The Daily Hell Vol. III - Bumsville

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Issue 26 - Lost And Found in Prospect Park

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Bumsville

Issue 26 - Lost And Found in Prospect Park or

Girl, Keep Yo' Cash Where You Can See It!

October 22, 2009

Having stayed in my apartment the better part of the last week, today I decided to hop on my bike and do some writing out of doors. It was a breezy 68 degrees and I wanted to enjoy the sun and warmth of a jacketless early fall before it turned into the cold, wet, dismal reality of a real New York autumn.

I entered Prospect Park at Grand Army Plaza and headed south towards 9^th Street where there are some picnic tables I could make use of. I was shifting gears and beginning to pick up speed when I saw it flash by below my tires. A blink of green and white, geometric patterns and sharp angles amidst the chaotic cracks and lines of a bumpy charcoal grey sheet of asphalt. In the same instant I made eye contact with Washington, he was gone.

I hit my brakes and oozed to a stop, rather than screech, as I lost my front brakes a few days ago and my rears are hanging on just barely. Fearful of losing my bounty to the next passerby, I used the last of my momentum to whip my bike to the right, hoping to ward off any other pursuers with my stern glare. An all-to-serious-looking biker in red and white spandex whom I had cleverly distracted by making him veer away to avoid hitting me was the only person nearby. “Yeah, keep moving, “I thought as I watched him pedal by.

Not wanting to wait for the wind, I gently dropped my bike without kicking the stand. I ran back to the dollar only to find that there were in fact several dollars scattered about, as well as a New York State Driver’s License.

It apparently belonged to a woman in her late 30’s, a Christmas baby like me, who lived on Vanderbilt, a few blocks away. I felt a bit robbed of my guilt-free money, but figured returning it to the woman would be a bit more exciting than being productive and getting work done. I decided she must be biking, as cash and cards do not just squeeze out of a back pocket unless as the result of some kind of repeated action, force or pressure, like that of gyrating gluteus muscles rubbing vigorously against a bicycle seat.

She couldn’t have passed by too long before, as money doesn’t sit on the ground too long unnoticed.  Also, judging by her picture, she was a little on the pudgy side so I figured I could probably catch her.

I saddled back up and continued on my way. I wanted to get her on this side of the park because there is a big hill I would have to go down and a bigger hill I would have to come up on the other side. I pumped away, overtaking most people pretty quickly, craning my neck and checking bikers who made likely candidates and also a few thinner, more attractive bikers who made less likely candidates, but I wanted to be thorough in my search.

I enjoy finding things people have lost, whether I am able to return them or not. There is a kind of magic to them, like they have many stories to tell but no words to tell them. They are mysteries to be solved. And naturally, I take it upon myself to solve them. It’s the perfect outlet for my inherent male desire to be a private eye- track down some missing dame or in this case, track down the dame who owns some missing thing that I have found.

Approaching the downhill slope I saw a potential and coasted after her. It was not long before I realized it was not her and just kept coasting for lack of anything else to do. I was fairly certain at that point I wouldn’t find her, but figured I might as well finish the loop. The 4.5 mile loop. She’s fast for a fat girl.

In my head I began to compose the note I planned to drop off with the cash and ID at the address on her license – several versions actually, some admonishing her carelessness, some hoping to kindle her faith in the good of humanity, all signed simply, with my first and last name so that she can find me easily enough if she happens to be a millionaire dowager who wants to reward me for my honesty.

Once in Washington DC, I found a digital camera on the ground and tracked down the owners by looking through their pictures to see where they had been that day and figuring out where they were likely heading next- or at least in which direction they were probably walking. We caught up with them four blocks from where I found it. They hadn’t even noticed it was missing- nor did they speak any English, so I couldn’t even impress upon them the amount of  deductive problem-solving energy that I had expended upon the camera’s return. That was the real tragedy! They never knew my brilliance! They probably thought I saw it fall out of their pocket thirty seconds before and just picked up and handed it to them. Dahh, stupid Germans!

I finally came to the foot of the giant uphill struggle to the end of the loop, and kicked it into an easier gear. It is the same hill on which the men of the Maryland Militia held off the Hessians for crucial hours from behind a giant felled oak tree during the Battle of Brooklyn in 1776. I will concede that it was probably harder to get up then, but it is still a pain in the ass to get up on a 3-gear bike.

I started to climb, thinking of how much smarter it would have been to have turned around and done the loop in the opposite direction when I found the money, thus meeting her halfway around, rather than chasing her like a greyhound behind an electronic rabbit.

The end of the loop was just beyond the top of the hill, and no one really does the loop more than once. Not unless they are chasing some crazy dame who has lost her ID. But finally, sweaty and winded, I approached the hill’s crest and saw her. There was a garland of nylon flowers on the back of her bike.  I could see she was wearing glasses like the ones in her picture, and her hair was up. She was standing astride her bicycle at the very top of the hill, patting and searching the back pockets of her Spandex pants.

