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Semi-Professional Paparazzi

You may not believe it but the paparazzi struck again.  This time a professional, well a semi-professional, he has a business card (see above.)  I met Ken walking to the subway, one morning.  Morning punctuality is not a skill I will ever lay claim to, so I was rushing as always.  I was on the home stretch and in real danger of being on time and that’s when Ken’s SUV rolled up on me.  His car pulled up right next to me, but I kept moving with my head forward giving him the sideeye to check his distance.  (No one is going to make a Lifetime movie about me.)  Ken leaned out of his window, but I kept walking without acknowledging him.  Ken slowed down some more and started yelling Hey, Hey.  I kept my pace up and refused to look directly at him.
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The Other One

I share my body with another person.  Well, she’s actually a monster that takes control in the morning.  My parents met her when I started pre-school.   Morning always began with one of them standing beside the bed calling my name sweetly “Cara, Cara, Cara time to get up.”  When I didn’t move, they added a gentle shoulder tap to their effort.  I still didn’t budge, so they resorted to mild shaking.  Eventually, the shaking worked and the monster woke, crying wildly.  My poor parents tried to have a rational discussion with me, but I was asleep and the monster was incapable of being rational.  After a considerable period of the monster’s hysterics, my parents gave up and dressed me while I was lying down.

In grade school, the monster adapted and turned the morning routine into a game, a competition if you will. Her strategy was to stay quiet and hit the snooze button as fast as she could. The hope was they’d forget about us.  Judi and Sid (my parents) never did.

My dad started the game every morning with a wake up call.

Dad: Cara it’s time to get up.
Monster: Uh Huh
Dad: The next time I pass by your room, you better be moving.
Monster: Uh Huh
Dad: I’m serious, the next time I pass by your room, I better hear some movement or you are in trouble.

The monster saw my father’s ultimatum as a challenge and responded with the “Fake Out” (Sit up in bed while my dad passed and then immediately lie back down.)

Enter my Mom, signaling the counting portion of the competition.  Judi is known for having her share of issues with the morning.  So, while she rushed frantically to dress herself, she screamed numbers across the hall as forceful encouragement.

Mom: Cara you have until three to get out of that bed. One….Two…Three. Get Up, Are you Up?
Monster: “Uh huh, I’m up , I’m Up.” (I wasn’t up.)
Mom: I don’t hear any feet on the ground.
Monster: I’m getting dressed on my bed.

Time Out:
My parents had a short strategy session in their bedroom.  This bought me and the monster another minute of uninterrupted sleep.

Mom: I don’t think she’s up.
Dad: Of course she’s not up. I’m going in there!!! (The final escalation)

My father stormed across the hall yelling threats.

Dad: I’m coming in there!!!! You better be up or else you are in deep trouble!!!!
Monster: Zzzzzzzzzzzzz (The monster held her ground and laid there motionless.)

Angered by the lump in the shape of his daughter, my dad ripped off the covers and forced the window shades to the ceiling.  While the shades were flying up, the monster pulled the covers back over our head. When my father turned around and saw the monster unmoved by his dramatic play, he flew into a no holds barred freak out, yelling threats at the top of his lungs.   The threats quickly turned to full grounding; life would be limited to school, homework and reading.  Realizing she had been defeated, the monster dressed us as fast as a lump could. (It was like watching paint dry, but at least we were vertical.)  This was our morning routine through high school.

In college the monster adapted again and was now a foul-mouthed old man.  On our own, I, not the monster, was responsible for getting us up.  She got up begrudgingly, although there were times she forced us to skip morning classes.  All my friends and roommates knew it was best not to acknowledge me until couple hours after we got up. They were never quite sure what would come out of my mouth.

After college, my friend Reuben and I lived together.  He too, has a morning monster. But, our monsters had an understanding that talking was not permitted before work. Grunting was our sole communication tool. As a result, our monsters co-existed for three years, with only a few minor conflicts.

I live alone now and that’s probably best for everyone.  After all these years, the monster has not changed, so I guess this is it.  I am tied to her for the rest of my life.

