Sparkwood & 21

The Screaming Baby

There was nothing I could do. The baby was screaming, and there was nothing I could do.

The plane was full. That is because flights into Newark had been canceled for days due to a record breaking blizzard in the northeast. It was my third attempt to fly home. I had been stranded in Nashville for four days longer then anticipated.

I was ready to get home.

I settled into my seat, pulled out the inflatable neck pillow and fired up a digital version of my friend Betsy's book, City of Ghosts. That is when the screaming began.

= Many infants cry on airplanes, and it is always a bother. They start to whine and you steel yourself for noise, because you are, after all, in a tin can with no way of escape.

But this was not crying. This was screaming. Raw, unbridled, diaphragmatic screaming that only babies can accomplish. Piercing, incessant, teeth-hurting screaming. And there was nothing I could do.

It wasn't my baby. It was someone else's baby, and it was being set on fire. At least, he thought. Unhappy is too gentle a word. This child thought he was dying.

It went on for an hour. Sixty minutes. A long fucking time.

Just when I thought the baby had worn himself into sure slumber the screams would begin again. I started to understand why parents might consider drugging an infant.

At first I was empathetic to the poor mother who was sushing her child as quietly as possible, but eventually I got up and went to the lavatory solely for the purpose of shooting this kid's mom a dirty look. Not my proudest moment but I had no headphones and so was literally sticking my fingers in my ears.

The screaming was all I could focus on. I tried meditating, being present and deep breathing to calm myself. It didn't work due to the screaming.

Finally, blessedly, before I jumped out the emergency door and ended it all, he stopped. He slept. The baby had stopped screaming.

And after a long sigh the next thing I heard was an overly earnest Nashville man who discussed the finer points of the Baptist Church the entire remainder of the flight.

Fix the Knicks!

Last night I met some friends at Carnegie Hall for a taping of "Wait, Wait...Don't Tell Me!" the NPR quiz show. The theatre was gorgeous, and the show was hilarious. Much funnier, I think, in person.

Mayor Michael Bloomberg was the guest. I don't want to give away a ton of spoilers since the show does not air until this weekend, but I think a tiny sneak preview might be okay.

Bloomberg was being interviewed about how he only makes $1 a year as mayor and how he takes the subway every day to work. When Peter Sagal asked him if anyone ever confronted him on the subway, he said, no, not really.

Except for one time.

When, as the doors were closing on the train, a guy got in his face and screamed at him, "Fix the Knicks!"

How to Take the Subway and a Cab When You Can't Find a Cab

I woke up late. It happens.

Even the cotton candy sunrise could not entice me out of my air mattress on the floor, so I hit snooze five times and took in 30 minutes more sleep. I told myself a ten dollar cab ride to work was worth the extra slumber.

Once ready to go, there were no cabs. All full. It was rush hour after all.

After a good 7 minutes of failed hailing, I hoofed it on up to Times Square, keeping my eye out for an available taxi all the while. One guy stole one right out from under me, and I just missed another outside of the Port Authority. I texted my boss, and hit the underground.

God, is it hot down there. I scanned my MetroCard, hightailed it to the S train that goes to Grand Central with the plan to transfer to the 6, which takes me just 3 blocks from work.

Downtown or uptown? Shit. I really had no idea. I visualized a map in my head, decided on uptown and scooted on to a 6 train headed out of the station. There is a lighted stop map that showed my unlit exit was next. But it wasn't. I was going the wrong way. (Now I know: uptown means the street numbers go up.)

I hopped off at 54th, and tried to find a way to get to the other side to take the 6 downtown but decided fuck it. I climbed the stairs to Lexington Avenue to find a cab waiting as though it were put there just for me. The morning's first transit blessing.

I crawled in back and put down the window to dry my now sweat-drenched hair, and shoved my jacket in my bag. Once at 30th, I swiped my card (love that all NYC taxis take debit cards), then jumped out and headed on foot...in the wrong direction.

I was 25 minutes late.

And that, my friends, is how you take the subway and a cab when you can't find a cab.

Everything but the Girl

I didn't notice until the elderly woman who boarded had to take a giant step to avoid stepping on her.

Her legs were crossed in the aisle, her hands primly folded in her lap. Her head hung, but her chin did not rest on her chest. Instead her skull bounced around with each bump the bus took like an apple attached to the end of a pipe cleaner. Long strings of drool slipped from her parted mouth and onto her blouse.

"Is she okay?"

A young man in a worn Red Sox hat was asking the bus driver about the young woman. The driver waved his hand at the Sox fan. I couldn't hear if he responded.

The young man took his seat all the while shaking his head.

I watched more saliva fall from her face.

The half a dozen passengers on board all looked in her direction from time to time to see her head springing around on her neck.

She was far, far away. Her legs and hands were still crossed when I got off.

