the month, but I can’t stand sweating.

So on Monday morning I drive to the appliance store in the center of town. When I tell the saleslady my bedroom’s dimensions she suggests a 8000 BTU unit. My old A/C was 5000 BTUs so anything I buy now is a step up. I decide on a smart looking Energy Star rated number with a remote control and hand the saleslady my credit card. As she’s ringing up my purchase I realize that I’m forty-one years old and never bought a new air-conditioner. I’ve always skated by with second hand units or my previous apartments came with A/C already supplied. Luckily for me I know the saleslady’s family. She gives me a nice discount and offers to have her husband deliver the unit to my house and install it for free. In a country filled with impersonal big box stores it’s nice to get some small town local merchant service.

Al. the saleslady’s husband, and his helper arrive with my new A/C two hours later. Since the unit’s heavier than the old one, however, it’ll bend to the vinyl window frame unless it’s supported by a 2×4 cut to exactly twenty-eight inches.

“You got any wood?” Al asks. I blink at the him uncomprehendingly.

“No,” I reply.

“Got any screws?”

“Nope.”

Al sizes me up in a second and sighs. He can tell I’m retarded when it comes to anything mechanical. I must’ve been asleep when God passed out the do-it-yourself genes. I’m so bad I need help replacing a light bulb. Tools? I think I own one screwdriver.

Luckily I know Al. His daughter’s married to my landlord’s son. We’ve broken bread and swilled homemade wine at Italian Christmas and Easter bonanzas together. After grousing for a few moments Al announces he’s heading back to the store.

“Back in a minute,” he says. “Let me get the right tools to do the job.”

“Thanks,” I reply, feeling like an incompetent boob.

Al returns half an hour later with wood, a tool box, and a saw. Turns out putting the unit in my window’s a bitch. I never could have done it. After a few minutes of measuring, sawing and lifting, my new A/C’s purring in the window, blowing out sweet, wonderful, cool air. My contribution to the effort? I put the batteries into the remote.

“There ya go Steve,” Al says. “Enjoy it.”

“Thanks Al,” I say, handing him a twenty dollar bill.

“Whoa,” Al says, holding up his hand. “You don’t need to tip me.”

“It’s not for you,” I reply diplomatically. “Go buy your assistant some beers after work.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I’m writing a book on tipping,” I reply. “Remember? So I’m screwed.”

Al laughs and takes the money from my outstretched hand. “Thanks Steve.”

“No problem.”

“You know what?” Al says. “I overtip.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“When I go out to eat I give the girls 25%. Always. I make more money than them so I figure, why not? They need it more than I do.”

Smiling inwardly, I remember that classic conversation about tipping from the movie Reservoir Dogs. Al bears a passing resemblance to one of the gangsters that opined tipping was a good idea. God, I hope he doesn’t read this.

“Then your reward in heaven will be great,” I reply.

I see Al out, say goodbye, and head back upstairs to sweep the sawdust and Styrofoam flakes off my bedroom floor. As I’m pushing my broom I think about how tipping often acts as a lubricant, making everything in life run a little smoother. I didn’t have to give Al a tip nor was he expecting one. But when you’re mechanically disinclined like me, shelling out a few bucks to get a job done right is a small price to pay. Tipping often makes up for our inability to do things and salves our conscience when people perform tasks for us that we’d rather not do ourselves – whether that that something’s installing an air conditioner, hauling a couch up two flights of stairs, or expressing a dog’s anal sac. Tipping says thank you, but you get something else for your money too – less headaches.

When I finish sweeping I lay out on my bed and luxuriate in the cool air that’s rapidly turing my bedroom into a meat locker. Buster jumps onto the bed, circles several times, and plops down next to my head. Withing seconds he’s snoring. I guess Buster likes air conditioning too. As I listen to my new A/C sing it’s soft mechanical lullaby, I hear another set of snores rise and fall alongside Buster’s. When I realize I’m the one sawing wood I dreamily pull a blanket over myself and fall into a deep sleep.

Twenty bucks was never better spent.

