Tropical Storms, Security and the Republican Convention ...

In other words, actual news. I theoretically started this to keep everyone in the loop and have been remarkable remiss in updating it. Apologies, and a swift catch-up:

Facing off with Frances in Florida
[was I made to pen headlines or what? ;) ]
As some of you may know, Florida's been pelted with a series of hurricanes and tropical storms recently. Frances, which apparently covers the entire swath of territory that is Florida, has been my parents' first real brush with a natural attack of this type. For the entire weekend, residents were warned not to go out, not even to pick fresh blueberries or peaches. My mom of course translated this as "don't go out, unless all you're doing is walking to the front door and sticking your head out to see how bad it is." I remind myself that I'm being overprotective of her when I agonize over that, and then of course remind myself again that it I am being overprotective, I did get it from her, so it's no fault of my own. ;)

Their electicity is back on, although the same can't be said for most of the city, leave alone the state. Their phone line is currently working, too. Apparently residents are also being warned that all of their drinking water is currently contaminated by sewage. Ooof. At any rate, my mom has to go and do some emergency assessment, and so is spending Labor Day braving the winds and storms to go to work. I hope they're okay; there are apparently lots of felled trees, and the storm hasn't abated all that much.

Security and Protests in the Big Fruit

In other news, the Republican National Convention (RNC) was in NYC this past week. As everyone who knows me is likely aware of how I feel about that particular party, particularly since they're supporting the re-(and-I-use-that-prefix-liberally)election of George Bush, I won't get into that particular angst-ridden subject.

As you can imagine, the city prepared for the auspicious event by shipping in extra police-people, and extra prostitutes. However, as the latter is not my area of specialty, and I have had some experiences with the former this past week, I thought I'd share the tales.

A Tale Told by an Idiot

New Yorkers were warned prior to the Convention that the Big Fruit was susceptible to terrorist attacks at this vulnerable time. Naturally, I did not to any degree suspect that this was a political machination designed to reduce the number of protesters on the street, because I trust my government explicitly. As you can imagine, an announcement like that cannot lift urban moralle very much, and much of the city didn't come in to work that week. My boss had no such compunctions, though, and employees were expected to come in.

On Tuesday, I was at work, and scanning the paper for protest potential. The city's calendar was chock-full of protests and anti-convention activities, and so I set off to join a friend for an Unconventional Humor show uptown. I left with a goodly colleague who was going in the same direction. It was in our station, the 34th Street Station, where my story takes place.

The train had barely arrived at the station before I was in full get-a-seat-at-all-costs mode. I have concluded through earnest study, by the way, that it is preferable to locate oneself at a train door not surrounded by women. We seem to hone in on seats in a way that men don't.

I was in the middle of the train before my companion had even noticed that the train doors were open. In the nanoseconds available to me before the men moved, I had already scanned the two available swaths of seats opposite one another, and selected one for its positioning vis-a-vis the windows. And moved for the kill. Until - I stopped, horrified. There, all alone in the swath of most desirable seats, was a purse - a purse without its person. I blinked. This is the moment in my tale where it helps if you realize that the 34th Street Station is next to Penn Station, which is the building which houses Madison Square Garden, which is where the Convention was being held. It was therefore flooded with Policemen. This meant that I could only conclude one thing upon seeing this Errant Purse. It was clearly a Purse o' Doom, a Bomb.

Deterred but unvanquished, and apparently suddenly lacking in all higher-brain-functioning, I immediately drew the only reasonable conclusion: that particular swath of most desirable seats uninhabitable because of the Bomb, I would be forced to sit in the swath of less desirable seats immediately opposite the Bomb. Yes, gentle reader, I apparently would rather be blown up than lose a seat on the subway.

Theorizing that the force of the explosion would be stymied and repelled by the sheer magnitude of my disdain, I flumped down on the seat directly opposite the Bomb, so that I could keep a better eye on it. Let me know if the brilliance of my logic at any point shocks you.

In the meantime, my companion, who you'll recall was several nanoseconds behind me (and was a man, explaining his inability to pounce on available seats with respectable vigour), had not yet reached the same conclusion as I had. In fact, he was rooted to the middle of the train, staring at the Purse o' Doom.

The rest of the station entered behind him. The forward surge of passengers lurched as the inconveniently located Purse o' Doom was spotted. The car filled, my side of the aisle crammed immediately, and the swath opposite, housing Our Certain Death, unclaimed. In true New York fashion, we then obeyed the Unwritten Code - if, during one's commute, one sees anything remotely awful, one must either Not See It, or else Stare It Down.

Until one woman, taking her seating prerogative to heart, sat down - right next to the Purse o' Doom. As one, we took in our breath, and waited for her to explode.

