Soap

I suppose I could blame it on hunger.

They are tons of shitty jobs in the world. Handing out leaflets to New Yorkers is one of them. Or trying to. Especially on the Upper West Side. That's why I usually take them. Make someone happy. Sometimes I remember to trash it a couple blocks away, but most of the time I absentmindedly shove it in my pocket and forget about it until a few weeks later I have to empty them to find something because it's such a mess in there.

I could also blame it on excitement I suppose. Because I carry two CDs from the band of a very good friend of mine and I can't wait to be home and listen to them.

To my defense, I'll stress that it did look like caramel, with its transparent plastic wrapping.

I'm very fond of caramel.

The girl looked desperate with her wicker basket full of those candy looking stuff in front of that fancy store, offering her free samples to well-dressed people ignoring her.

I'm pretty sure also I was trying to find a way to outsmart the MTA and their fucked up weekend schedules.

So, yeah, sure, I'll take one. She looked happy. Mission accomplished. Now rush on to the subway station.

I swear it did look like a caramel candy.

And really from the wrapper, you couldn't tell what the fuck it was.

Somehow, I must not be as dumb as I think because I took a tiny bite. But that was enough to make me realize my mistake.

From the title, you know what it was. Fucking fancy soap. Damn, it really doesn't taste good. Word to the wise guy: in case one day your plane crashes on a mountain or something and you're freezing and starving and you have half a mind of starting eating the bar soap from your suitcase -- don't laugh, when you're starving, everything looks way more edible and even tastier than usual. Well, don't. Start with your fellow survivors first. Keep the soap for dessert.

5 a.m. gunshots

It's always 5 a.m. here. An hour just as good as any other to be looking for a job, I suppose.
Outside, some guys are shooting at each other. It's not like I'm keeping stats of that or anything, but I have a hunch that I hear more gunshots during winter than summer around here. It doesn't make sense. Maybe I should start keeping stats after all. Entre le gel et la neige, moi je trouve que c'est déjà assez casse-gueule comme ça. Imagine running or even walking in that snow while shooting and dodging bullets?! It takes dedication.

Short

Introducing Shorty a.k.a. February.
The rent. I'm short.
Calling in all debts.
This year, there are 28 days in February. Really, who has time to think about this kind of detail?
The things you got to do to pay the rent. Like ask your boss for an immediate advance on this week pay. Even if it works, you're still short. But it doesn't work anyway.
So you take a break, go to a pay phone and call people.
"I know it's short notice--
"Yo, it's me, I'll call you back--
"Remember that money I lent you a couple months ago--
"Hey, you know that deposit I gave you--
"I need it back--
"Can you pay me back--
"I need my money back--
"Now--
"I'd need it now--
"Tonight--

The things you do to pay the rent. Working should be enough, actually. But sometimes it's not. It's been quite a while since I last had to seriously worry about it. It's good not to forget this kind of things. Keep it fresh. Still, it sucks.

I knew it was going to be a tight squeeze this month when I bought that computer because the other one was giving me nightmares. Still, I thought I could pull it out. And then, I had unexpected expenses. And I had to buy a new MetroCard. And I had to pay school. Well... all I need is a few more days... Except that... yeah... February ended yesterday. Dumbass.

The kind of things one can do late at night after work, is to go to the other end of Brooklyn to collect. If one's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, one might end up in Flatbush instead of Crown Heights. One has been known to do exactly this kind of thing. It's not like you're dealing with a neophyte, here. I knew there was something wrong as soon as I stepped out of the station anyway. The neighborhood looked much nicer and cleaner than I remembered.

At the 24/7 deli, the guy says the street I'm looking for is in that direction. He says, 15 blocks, give or take. There must be a law banning pay phones in Brooklyn. Walked those 15 blocks, give or take, without seeing one. The good thing is that, as I walk, the streets are getting dirtier and darker and gloomier. More and more buildings have been boarded shut. It's a good sign. And then, the first pay phone I see is totally fucked up. The one after that too. But that's another one 15 block later, give or take. Because, after the first 15 blocks, when I finally reached the street I was looking for, I could tell from the numbers on the doors that I was at the wrong end.

When I arrive at the door, all I find is an intercom with a series of buttons and numbers. No name. Shit. Looking for a pay phone again. The first four have been destroyed, partially or totally. The one that worked was hiding only 4 blocks away. In Brooklyn, the closest pay phone that is actually working is always about 4 blocks away. If you ever find one any closer you're supposed to immediately call 311 so that it can be dutifully destroyed by the city.

Going back home with a nice cushion of green bills in my pocket. Feel better. Still short though. $100. If I hadn't worked last weekend... shit, if I hadn't had this special job last weekend, I'd be in serious trouble.

It's funny, I had totally forgotten the Q was going over the Manhattan Bridge. That was a nice surprise. As the train was slowly elevating over the East River, Sonic Youth started playing Confusion is Next. I couldn't agree more. Do you think iPods have souls?

Brooklyn. Another corner of. Found a pay phone (that works.)
"Yeah, K.'s"
"What's up? It's me. You guys'll still be open at 3?"
"Yeah, no later."
"Ok, keep one for me."

The reasonning was as follow:
1) Rent always goes before everything else.
2) I'm hungry. 5 bucks. It's not like it's gonna make a big difference anyway.
3) No, no, no. Rent first. Food later. Food sounds more attractive now, but in the long run, paying the rent is best.
4) Starving. Been doing a lot of working and walking tonight. Still short anyway. And still gotta go work tomorrow. No sleep on an empty stomach. Hey look! a pay phone! it works! Call K.'s and order.

Back home with rent money minus $105. Stomach 01 - Brain 00.

The building door is locked. I don't recognize the lock -- or the door, for that matter. The funny thing is, my keys don't recognize the lock either. It's a tradition we like to keep very alive in our building. Every other month or so, someone breaks into the building. Landlord has the lock changed (or, like tonight, the lock and the door). Landlord doesn't give a copy of the new key to the tenants. Landlord doesn't leave a copy in the little silver box for the postman. Postman cannot open the door to access the mailboxes and probably throws the mail away in the closest trash he can find instead (in Brooklyn always 6 blocks away, in Manhattan it varies.) Tenants don't get their mail. Also, some tenants end up yelling their roommates' names at 3 in the morning to open the fucking door. The roommate who performed his duty tonight won a croissant.

"What's dat?"
"A croissant."
"?"
"It's edible. I'm sure you'll like it, my hero."