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Perimeter Check

June 26th, 2009 by Waiter

When the weather’s warm I do most of my writing sitting on the small porch outside my front door. Free from the distractions of television and a comfy bed I find I can focus my attention better. And since my doctor recently told me I’ve got a Vitamin D deficiency, the extra sunshine doesn’t hurt either.

Morning comes and I head downstairs with my laptop and coffee and get to work. As the hours pass I watch several of my neighbors come and go – leaving for work, walking dogs, doing yard work, and attending to the other sundry details of life. Several of them wave to me. I wave back. Because they constantly see me outside with laptop and cellphone when normal people are their jobs working, my neighbors probably think I’m a drug dealer. It’s a matter of time before one of them comes over and tries to score some blow.

Because I’m home most of the day I’m very keen to what goes on in the neighborhood. I know when the regular UPS man is out sick, when that cute jogger’s having trouble with her last mile, and the makes and models of all the cars parked on the street. I know the faces of all the landscapers, neighborhood kids, and the tired looking commuters waiting for the bus to NYC. I know the cleaning women on sight as well as the cable guy, the telephone repairman and delivery boy from the grocery store. I’m like that little old lady always staring out the window. If you’re not a regular in my neighborhood, I’ll notice.

As I’m pecking away at the keyboard a strange car pulls up and parks across the street from my house. The driver’s a young kid whose head’s swiveling around his neck nervously. I notice he doesn’t kill his engine. The first thought that crosses my mind is that this kid’s a getaway driver for a burglary team. I know that sounds paranoid, but there’ve been several break-ins in the neighborhood over the past several weeks. The crooks target unoccupied homes during the work day, push in the poor mark’s window air conditioner, and then ransack the house. Since they only take loose items – portable electronics, jewelry and cash – they sound like amateurs. But any cop will tell you, amateur burglars are dangerous. It’s a matter of time before these guys unwittingly bust into an occupied home and someone gets hurt.

The neighborhood gossips seem to think the robberies are being carried out by gang members living in a nearby city. Although the police won’t say the robberies are connected, it makes sense. My town’s fairly affluent so there’s plenty of rich targets. And since we’re bordered by three major highways, it’s easy for criminals to slip in, do the deed, and quickly escape.

Of course parking on the street isn’t a crime and I decide to give the driver the benefit of the doubt. But when I casually look up from my computer I catch the kid looking at me. When I meet his eye he quickly turns away. Now my suspicions are heightened.

Suddenly a tall blonde kid wearing baggy pants rounds the corner and walks up to the car yelling, “Hey! Do you want me to kick your ass or what?”

The kid in the car starts gesticulating wildly. I can’t hear what he’s saying.

“Look, yo,” the blonde kid yells, sticking his head in the passenger side window. “I told you not to fuck with me.”

I look at the blonde kid yelling profanities. Somehow he feels my gaze, looks up, and stops yelling, Then he drops to his knees until his body’s out of sight. I don’t like that I can’t see what this guy’s doing behind the car. I slip my cell phone out of my pocket and place it on my lap.

The kids argue some more. The driver looks frightened and blonde haired kid’s staring at me though the car’s open windows. I mentally debate calling the cops but decide to wait. No crime’s been committed and I was an angry young man once. I decide to let things pan out.

Soon enough a teenage girl walks up the car, opens the driver’s side passenger door, and gets in. The blonde haired kid shakes his head and climbs into the front passenger seat. There’s more yelling and hand motions. Then all three of the kids stare at me. I look. They look. The girl smiles weakly, Then the driver puts the car in gear and they speed off. I have no idea what they were doing. Maybe I saw two boys fighting over a girl’s affections. Maybe they were fighting over something that happened at school. Or maybe they were amateur burglars upset because they couldn’t find a house to rob. I just don’t know. Part of me doesn’t want to know. Ignorance is bliss.

I return my cell phone to my pocket and turn my attention back to the keyboard. I’ve had enough excitement for one day.

