The saddest train in the world
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Thursday, July 01, 2004
Friday, June 25, 2004
Compress This, Pal
He said they don’t make ’em like they used to. Only, he didn’t say it in a stereotypical–Maytag repairman way. This guy--Tomas--was a very, ahem, well-built fellow, I believe from Puerto Rico or at least Spanish-speaking Bronx.
What he really said was, “Jew know this used to be a big-dog company, Frigidaire. But they like all the rest of them. They don’t make them very good no more because…jew know, ’frigerators used to last 20, 30 years, but the big companies don’t make no money. So now you get this, and people have to go spend six, seven hundred dollars every couple of years.”
The short of it is, after 1.5 days of making some funky rattling sound off-and-on that I chose to ignore--much like I do a wanky subway conversation—the fridge died. Did I notice that every sip I took of Brita water was increasingly lukewarm? Did I bother to check on whether or not I still had the fridge’s warranty? Did I even mildly let it concern me?
It took the puddle slowly washing over the kitchen floor to provoke me, finally. I busted out Frigidaire.com and next thing you know, Tomas was on his way--a happy turn of events for 4 p.m. on the Friday of Pride weekend.
Thirty-five bucks “just for him to walk in the door” I believe was how the saucy wench on the phone put it. This is how it played out once he got here: He pulled the fridge out (appx. 5 seconds), he took off the base board on the back (appx. 7 seconds), then he tapped on the round black metal boxy thing and said, “Jew see that? That’s the compressor.”
Me: “Yeah?”
Him: “That’s not working.”
Me: “OK.”
Then a little this-and-that, followed by Him: “$250.” (Whole exchange: appx. 90 seconds)
At the very least, and bless his well-cardio’d heart, Tomas said he can replace “the compressor” tomorrow. (As for the quotes there, for all I know of the inner workings of major appliances he might as well have called it a rotator plug or johnson rod or WMD.)
So I guess it’s warm beer tonight.
What he really said was, “Jew know this used to be a big-dog company, Frigidaire. But they like all the rest of them. They don’t make them very good no more because…jew know, ’frigerators used to last 20, 30 years, but the big companies don’t make no money. So now you get this, and people have to go spend six, seven hundred dollars every couple of years.”
The short of it is, after 1.5 days of making some funky rattling sound off-and-on that I chose to ignore--much like I do a wanky subway conversation—the fridge died. Did I notice that every sip I took of Brita water was increasingly lukewarm? Did I bother to check on whether or not I still had the fridge’s warranty? Did I even mildly let it concern me?
It took the puddle slowly washing over the kitchen floor to provoke me, finally. I busted out Frigidaire.com and next thing you know, Tomas was on his way--a happy turn of events for 4 p.m. on the Friday of Pride weekend.
Thirty-five bucks “just for him to walk in the door” I believe was how the saucy wench on the phone put it. This is how it played out once he got here: He pulled the fridge out (appx. 5 seconds), he took off the base board on the back (appx. 7 seconds), then he tapped on the round black metal boxy thing and said, “Jew see that? That’s the compressor.”
Me: “Yeah?”
Him: “That’s not working.”
Me: “OK.”
Then a little this-and-that, followed by Him: “$250.” (Whole exchange: appx. 90 seconds)
At the very least, and bless his well-cardio’d heart, Tomas said he can replace “the compressor” tomorrow. (As for the quotes there, for all I know of the inner workings of major appliances he might as well have called it a rotator plug or johnson rod or WMD.)
So I guess it’s warm beer tonight.
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
Subway Seniority
The Q train was barely crowded--nobody really needed to stand.
The Q line uses the trains that have sideway seats at each window, flanked by a three-person, orange-and-yellow bench seats. Normally on this train I prefer the window seats so I can check out NY Harbor on my way over the Manhattan Bridge, but I was lucky enough to find a three-person bench with only one person on it. Curiously, he was in the middle seat. Normally, once someone occupies a seat on either side of you in those benches, the original person will slide over so there’s some elbow room.
Not so with this guy. He held his ground, wouldn’t budge, and wouldn’t spare an inch for the sake of a total stranger’s comfort. I tried to distract myself with reading but it wouldn’t take. So I spent the ride silently cursing his selfish bastardness.
Three weeks later I get onto a similarly crowded Q train, and I luck out again and nab a three-person bench for myself. Naturally, I take the end where I’m able to lean on the steel armrest--a choice that completely follows the unspoken rule of train-seating seniority. Only, it was one of the first hot days of summer, and the woman who’d just disembarked left the seat awkwardly hot. So I scooted over the hump into the middle seat and the train moves out.
Moments later a tall man comes out of nowhere and squeezes into the hot seat between me and the armrest.
Now, at this point I was in a quandary: Do I scoot over to the other end seat and make the tall, scary man sitting in the sideway seat move his pointy knees over? Do I straddle the seat-divider hump to give both me and the new guy more room, and suffer the uncomfortable divider?
I looked around to see if there were really no other seats this new guy could’ve taken--and aha! There were plenty of seats just screaming to be taken first. “He sat here just because he thought I’d scoot over. The nerve!” Then spite sank in, and from that point on I was determined not to move a muscle.
There I sat, waiting for the broad-shouldered bastard to leave so I could spread out again. I was vindicated finally when he got off the train one stop before me.
The Q line uses the trains that have sideway seats at each window, flanked by a three-person, orange-and-yellow bench seats. Normally on this train I prefer the window seats so I can check out NY Harbor on my way over the Manhattan Bridge, but I was lucky enough to find a three-person bench with only one person on it. Curiously, he was in the middle seat. Normally, once someone occupies a seat on either side of you in those benches, the original person will slide over so there’s some elbow room.
Not so with this guy. He held his ground, wouldn’t budge, and wouldn’t spare an inch for the sake of a total stranger’s comfort. I tried to distract myself with reading but it wouldn’t take. So I spent the ride silently cursing his selfish bastardness.
Three weeks later I get onto a similarly crowded Q train, and I luck out again and nab a three-person bench for myself. Naturally, I take the end where I’m able to lean on the steel armrest--a choice that completely follows the unspoken rule of train-seating seniority. Only, it was one of the first hot days of summer, and the woman who’d just disembarked left the seat awkwardly hot. So I scooted over the hump into the middle seat and the train moves out.
Moments later a tall man comes out of nowhere and squeezes into the hot seat between me and the armrest.
Now, at this point I was in a quandary: Do I scoot over to the other end seat and make the tall, scary man sitting in the sideway seat move his pointy knees over? Do I straddle the seat-divider hump to give both me and the new guy more room, and suffer the uncomfortable divider?
I looked around to see if there were really no other seats this new guy could’ve taken--and aha! There were plenty of seats just screaming to be taken first. “He sat here just because he thought I’d scoot over. The nerve!” Then spite sank in, and from that point on I was determined not to move a muscle.
There I sat, waiting for the broad-shouldered bastard to leave so I could spread out again. I was vindicated finally when he got off the train one stop before me.
Monday, June 14, 2004
The Racket in the Hallway
When I had a day job I always wondered what went on in my building from 8am to 6pm. Now I know: Maintenance guys having fun, sometimes doing work-like stuff, and generally making a racket because they think no one's home.
I think I'll go out and give 'em a shock...
I think I'll go out and give 'em a shock...
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