This Is The Way

The sound of rain beating down onto the panels of a tent anchored outdoors in an open field is what I awoke to. I set the sound on my phone before falling asleep, a preventative move to drown out the human noise all around me.

Smoothie in a pink-rimmed mug pierced by a hot pink straw. Breakfast in a glass and out the door.

Juggled wallet and umbrella and pink berry sludge in the rain while waiting for the right bus to take me away. I was last aboard due to the wrestling of items.

The up and down game of "Is He Old Enough to Give Up my Seat" was played. I lost.

A woman stood stoically in a going out silky, tight skirt. She wore going out makeup, three shades of shadow and slick lips and fake lashes.

A young man with blonde stubble in a NY ballcap in the colors blue and orange. I couldn't tell if he likes the Mets or the Yankees. Probably not both.

The driver screeched at the next stop for us all to move to the back! No one budged. She barked her orders to push back yet again, when riders responded, "No room!"

"I can see room," she said.

"For how many people?," someone shouted back. Not wanting to quibble semantics, she drives onward.

Two women could not get bus window open. They grunted and pushed and pulled, and nothing.

The cupcake place was dark.

A man carried reused manilla envelopes with little strings tied around little discs, a closing tactic I like very much.

Puma, Jack Spade, Timbuk2, Jansport in my face. Bags are big business in San Francisco. They carry your everything.

Relief at 3rd and Market as the suited people climbed off in waves. I sat in wet for the last two block.

The Bike Riders Haven't Pissed Me Off. Yet.

I've discovered, after five months, a dozen bizarre conversations and a stinky kiss on the face by a homeless stranger, that walking around San Francisco with earbuds in or headphones on is necessary to successfully avoid the crazy. Or, in my case, being asked for directions. (I haven't been here long enough to tell anyone anything about how to get anywhere, it's best they don't waste their time asking me.) I used to think it was because every one couldn't get by without music in their ears, and that may be true, but I'm willing to bet most of these headphone listening pedestrians and public transit riders are also trying to prevent conversations like the one I had late one night with a spectacularly inebriated man on BART that mostly consisted of grunts and giggles.

And I've also discovered, just as was predicted, that my crush on BART has moved beyond the flirty stage and into that stage where you start to get annoyed by stuff that never bothered you before. When I first moved here I was always very cautious to know the etiquette, but I had to be making some new girl mistakes. So, I was always patient with others. Somehow, that patience wore right the fuck out. Because I was pressing down pretty hard on that clueless lass who was talking on her cell phone, dragging two suitcases and putting her ticket in the wrong way. Then I cut her off at the escalator.

Now when someone doesn't Stand Right, Walk Left I get all pissy and antsy. I've actually now gotten the courage to say "Excuse Me," to indicate that myself and about 20 other people are trying to come through. They typically figure it out, move right, and then I make it to work 45 seconds sooner than I would have.

More BART pet peeves:

• Beeping video games. I kid you not, this woman played a noisy game of digital Sudoku on her Blackberry so loud that she got hairy eyeballs from at least five people that I counted. She played from the Embarcadero station all the way to Downtown Berkeley with loudass bloops and bleeps every five seconds. It easily penetrated the music coming out of my iPod. I wanted to beat her with the thing by the time she got off.


• Pole huggers. I'm not that short, but I'm not that tall either. If I have to stand on BART, I can't exactly hold on to the overhead bars for balance without getting up on my tiptoes, which is not the optimal way to ride for 35 minutes. So, I try very hard when standing to get a handled seat to hold on to or one of the vertical rails. At least three people can hold on to a vertical rail, maybe more. And yet, dumb motherfuckers hug the poll like it's the only friend they have got in the world. When they do that no one else gets to hold onto the poll that can be easily reached by those 5'4" and under. This drives me crazy, especially when the pole hugger can handily reach the overhead bars. Don't be a pole hugger.


• Hearing your shitty music. Not only are you damaging your ears, I can promise you that you are the only person loving Anal Thunder at 8 a.m., brother. There is no need to have it so loud. I sometimes wonder if the people who play their music so loudly that the existence of headphones is mere pretense do so because they are feeling that shit so hard that they can't help but share it with the train. All I know is, people who play music loud enough for other people to hear it play some crappy ass music.


• Staring. This is rude just about anywhere you go. No excuses, people, your mama taught you better.


• Not getting up to let people in or out. If you can't be arsed to slide to the inside of an empty seat for two, at least get up when a commuter goes to sit down. Swinging your legs to the outside doesn't cut it. Don't make me climb all over you, lady. I will do it, and I will win.


• That one sunflower seed eating lady. Every time. She eats them every time. Get a new snack!


• Children making out. I don't want to see your tongue meet someone else's on BART. And get your hand out of her skirt. This goes double if you still go to something called "homeroom."