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The Dead Pool

June 26th, 2009 by Waiter

It’s Wednesday night and I’m lying on the couch bored out of my mind. Seeking diversion I flip through the television channels. Nothing good is on. I activate the on-screen menu and tab over to the pay-for-view movie section. Nothing there either.

When in doubt about what to watch, my advice is to stick with the classics. I notice my my television provider’s offering a selection of Clint Eastwood movies so I toggle over to that screen and view my choices. Unforgiven’s a great movie, but heavy cinematic cuisine for this late hour. The same goes for Million Dollar Baby. I look for some lighter Clint fare, but Every Which Way but Loose is not being offered. Dirty Harry’s among the choices but I watched that on Netflix a few weeks ago. I’d be in the mood for Magnum Force or The Enforcer but they’re not on the list either. The Dead Pool, the last movie featuring the iconic San Francisco cop Harry Callahan, is my only choice. I seem to remember that movie was the weakest installment in the series, but I press SELECT anyway.

Made in 1988, the movie was as bad as I remembered it. Clint seemed to be dialing in his performance, probably because he was disgusted with the dialogue. Still, it was kind of fun to watch to watch Liam Neeson and Jim Carrey hamming it up in some early roles. Besides, the movie’s romantic interest, the reddish-blond Patricia Clarkson, was a supreme hottie back then.

The movie’s plot is simplistic and not very well thought out. Several San Francisco celebrities end up dead and, as the movie plods on, it’s revealed that all the victims were on a list called “The Dead Pool.” The list started as a game played by members of a film crew headed by a volatile horror film director named Peter Swan - played with a whiny English accent by a pony-tailed Neeson. The premise is simple. The crew picked several celebrities they thought would die during the year and made a list. The person whose list had the most fatalities won the game. Of course you hear the old saw about “celebrities always dying in threes,” several times during the movie. But when Callahan’s name appears on the list the laconic inspector straps on his .44 Magnum and starts handing out some heavy caliber whoop ass. In the end it’s just some schizod horor movie fanboy who thinks he’s the real Peter Swan trying to make his sick mark on the world. (Confused yet?) And even though he comes close to killing Dirty Harry with a model car rigged with plastic explosives, Callahan eventually impales the one-dimensional killer with a whale harpoon cannon while uttering the words, “You’re shit out of luck.” Not exactly “Do you feel lucky, punk?” or “Go ahead, make my day.” And lets not get into the whole whale harpoon as penis analogy. I guess Clint needed the money.

As the electric synthesized music fades and the credits stop rolling, I shut of the T.V. and go to bed. As I slip under the covers I think about the old adage that celebrities always die in threes. Ed McMahon, Johnny Carson’s longtime sidekick, died the day before. As sleep clouds my mind I idly wonder who’s next. The next day brings the answer.

As I sip coffee while watching the morning news I learn Farrah Fawcett died. Even though her passing was expected the news still comes as a shock. Back in 1976 I thought girls were gross creatures who lived to pull my hair and give me purple nurples, so I didn’t have Farrah’s famous poster on my wall. But I remember watching Charlie’s Angels as a kid and it’s weird when someone from your childhood memories dies. When Mr. Rogers passed away I was a wreck. When Roger Moore goes I’ll be inconsolable for a week.

Late that afternoon I’m at the dog park with Buster, my joint custody pooch. As I’m chatting with a dog owner about how Buster would never like going to the beach, a lady sitting on a picnic bench shouts “Michael Jackson just died.”

Indicative of the wired world we live in, all the dog owners, including myself, whip our our internet connected cell phones to confirm the news for ourselves Sure enough, Michael Jackson, the “King of Pop,” is dead of cardiac arrest at the age of fifty.

“Who gives a shit?” one of the dog owners, a burly man in his mid-thirties, says. “He was a child molester.”

“Don’t be a jerk,” the man’s girlfriend says. “You shouldn’t talk ill of the dead.”

“I won’t miss him.”

