Every morning G. rose at 5:45 am. His wife would remain in bed until she could smell the black coffee and toasted bread G. routinely prepared each morning.

“I don’t like two buttered buns. I’ve told you many times, only one side. Too many calories if on both buns. Why do you want me to be fat? Argh! This coffee is too damn hot. I just burned my tongue. Is this how you want me to get up each morning? Look how I feel now. My day is ruined. Ruined.”

This wasn’t new to G. ever since they got married 8 years ago his coffee was never good enough, the breakfast never tasted right.

“I’ll just go back to bed and make myself something decent once you leave.” said his wife.

G. left for work at a quarter to 7.

He got on his train. Connected to another train.Walked 6 1/2 blocks along Astoria’s Broadway to get to work.

There they were on display at Nino’s clothing store.

He couldn’t understand why he stopped there every morning. Those shoes, those colors, they meant something to him. His breath quickened and he could feel his heart beat rising slowly. They weren’t particularly beautiful. He was sure his wife would hate them. U$ 110.00 dollars, he couldn’t justify spending that amount on anything other than groceries. Besides, he already had shoes. He had gotten a brand new pair or black New Balances for Christmas. He bought them for himself justifying he needed new shoes to go to work.

It wasn’t about the shoes, it was the feeling. Why would his heart race every morning when he stopped in front of those shoes?

G. went on to work. He was head janitor of a supply store on 31st street. He liked his job. He had decent hours and had been working there for the past 9 years. It was a quiet job. He knew what needed to be done. His daily routine required little to none human interaction. He had his lunch at noon, a sandwich he packed every morning, white cheese, bread (both buns heavily buttered), ham, turkey, a swirl of honey and an apple. This time a day warmed G.’s heart. He looked forward to that time every day.

He left at 7 PM every day and he made his was to the subway then to another train, and another, up the 4 flights of stairs into the kitchen, placed his messenger bag down, and sat quietly until his presence had been noticed.

” The bathroom is disgusting. All these hairs everywhere. And don’t try to tell me they’re mine. I know what my hairs look like. They’re too thin, they’re yours. How can you expect me to use the bathroom when it’s that disgusting? Why should I have to clean up after you? Am I your maid? I don’t think so. Don’t get too comfortable. I need that bathroom cleaned tonight.”

G. quietly picked up his broom, a mop, and cleaning materials and cleaned the bathroom for the next 40 minutes.

“Make sure you get all that soap scum out of the tub. I was thinking about taking a bath tonight and I can’t go in there if there’s all that shit hanging off the walls.”

He scrubbed.

He went about his nightly routine: the dishes, vacuuming the floors, then he prepared dinner.

” Oh my god. Do you know how much money I spend on meds to keep my blood pressure from killing me? You obviously don’t since you decided to add to much salt to this steak. Why do you hate me so much? I can’t eat this. And if I can’t eat, neither can you.”

She picked up both their plates and placed them in the trash.

“Why should I be the only one who goes to bed hungry?”

He slept on the couch that night. He didn’t mind. It was peaceful to lie there in the dark without her.

The next morning G. missed his alarm. He never missed the alarm. He was 30 minute s late. His wife was still asleep. He could hear her snoring in the room. He was going to be late. Should he prepare her breakfast? Should he shower? He hadn’t shaved the day before so he could shave this morning. The snoring stopped. He would never hear the end of it. He placed the filter with an unsual amount of coffee in the coffee maker. He ran into the bathroom, quickly showered and cut himself shaving. He hated getting cutting himself while shaving. This was going to be a horrible day. He could tell.

He ran out the shower. She was up. She had a cup of coffee in her hand. She sat there with her morning glare. She threw the cup on the floor.

” This is the worst fucking cup of coffee I’ve ever had in my life. What is wrong with you? Clean this up!”

He stopped. “Why would she break that? There was coffee all over the floor. He didn’t have time to clean it up. He was already late. The coffee would certainly dry and would be very difficult to remove from the floor later.

She slammed the door to the bedroom and screamed things he couldn’t quite make out.

He left without his sandwich and his apple.

Made his way to the train. There were service changes. He needed to take a shuttle to the next train. There were no seats on that goddamn bus. An older lady stood beside him a 15 year-old boy sat in front of her.

“Why didn’t these kids stand up for older people to sit?” He never understood that. If he were a young man and his mother knew he didn’t give his seat up for others he’d get smacked on the side of the head.

His mind was flooded with thoughts. Adrenaline pumped through his veins.

He got off the second train, he was 25 minutes late. He’s never been late before. He made his way down Broadway, past Nino’s. Wait.

“Where are the shoes?” He thought.