A couple of days ago, an unlucky woman had the misfortune of meeting the monster.  We were walking down the subway steps as the woman was walking up.  She stopped and stared when she saw us. Since the monster is not visible, I can only guess she was staring because of my height.  The woman began to point and laugh.  Monster, who was still in control of all my major functions, turned to her and said “@*$& @#$%$ @#%$@# you bad wig wearin #*&!##$.”  The woman was stunned into silence and frankly so was I.  But, the train was pulling into the station, so I had no time to apologize for the monster’s outburst. We quickly ran down the rest of the steps, leaving the woman to pick her bottom lip off the ground.

If you encounter us in the morning, please remember, I am not in control, she is.

Bed Stuy: The Seamstress

Recently, I have had a couple of strange encounters that makes me think I may not be the only black, female, little person with a red afro in Bed Stuy.

The other night, I got off the subway and headed towards the corner grocery store.  As I  approached the store, I heard this woman frantically screaming.  This being a fairly common occurrence in Bed Stuy, I didn’t turn around right away.  But this woman just kept screaming “Miss, Miss.” “Excuse Me!!!”  Um Hellooo..Miss.”  When I finally turned around to see the crazy lady, she was right behind me and out of breath.  I realized I was the “Miss” and I had never seen this woman before in my life.  I said “Hi” and then she said, “My daughter is graduating from High School and I need a seamstress.”  My face must have said “Huh?” Cause she asked, “Aren’t you the seamstress?”  I said, “No, sorry.”  My response didn’t seem to faze her, because she continued. “I need someone to make an outfit for my daughter, we didn’t realize she was going to graduate until today. We only have two weeks.” It seemed she was under the delusion, if she pled her case well, I might agree to be her seamstress. (Like I was lying about my identity and just refusing to take her business.)  I said, “No, I’m sorry that’s not me.”  Then she said,  “I should have kept her number.  Well, I thought it was you.” Then she muttered under her breath, “There must be another one, I need the other one.”

Two days later, I ran into my elderly neighbor (persistent suitor) on my way to the subway.    He asked, “Can I drive you to work?”  I said “Oh, No Thank You.” (exaggerating how thankful I was.)  Then he said, “I have a car, I can drive you.”  “You wouldn’t have to pay for a cab.”  I said “No thanks, I’m fine, I take the subway to work.”  Then he said, “You have that store over on Fulton, it’s a quick ride.”  I said, “No, I work in the city.”  “Oh, someone told me you had  a tailoring store over on Fulton.”  “Nope, that’s not me.”

Hmmm……… Me thinks we may have another Pam situation on our hands.

Bed Stuy Indian

Bed Stuy, Brooklyn has been my home for the past two years.  It’s no longer the place that people fear.  The old neighbors that remain are amazing and the new neighbors are trying to keep the feeling of the neighborhood.  There are still drug dealers and a couple of crack whores, but by and large, it’s really a great neighborhood. The violence of before is on the decline, but some of the amazing characters have remained.

The first morning I walked to the subway, I met my friend Indian. (The neighbors call him Indian. I have no idea what his given name is.)  He’s approximately 6 foot 3 and ethnically east Indian with a Caribbean accent.  I think he’s Jamaican, but I can’t be too sure.  He’s always intoxicated, no matter what time of day.  So most of the time I can’t tell what he’s saying.  He wears hip hop clothes and is probably in his 50’s or 60’s.  I don’t know where he lives, but I know where to find him or rather he knows where to find me.  That first morning, he came running out from one of the covered porches and gave me a huge hug and kiss and said “Respect mon.”  Then he said some other stuff that was unintelligible.

At night he used to hang out with the drug dealers and was usually so drunk he could barely stand up.  The dealers tried to get him to stop hugging me.  One time, one of the dealers put himself between the two of us and said “Man, she doesn’t want you to touch her.”  He didn’t listen and went right back to hugging me the next day.  Indian has changed sides of the street and currently hangs out with the old men who drink and play cards. He still runs over to greet me with a hug.

Over the past two years Indian has danced at me, sung to me and given me advice (I’m still working on translating the advice. When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.)  Once he led me into the new neighborhood restaurant and then walked out.  I was standing in the restaurant by myself with the staff staring at me like, “What do you want?”  I told them that Indian just grabbed me off the street and led me in.  They gave a knowing look and laughed.   Sometimes he waves me over to tell me something important. I have never understood anything he has said, but I have grown to really like Indian. I know I’m home when he greets me.   It’s become a thing.