Buster starts yipping and clawing at my pant’s leg. That’s his way of saying he’s had enough social interaction with his fellow canines. I leash Buster up, get into my car, and head home. Of course all the radio stations are talking about Michael Jackson and playing his music. Many of the DJ’s talk in somber tones about how great Jackson was and how they were hoping his upcoming concert series in the UK would be his ticket back to the big time. I also remember that these very same DJ’s made fun of the singer’s epidermal adventures, made crude observations about his sexuality, and had great fun skewering the man over his legal and financial troubles. Fame is a two headed motherfucking demon bitch.

I was never a Michael Jackson fan. His music never did much for me. But during my high school and college years in the 80’s Jackson’s impact was immense. Thriller was a monster hit, and even though some of my prep school chums would be loathe to admit it, many of them ran out and bought off-the-rack copies of the cheesy red leather jacket Jackson wore in the video. The Eighties were to me what the Fifties were to my parents, so hearing a major figure from that era died is quite a shock. Besides, the man was only fifty. That’s nine years older than me.

As I pull into my driveway I remember watching The Dead Pool the night before and ponder that maybe there’s something to the old maxim that celebrities die in threes. Ed McMahon, Farrah, and Jackson all died within 48 hours. I’m sure some statistician will explain this coincidence away by tomorrow, but part of me wonders if there’s some kind of Dead Pool operating in our universe. Besides, one day all our names will be on that list.

And then we’ll be shit out of luck.

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The Third Time’s a Charm

June 25th, 2009 by Waiter

It’s Tuesday night and I’m out with Brown-Eyes and a friend of her’s pre-medicating before we meet some people for dinner. My libational experience, sad to say, isn’t going well. The first bar we go to is Death + Company on East 6th Street. It’s a cool place, so cool in fact that they don’t allow people to stand around inside. You have to be seated at the bar or a table to get service and the doorman won’t even let you in unless a chair is free. As a result there’s usually a line, but the staff’s happy to take your cell phone number and call you when a seat opens up. But the big surprise comes when I try to order my usual dirty Ketel One vodka martini, up.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the barman says. “We don’t have the ingredients to make that drink.”

“Huh?” I reply, dumbfounded.

“We only have one kind of vodka. And we don’t have olives or olive brine.”

The barman patiently explains that Death + Company is a prohibition-era styled bar and they only make cocktails that were served during that time. Americans didn’t drink vodka back then so I’m out of luck. I’m pissed, but the sensible part of my brain whispers that this Death & Co’s shtick and they have every right to their rules. So, being in Rome, I do as the Romans do. I order a spicy drink made of tequila and Brown-Eyes has something made with gin. The barman makes the drinks with professional panache and sets them down in front of us. I take a sip and grimace. Yuk.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing wrong with the drink. It just isn’t to my taste. The food we order, however - crab salad and pretzel bites - are delicious and bar is well run and the staff is friendly. This is just a case of me expecting one thing and getting something else. I experienced this dynamic with customers at The Bistro all the time – especially with the vegans. It’s no one’s fault, it just is. I’m a Jersey boy used to draft beers, television over the bar, and every brand of vodka known to man on the shelves.

My drink half drunk, we polish off our food ask for the check. Since Brown-Eyes suggested this place she pays the bill and leaves a nice tip. She’s a class act.

Soon we’re joined by Brown-Eye’s friend Marisa and we amble over to a restaurant run by Eastern Europeans with an outdoor seating area that oddly, lets people smoke aromatic tobacco from hookahs. We order some fried calamari and I attempt the dirty martini thing again. When the waitress sets the drink down in front of me, however, I look at it blankly. It’s warm vodka in a goblet with some tired looking olives skewered on a swizzle stick.

“Excuse me,” I say politely. “Could you put some ice cubes in my drink?”

The waitress, who’s command of English is not strong, looks at me, alarmed. I know she didn’t make a mistake, the bartender did. So I smile reassuringly and repeat my request. “It’s my fault,” I say. “I changed my mind.”

The young woman apologizes anyway. When she returns with my iced drink she also brings out our calamari.

“Gee, look,” Marisa says, poking the uniform deep fried ringlets as soon as the waitress is out of earshot. “Fresh from the freezer.”