They were there yesterday. What happened to them? Why were those funeral shoes there? He couldn’t do anything then. Nino’s wouldn’t open for another 2 hours.

He rushed to work. Luckily no one noticed he was late. In fact no one noticed him at all. He could have not shown up to work and no one would ever know or care. It was noon. He had a knot in his throat. He felt deeply guilty to go out to lunch since he had already been late that morning. But the shoes! It wasn’t like anyone knew he was late.

Had the shoes been sold? Maybe it was only moved back into the store. He had no lunch. He couldn’t contain himself anymore. He couldn’t remember being this riled up, this angry, this ALIVE in a long time.

He left the store. He walked all four blocks to Nino’s. He went in. The sales clerk had this smirk on his face. As if he could have predicted this. He knew G. would give in sooner or later and come in to buy those shoes.

” They were sold last night.”

G. Froze. A sudden sadness took over him. What could he do now? He tried to not cry.

Suddenly his lips took over and sounded:

” What size were they?”

” 11 1/2″

He sighed. At least they were two sizes bigger than his feet.

” I have another pair in the back. What’s your size?”

G. waited as the clerk went into the back. This euphoric state took over him. But they were only shoes. Why was he making such a big deal about shoes? It wasn’t like him to feel so strongly about anything.

” Here you go.”

He placed the box on the ground in front of him. He could hardly move. He could feel his heart jumping in his mouth.

” You can sit down.”

They looked at each other.

” You can also try them on. Get a feel.”

G. sat down. All he could see was that brown cardboard box in front of him. He opened the box as if unveiling the first gift he remembers ever getting. It was his 6th birthday. His mother had given him a baseball cap he wanted so much. There they were. They were perfect. Shiny, he could smell them. He hastily untied his New Balances and adjusted the laces on the new pair. It was a religious experience when his toes felt the comfort of the suede lining of the shoe. He was happy. He felt alive. Those shoes, they meant something to him. He couldn’t quite figure it out. It was a mixed feeling of deep hatred and ecstasy. He was going to buy them. Even if it cost him double the price.

He wore them to work and carried the New Balances in the box under his arm. He couldn’t remember being this confident in a while. He strolled down Broadway like he’d never done before. He noticed the girls walking along the street, the cars, the older women. He felt like the weight of the world had been taken off his shoulders.

He worked vibrantly. He spoke to customers, greeted his co-workers, he whistled as he cleaned the male bathroom stalls. He couldn’t remember whistling in a long time. His father would whistle the same tune as he worked on the land.

It was 7 o’clock. He needed to go home. How would he explain the shoes? Would she even listen? Maybe if he tried to talk to her she could understand or at least not yell at him so much. He would make her a special breakfast the next day, with eggs and bacon and all.

He stood outside his building. He could see that the apt. light was on. He walked up the stairs staring down at his feet. My god, he loved those shoes. They were the best thing that had happened to him in a while. His door, key, unlock, opened the door. A certain fury took over him.

She stood there ready to bark more orders at him. He made his way through the living room towards her. Her pupils dilated with surprise as she understood he wasn’t stopping. Before she could say anything he slapped her across the face. She fell to her knees and didn’t recover from the shock until a little while later. He made his way into the bedroom, slammed the door and locked it. He carefully took off his shoes and admired them as they sat before him. He changed into his pajamas turned the light off. He smiled.

G. slept until noon the next day.

It’s true.

Sometimes I like to walk aimlessly through NY streets and just watch. In a world that’s so connected and fast paced, isn’t it nice to just stop in time?

Everything today is connected. Everything is shown, portrayed, and captured. It’s become a sort of addiction. We sometimes pretend or force situations, faces, and smiles just so we can capture them. But they’re not necessarily true.  I often see people striking poses for millions of consumer cameras and at that moment they allow themselves to do crazy things like climb on hydrants, so that when they go home they can post those picture on facebook or myspace. It’s a facade for living and enjoying life. Sometimes.

The more I bite into this crazy apple the more I want to slow down and just appreciate things. I appreciate myself and truly savor my living experience. It’s hard and it takes so much discipline to just sit still.

I believe the more we learn to live in right now the more we’ll be able to truly live, not only exist. You begin to accept some inevitable things that could normally irritate you, like you subway being slow or late.  You just learn to take that deep breath, smile and accept that there is nothing you can do so for at that moment you need to just go along with it. It’s funny that when you decide that time and space sort of disappear.

I used to get sooo angry in the subway, it was late, I was late, I had to keep on explaining myself. Then one day I decided not to feed that thought and just read my book. I got lost in the pages and suddenly I was where I needed to be, and ON TIME.

So goal for this life: Many deep breaths and accepting the annoying inevitabilities of daily life and never getting so caught up in things that I don’t notice life and most importantly KEEPING IT REAL.