She looked around her a bit and got back on, riding slowly and unsure, no doubt distracted. I caught up with her and came along side her, making cautious eye contact a few times as she started to pick up speed.

“Marika?” I said, still out of breath from the hill. She turned her head and looked at me as I reached out with the bills and license, and said, “here.”

She saw it and took it with a smile and obvious relief, “Oh thank you! Oh my God, thank you!” I smiled and nodded her welcome and sped up without looking back to say anything else, make awkward eye contact, or even see if she got off the path at the end of the loop.

I didn’t see the point in telling her about my chase around the park, other than fishing for praise I suppose. She seemed sufficiently appreciative of my handing it to her without knowing where exactly she dropped it- unlike those snooty Germans back in DC! I’d been tracking her for 20 minutes, but to her, she had been in trouble for less than 30 seconds. I don’t know. Maybe she would have been happier in knowing that there are some people who would go to those lengths to return her lost property.  Or maybe she would have been creeped out that some sweaty guy on a bicycle had been following her around the park and planning to go to her house if he couldn’t find her there.

I biked on past where I’d found the cash, into a nice small grove of pines near 9^th street, sat down on the ground, and began to write.

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Issue 25 - Change Her? What's Wrong With Her?

October 14, 2009

The Daily Hell Vol. III - Bumsville.

Issue 25 – Change her? What’s wrong with her?

This past weekend, I went to Boston for my youngest brother’s 22^nd birthday. The next day, my 25-year-old brother and I went to my parents house to visit with my 31-year-old brother and his almost 2-year-old daughter. This may seem like a convoluted way of explaining things, but I have a large family and things can get confusing if I’m not direct.

It was great getting to hang out with my niece though. I really enjoy being an uncle. I get to have all the fun without being a disciplinarian. I get to play games without having to do all the tasks her parents take care of like feeding, dressing, and changing her. Although, I am now learning, that it can sometimes be necessary to learn how to do those things when they interfere with the fun uncle stuff.

Avery and I share a room when we’re at my parents’ house at the same time. Her, because her crib is in there, and me because I’ve become addicted to her white noise machine, which I switch from “Waterfall” to “Tropical Rain Forest” when I come in to sleep.

The result of this unusual pairing of roommates is that I am the first to know when she wakes up, which is usually about 6:30 AM. I do my best to keep her distracted for a while to let the others sleep. We’ll read books or explore the quiet house or make a mess in her playroom, but eventually the topic of diapers comes up and I hit a wall.

She’ll walk over to her changing pad, lie down on it, and say, “I pooped, change diaper,” as if I am a real adult who would know how to do such things. Now, this could potentially be the embarrassing moment when I have to admit to my niece that I can’t perform the simplest of tasks, which she could probably instruct me in herself. But instead I wake up my brother, ending his extra half-hour of sleep.

We open the door to his room and Avery runs over to his bed, “Daddy!” I shuffle in after her, “Hey uh, she says she pooped, so I don’t know, do you want to…” I trail off, not sure how to ask or what I’m admitting about my uncling skills by passing the buck

“Well did you change her?” my brother clearly doesn’t understand that there is a problem here, so I just come out with it, “No, I’ve never done it before. Soooooooo… should I get Mom?”

In the almost two years since I’ve become an uncle, I have never changed a diaper, my niece’s or anyone else’s for that matter. It’s not that I am unwilling or physically unable to do so, but I’ve had limited opportunity to learn

On one of Avery’s first visits, maybe a month after she was born, my sister-in-law asked if I wanted to change her diaper. The glint in her eye was enough to tell me that this was something I should not agree to until I had seen it done by someone else. I said I would watch her do it, but didn’t think I was ready to actually change one on my own. So I watched her do it and I learned that infants do not merely crap, they explode.

After that, I really had no desire to learn anything diaper-related for a while. But no one ever asked me to help again anyway. Once she was out of her exploding infant stage, I would have liked to learn, experience that part of being an uncle. But then, wouldn’t it be weird of me to go around offering unsolicited diaper changes?

And it was never really an issue anyway, because there’s usually a parent or grandparent around to step in. Or if it was just me and her, I could feign ignorance and pretend that her look of quiet discomfort merely meant that she still hadn’t had her morning coffee, which was the reason I had the same look on my face. But now she can walk and talk so I can’t even do that anymore.

So now here I am, two years later and my blessing has become my curse. I don’t want to give my niece the impression that I’m incompetent or I think she’s gross. And I don’t want to stop hanging out with her until she’s potty trained. What would that be, like 5 or 6 years? I just need a little instruction, a little supervision- just someone to go tandem with me the first few times. That way, the next time we’re hanging out at 6 in the morning, I can let my poor exhausted brother sleep another 20 minutes until something else I don’t know about 2-year-olds comes up, and I need his help.