“Man,” I say. “This night is just getting better and better.” But, since I’m starving, I eat the processed calamari food anyway.

After I’ve drunk half my drink the table conversation turns to the movies. For some reason Brown-Eyes and Marisa have a thing for the Latin superstar Javier Bardem. Whatever.

“He was great in No Country for Old Men,” I say taking a pull from my drink. “If I met him I’d ask him to say ‘What business is it of yours where I’m from? Friendo?’”

“I’ve never seen that movie,” Brown-Eyes says, shivering. “Too violent.”

“Oh you have to see it,” Marisa says, stirring a sangria that looks like alcoholic gazpacho.

“No I don’t,” Brown-Eyes replies. She hates violent movies.

“Well, you have to watch the coin toss scene on You Tube,” I say. “Chilling.”

“Forget it.”

As we continue talking I look around the restaurant’s medieval looking courtyard. The waitresses, all from Eastern Europe, are standing around with vacant smiles, looking bored and pretty. Business is slow, no surprise there, but a synapse in my brain fires and I remember another movie I once saw.

“You know what movie this place reminds me of?” I ask.

“No. What?” Marisa asks.

“Hostel.”

“That’s a horror movie,” Marisa says. “Isn’t it?”

“It’s a movie about some American guys who get seduced by crazed Transylvanian girls while backpacking through Europe - only to be thrown into a dungeon where they’re tortured to death by pervy sick people who pay for the privilege.” Come to think of it, that’s a lot what being a waiter’s like.

“Oh,” Brown-Eyes says. “That movie sounds positively awful.”

“These Eastern European waitresses are kind of giving me that vibe,” I say, shrugging.

“That’s mean.”

“I can say it,” I reply. “I’m Ukrainian.”

Of course our waitresses are not sociopathic vixens waiting to drag us into a chamber of horrors. I’m slightly drunk, grumpy about the bad drinks, and being uncharitable. Excusing myself, I get up to go to the bathroom.

Of course the bathroom’s in the basement. As I walk down the the dimly lit concrete stairs I’m sort of spooked by my own snuff film reference. Then, when I open the men’s room door, my terror is complete. A kitchen worker in restaurant whites is copping a squat on the bowl. The smell’s indescribable.

“Jesus!” I shout. Chamber pot of horrors indeed

“Idiot!” the man shouts, slamming the door in my face and throwing the lock.

“Sorry man,” I say to the still quivering door. “My bad.”

I stand in the hallway for a minute and wait. When I realize the kitchen guy’s going to take a while I go into the ladies room to pee. Hey, this is New York. And don’t worry girls, I aimed carefully. Sight picture, trigger control.

Half an hour later we leave our Eastern European hosts behind, though, judging from the odor, that kitchen guy’s probably still glued to the toilet. We walk over to the Gotham Bar and Grill on East 12th where the hostess deposits us in a lovely table in the back and a grey haired waiter oozing elegance promptly takes our drink order. As I wait for my third martini of the evening to arrive I take in the restaurant’s elegant surroundings and notice I.M. Pei, the world famous architect, is sitting at the table across from us. How cool.

“Here you are, sir.” the waiter says, placing a perfect looking cold martini in front of me. “Enjoy your drink.”

“Finally,” I say. I sip my vodka and olive brine and smile.

I guess the third time’s a charm. Salud.

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Positive Energy

June 23rd, 2009 by Waiter

It’s Tuesday afternoon and I’m waiting for an appointment in front of a building on Riverside Drive. Grey clouds hang low in the sky while an eastward breeze carries the laughter of children playing in a park past my ears. I look up at the dour sky and wonder for the millionth time where the sun has gone. New York has felt more like Seattle during the past week and if the sun doesn’t show it’s face soon I’m afraid we’ll have to resort to human sacrifice. Maybe we can burn up some politicians inside a wicker statue. Hey, it couldn’t hurt.