Food for thought: When you can just BE life takes away time, and space and that little annoying voice that tells you time and space should always have a purpose.

It’s hard to say no. This fucking minuscule word is the reason I have done a lot of shit I have dreaded. Or maybe “yes” is the reason and “No” would have been the solution. Anyways @#$%^&*(*&^%$#(@!$^& ! NO!

I understand “no” will limit the great opportunities I could be be receiving by turning them down because of fear and ignorance. But what the fuck! ? Why isn’t this something they take you aside in school and teach you about?

I don’t believe in the whole D.A.R.E  ” just say no” bullshit because that’s not teaching people how to think. It’s just creating a fear of punishment in people. Trust me, people can overcome that fear very easily.

We should be taken aside and taught how to disagree and how it is “ok” to turn a proposal down and not be forced to do it because of a sense of propriety.

How many things have you done because you just felt like you had to say “Yes”?  I know many babies that came from that yes. I am one of them. If my mother had just said ” I don’t” then she wouldn’t have had to spend the next 15 years paying for that “i do”.

Now, here I am, working on something that I can’t begin to express the frustration it gives me, eating away boxes of cookies so i don’t light up a cigarette, just because I said yes.

It really sucks because my new theme is all about the “Yes, Man” movie (which I haven’t watched). So I will start my new theme: maybe.

“Can you do something that will truly frustrate you for the sake of my happiness?”

” Maybe.”

It just opens up a whole lot more room for discussion. We could discuss the terms conditions of the agreement. That way I can say, ” Look I am going to try to do it, and I will do my best, but if I feel like breaking shit over it then I’m done, ok?”

So much better.

Well, that will be next time, because I said yes, as opposed to maybe, and now I have to go back to torture.

Goal of this week: Say more maybe.

Cherish this thought:  I think marriages would work a whole lot more if people were allowed a ” Maybe I do.”  You would get an agreement that would propose a trial marriage for a year, if then you like the person, you can go back and say ” Yes, I do.” Or, “No, I knew it! I just knew it!”

Suddenly the train riders stopped cold. Were we in New York?

“Have a blessed day”

What?? How dare she? Was she being Ironic? One complete and completely understandable sentence. And one that didn’t scream at people for blocking the doors.

” The Next stop is Lexington Ave. 59th Street”

Was she a recording? And I wasn’t the only one who was surprised. Every person in those two or three cars must have been thinking the same. At least the people around me were shocked. Suddenly I couldn’t drink my coffee anymore. I had gotten sick. I was fed up with her niceness. Niceness was not something I had become used to, especially not at 9 in the morning. New York mornings are more like:

“That’s my seat you fucking bitch!”

“But I am 90 and I have a cane”

“Not my fucking problem.”

That was to some extent an expected New York morning. Then it hit me : being nice had been shipped off the island.

Seriously! I started paying attention to how armed and ready I was for people. I have the answers and curse names at the tip of my tongue, ” Fuck you asshole!” , I can remember the last time I said that. Though I can’t remember when i said good morning to a random person.

So much attitude and suddenly it becomes the norm. It’s like we forget the basics and just go into aggressive instinct mode all the time. “Don’t fuck with me fellas!” That’s the right attitude. Don’t fuck with me. Don’t you dare say good morning and expect me to smile and say it back. Don’t you dare stand up and give me your seat, are you calling me old? Thank you? I’ll show you gratitude motherfucker.

Perhaps, if we were to take it down one notch we’d, I don’t know, feel a bit better. Wouldn’t wake 20 times up before the alarm actually goes off. Wouldn’t ignore possible friendships with other people next to us. Would feel good over something that doesn’t involve BUYING. Maybe the apartments in new york would be made a bit bigger from now on, you know, so we could fit all of our new friends.

Cliche? YES. Vomit worthy? Yes. Yet, it’s something to think about.
Perhaps everything isn’t always fake. Sometimes there is a genuine act of kindness behind actions.

I remember not being able to fall in love for the longest time because everything about love was always so fake to me. If someone said “I love you” I would hail the next cab and never return the call. I couldn’t stop criticizing everything about everyone that walked by me. Sarcasm was in almost every sentence I uttered.  I just couldn’t say:

” Yes, you look like a retard wearing those glasses, but maybe you’re happy as a retard.”

I could make snap judgements about everyone. It sounded like fun joked but then I just wasn’t saying anything nice about anyone anymore.

Sounds fucked up. And it IS. Just pay attention. You’ll see what I am talking about.

Try to think something nice when you see that 14 year old boy in girl jeans. It just doesn’t happen.

Goal of this week: Being Nice.