Today I was reminded how it is to work for someone else, and how much I hate it. I was out the door at seven AM, accompanying a friend to the doctor in downtown Brooklyn. It was rush hour. Traffic crawled along Ocean Parkway. She had a growth removed from her nose and came out looking like a prize fighter. It was only nine-thirty. The situation was looking good. The plastic surgeon was only a block and a half away. Every time I pass that stretch I think of Bob Dylan's
Tangled Up in Blue:
"I lived with them on Montague Street, In a basement down the stairs..." This phase was supposed to take from a half hour to 45 minutes. I went for a walk, hoping she'd be ready by the time I got back. Yeah, right. She was in there three-and-a-half hours, the surgeon called away for several emergencies, one of which was a prolonged tantrum thrown by a boy of about ten. I wondered why he was accompanied by two adults, his mom and a burly blonde. He was fine in the waiting room. I don't know what happened inside. Anyway, afterward my friend wanted to treat me to barbecued chicken at a nearby restaurant. Of course, as I expected, parking was unavailable. She drove around the block three times before giving up. By the time we got to the burger joint in Park Slope, it was almost four. The new owner was our waiter. My friend was miffed when he charged 45 cents for fried onions. I understand him perfectly. He's trying to run a business and has to find out how to stay afloat. She told me quietly she wouldn't tip him. "I only tip workers," she whispered. I didn't tell her what I thought, which wasn't pretty. While she was powdering her battered nose, I tipped the guy on the QT. Earlier I'd bought her a 20 ounce Diet Coke. She gave me less than double what she normally does, plus the free meal, so I still came out way ahead. Still, I'd rather do the floating book shop even if it brings in only a few bucks. It was after five by the time we left the restaurant -- rush hour. I hate the way she drives. Making a left, she will veer a bit into the oncoming lane. She frequently stops in a crosswalk. At one point leaving Park Slope there's a tricky turn. I tell her to get all the way over. She doesn't and then gets mad at the drivers who cut her off. After we park, it takes her at least 15 minutes to get to her apartment, a walk of two minutes for most people. "Patience," I tell myself again and again; "it's almost over." It was a few minutes to six when I got home. A quick shower, and here I am, doing what I do. A 60's stream is playing Spooky by the Classics IV. There'll be less money tomorrow, but it will be a lot better day.
Vic's 3rd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/7e9jty3
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