I lean against the building’s cool masonry and look at my watch. My appointment’s running late. I shrug internally. After several months interviewing people for my book I’ve gotten used to delays and complications. As the wind ruffles my hair I decide to kill time by looking at the people walking the streets. Clusters of schoolchildren paroled from their daily captivity loudly clot the sidewalks, forcing the dog walkers wrangling the pampered canines of the Upper West Side into the streets. An old lady dragging a cart full of groceries pauses to let a group of energetic children pass by and sadly shakes her head. Maybe she’s annoyed at the foul language the kids are using. Maybe she’s remembering her own girlhood and wondering how time passed by her so fast. I’m not in her head so there’s no way to know.

A man carrying several shopping bags emerges from the building I’m leaning against and walks up to a parked car with Jersey plates. As soon as he pops open the trunk with the remote on his key fob a passing motorist screeches to a halt, makes an illegal u-turn, and pulls alongside side the man and his car.

“Hey,” the motorist asks. “You leavin’?”

“I’m gonna be a while,” the guy with the Jersey plates replies.

“How long?”

The man shrugs. “A while.”

The motorist shakes his head disgustedly and drives off without saying a word. Nice.

I smile to myself. That motorist is a perfect example of the vultur area stativa Novum Eboracum – The New York City parking vulture. In a city where free parking is a commodity as valuable as food and water, these rapacious Manhattan residents will run red lights, cut people off, and steal spots other drivers were patiently waiting for. I’ve actually seen people get into fist fights over parking spots. And in the winter? Oh, it gets much worse.

The man from Jersey goes back into the apartment building. After a few minutes he reemerges with several more bags. As he’s arranging them in his trunk another parking vulture makes an illegal u-turn and swoops in.

“You pulling out?” the driver, a young man with his baseball cap on backwards, asks.

“Nope,” Jersey Plates replies.

The motorist screeches off, saying nothing. As Jersey Plates loads his car a gaggle of parking vultures repeat this predatory cycle several times.

“Can you believe this?” Jersey Plates asks me after another frustrated motorist pulls away. “The minute you touch the door handle they’re on your ass.”

“I’m from Jersey too,” I reply. “I believe it.”

“Drives me nuts.”

“They’re like vultures smelling dead meat a mile away,” I reply.

“Not like this in Jersey.”

“Unless you live in Hoboken,” I reply.

“Oh brother,” Jersey Plates says. “That place is awful for parking,”

“Nuts.”

Another another parking vulture in a Volvo swings his car around and asks if the man is leaving. Jersey Plates waves him off.

“You know something?” Jersey Plates says. “I must be a jerk. I actually enjoy telling these people to go away.”

“You’re not alone,” I reply. “Calvin Trillin once wrote a story about a man who sat in his parked car until his time on the meter expired. When motorists hunting for spots asked him if he was leaving he’d reply that he paid for the spot so he was going to stay there. Drove ‘em nuts.’

“Calvin who?”

“Calvin Trillin.”

“Sounds like a funny story.”

“Wonderfully sadistic.”

As I watch the man finish loading his car I remember the one thing I truly DESPISE about Manhattan - the parking. There’s never a spot when you need one, the byzantine signage about parking rules is confusing, and the meter rates are positively usurious. In New York, a dedicated parking spot can cost as much as a home in the Midwest. I once read about a woman who was closing on a two million dollar apartment. When she asked where her parking spot would be, the realtor replied that she’d have to shell out $200,000 extra for a spot. The woman took a pass on the apartment. I don’t blame her. Maybe she moved to Jersey.

Once, when I was toying with the idea of living in New York, I inquired at parking garages about the monthly fee to store my car. The prices were astronomical. When I did find a garage offering monthly parking for around $300 a month I was elated, only to be told there was a two year waiting list. Many people who live in New York don’t own a car, that’s fine, but I’m the kind of guy who has to have access to mobility on demand. I don’t like having to race to Port Authority to catch the 2:00 AM bus or risk waiting an hour for the next ride home. I don’t like the thought of renting a car to go to IKEA or make a leisurely jaunt to Connecticut. If there’s an emergency I want to be able to get in my car and go now.

