I work in investor relations.
I work there because the hours are flexible.
It's good for auditions.
I sit in a cubicle with six other men and call share holders on the phone.
There is a sliver of "boiler room" to the place.
For some reason, it's okay for me.
Today we are calling for a company that stores umbilical chords so they can be used for stem cell research.
In today's Times, it's announced that Obama will reverse Bush's limits on embryonic stem cell research.
My undiagnosed disease is not mentioned in the diseases that it could help.
I feel giddy about it, anyway.
On one of my calls, I speak to share-holder Richard Clark of Morton Illinois.
Mr. Clark sounds garbled and impatient on the phone.
Like he's a hundred years old and a little touched.
He tells me he'll take the deal because,
"I can't afford to be messing around with this stuff. I'm 72 and have Parkinson disease"
"I'm sorry"
(I'm sorry - my professional pat response for death, disease, backruptcy)
Mr. Clark isn't receiving sympathy today.
"Sorry?"
"Oh... well, I'VE done alright, SOME people drop off in their thirties and FORTIES!"
(Touche' Mr. Clark)
After work I bus to the MOMA and have dinner at cafe 2.
Butternut Squash Gratin with
caramelized onions and sage for $7. Really good.
and then to a film called
"MAN PUSH CART" about a Pakistani who pushes a coffee cart around midtown Manhattan.
The pakistani actor wrote, directed, edited the film.
It was at Sundance in 2005 and on Roger Ebert's top ten list.
The push cart man is too sad and had too many problems (for me). I take a nap.
Walking home (near 53rd and 6th Avenue) There is (a block long line) for a food cart (middle eastern).
The crowd is docile and patient. Like the same group of people meet at this food cart every Saturday,
I ask a teenager and his date why he is standing in a line of 200 people ('m not kidding) for rice & chicken from a food cart.
"I came all the way from Brooklyn" he says.
The girlfriend offers "it must be the special sauce".
I'll remember that food cart for next time.
At Times Square,
I look for the x42 bus.
A father with three kids in tow, knock into me with his baby carriage.
Normally, I would have been tipped slightly and recovered my footing.
Today I go over like wax.
I am wax, tissue paper and kite string.
I imagine this father was yelled at his whole life (for things that weren’t his fault)
I imagine he was parented with no empathy.
Because the father starts to berate me.
I lie on the busy sidewalk.
"This is YOUR fault, not MY fault, YOUR fault, you need to look where you’re going!" And so on.
A cop helps me up,
"Welcome to New York" he says.
To the cop, I'm a tourist lying on 42nd street. I like that.
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