It seemed she was expecting the same, and after a few moments, a frantic fire lit her eyes, which scanned the platform for cops. A group of three stood nearby. As one, we all turned our eyes to them. She called out to them, she beckoned frantically. We ourselves called out to them. And still, despite their dedication to our safety, they heard not a yell.

The doors began to close. A swarthy man leapt up (god bless swarthy men who leap up on occasions such as these) and held open the door. Another man assisted him. Soon, the entire car was either gesticulating wildly, or yelling desperately, or as in my case, frantically staring. (a truly effective mode of communication)

The policemen, handsomely decked out in all black outfits that were the rage this conventional season, looked up, unflappable. Apparently seeing an entire car of New Yorkers yelling "Police! Police!" did not strike them as unusual, if their stillness was any indication. Finally, one of the gentlemen in question ambled toward us. Ambled, I tell you, indignant as anyone sitting across from a Purse o' Doom can muster.

"Yes?" he drawled. I think we may have actually stared him into oblivion, because none of us seem able to articulate "purse." This I recognize in retrospect. At the time, his denseness was mindbogglingly frustrating. And when he did realize the concern, for a path was made for him toward the Purse o' Doom, he seemed somewhat reluctant to approach it. The train was stopped at the flashlight signal of his buddy, who had joined him slowly - they looked, for all the world, like two men in a bar, one of whom was going to try talk up a girl. In other words, the one was worried and the other amused, but neither keen on becoming vulnerable in any way.

Having gotten the Men in Black's attention, the woman whose seat was apparently taken by Our Certain Death then flounced back toward the swath. Behind her, reluctantly, our handsome cop followed, slowly. After all, he did not want the Purse o' Doom to run away, frightened. The lady, though, felt no such compunction, but only a sense of annoyance, if her short snort was any indication. To rub home her disdain, she then sat down. Right Next To It. In fact, had the purse been sentient, as our worthy policeman evidently feared, it would likely have harumphed and pulled its skirt from under the lady's arse. Yes, she sat nigh near on top of Our Certain Death.

The car stilled as one, waiting again for her explosion. She, on the other hand, had had enough, and reached down, took hold of the bag, and thrust it at the policeman. Realizing that her body had not been torn asunder, he took it lightly and dashed out of the car. The train doors closed to the sight of the three policemen holding the purse by a pillar and searching its contents by flashlight, no doubt unearthing all sorts of tampons, keys and other feminine accoutrements.

With a collective sigh, the New Yorkers in the car all went back to ignoring each other, apart from my colleague and myself, who wondered how it would have been handled in Israel...

And deep inside, I vowed not to pick the train seat over life, next time...

Meaning Nothing?

Later that week, I was seated in a nearby Starbucks, facing the Empire State Building. I sipped my latte and nestled down with Gogol's Dead Souls. I noted, as one is wont to note such things, a rather handsome man seated to my left, who had himself already taken note of my book. I noted then, as I am wont to note such things, that he was wearing dark pants and dark shoes, and a casual yet well-made shirt. Upon further noting, it became evident that he was a tourist - or so his camera, map, etc, would make it seem. Having decided, as one is wont to decide, that he was a tourist, I then mapped out where in the world he would be from. Being prone to thinking about Russians, and Slavs in general, it did not take me long to conclude that he might be Russian, or perhaps from Poland or Ukraine. All this, I tell you, I concluded as I opened Dead Souls and disappeared into Chichikov's experiences in a town named N.

A few minutes later, as Chichikov's visit with Plyushkin drew to an end, I looked up. Monsieur Tourist was disrobing. Now this was an interesting development, for Starbucks is not often the home of disrobing tourists, no matter what their nationality. It being New York, though, you'll recall that I am bound by the rule of either Not Noticing or else Staring Down. I chose to not notice.

However, Chichikov was just not as interesting (no offence to Gogol, or rather, given his rather prejudiced ways and his ready humour, not too much offence to Gogol) as the disrobing tourist. Why, you ask - because Monsieur Not Tourist had revealed, beneath his shirt, a policeman's shirt, all bedecked in the appropriate badges and medals and what not. His shirt went into a nondescript small black satchel attached to his belt, and his camera and tourist accoutrements disappeared therein too. Out came his police hat and his vest, and suddenly he was as fine a specimen of policeperson as the next policeperson, and gone were the last vestiges of anonymous touristness.

He got up, took a turn around the cafe (as if, my mind supplied, his replacement was there and he was letting him/her know that he was out of there), and went out to the street. President Bush was coming into town that day.

Astonishing.

I turned back to Chichikov.


****
Maybe two PS notes.

1) I find it somewhat amusing that the word "nondescript" was followed by descriptions. Apologies for me bad English.

2) I've been rivetted to the horrific news coming out of Russia in days past. No real comment on it, not for the blog, not for now. But in terms of where I myself have been for the past 3 days, psychologically, at least, that's where.. What horror.