I feel sorry for Gotham’s car owners. One Manhattan friend of mine is often forced to park several blocks away from her building and, when she does find a spot, she has to get up early to move her car so the street sweepers can pretend to clean the street. “I know people who move to Long Island City because they’re sick of the hassle,” she once told me. “At least there you get your own spot.” In NYC owning a car is an ordeal. And that whole process of playing musical cars, spending valuable time hunting for a spots, or running outside to feed the meters can grind you down. Sure, the law of supply and demand’s at work. If you want to live in the Big Apple with a car that’s the price of admission.

I don’t like the competing for parking spots when I drive into the city. The whole process activates my “survival of the fittest gene,” causing me to become irritable, angry, and downright rude. When I was hunting for a spot on the East Side with Brown-Eyed Girl a few weeks ago, she noticed my agitation. I was forced to confess that searching for parking can throw the less savory side of my character into sharp relief. New York’s parking predators piss me off. But I’ll be the first to admit my upset stems from the fact I more like them then not. I’m a vultur area stativa Nova Caesarea- a New Jersey parking vulture. And there are times I’d like to clear NYC’s crowded streets with a 20 millimeter Vulcan cannon. Good thing tank busting armaments are off limits to people like me.

Over the years several Manhattanites, Brown-Eyes included, have noticed this character flaw and advised me to “be positive” when looking for parking. “Throw your good energy out into the universe and good things will happen,” one friend used to tell me. “If you’ve got in your mind that you can’t find a spot you won’t.” I used to think that advice was crunchy granola bullshit. During my years in seminary and mental health I spent enough time around people who hoped for the best but got steamrolled by life’s problems anyway. As a result of that and other formative experiences, I tend to pay more attention to life’s negative aspects instead of noticing what’s good and uplifting. In some ways that worldview has held me in good stead. It’s enabled me to read horizons quickly and identify dangerous situations before I get hurt. That’s a real strength. But like any strength it’s also a weakness.

Ever since that women died in my arms a few months ago I’ve thought long and hard about the beauty and terrors of life. Seeing someone shuffle off their mortal coil has a tendency to reset your priorities. And as I’ve journeyed around the country, encountering different people and situations, I’ve been forced to admit that I’m sometimes a little too cynical for my own good. So, much to my surprise, I’ve been trying to be more positive about the situations I encounter. And you know what? It tends to work. No, I’m not throwing away bitterly won experience. I still call bad things like I see them. But I”m trying to be a more open to life and it’s possibilities.

Is there something mystical about all this being positive stuff? Probably not. I still think saying “throw your good energy into the universe” is akin to abracadabra. But being positive has measurable real world benefits. Quite simply, the more open and positive you are the more positive people and situations will be drawn into your life. Like attracts like. And my angst about parking is illustrative of this. When I’m upset about hunting for spots my blood pressure goes up, my muscles clench, and my vision tunnels to such a degree that I literally cannot see the spots around me. But if I go in being positive, the resultant relaxed physiological state it induces is better suited to achieving my goal. My vision is better, I’m thinking clearer, and my reflexes are more acute. I don’t miss the parking opportunities around me. And that’s a mindset I’m trying to bring into my entire life. But don’t be surprised if you see me fuming about parking in NYC from time to time. Sometimes I succeed. Sometimes I fail. I’m a work in progress.

Jersey plates finishes loading his car, takes of his jacket, opens the driver’s door. “How long you think it’ll take for someone to grab my spot after I pull out?” he asks.

“Twenty seconds,” I reply.

The man from Jersey laughs. “Less than that,” he says.

As the man pulls away from the curb I activate the stopwatch feature on my watch. The spot is taken by another illegal u-turning parking vulture in 8.6 seconds. As I watch the driver, a smartly dressed Upper West Side woman, clamber out of her car, I feel the urge to complain her about her illegal u-turn bubble up my esophagus. Then I think to myself – be positive.

“Good job on getting that spot,” I say to her.

“Thanks,” the woman replies, smiling sweetly. “You’ve got to be quick in this town.”

As I watch the woman click away atop her high heels I feel like adding, “You have to be positive in this town too.” But I don’t

She’d probably think I’m a nut.

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