A Cowboy, A Giant and A School Bus

GROWN-UP UNEMPLOYMENT.  

Word!  Grown-up-after-a-12-year-stint-in-a-virtual-insane-asylum-unemployment  may just be the very best kind of unemployment there is.   Life is my oyster and I got some slurpin’ ta catch up on.  YO!  Pass d’at cocktail sauce!

Whilst bookin’ around town this week,  I found myself on the road with many a school bus.  Which brings to mind the following yarn.

About 13 years ago, I did short stint (about 16 months) as a receptionist at a children’s daycare center here in Queens.  This place was an unrelentingly demented nuthouse.    (Christ, what the hell IS it with these places where I’ve been employed?)   Anyhow, the people who ran this monstrosity were absolute freaks - bordering on depraved.  I needed the income at the time, but honestly - I despised this bunch. 

Not the kids, tho’.  I mean, while lots of the kids who attended the daycare were completely insane Ritalin Kids, for the most part they were also fantastic. 

Many were obviously attention-starved and they used to come into my cubicle and hang all over me and tell me all kinds of crazy stories and stuff and I’d draw pictures with them and tell them jokes and give them kooky hairstyles until one of the depraved freak employer shit-heads would inevitably be drawn by the sound of a happy child and come over to yell at the kid:  GO INTO THE BIG ROOM WITH THE OTHER CHILDREN AND STOP BOTHERING LYNN.  SHE IS HERE TO WORK NOT TO PLAY WITH YOU.   

And then later I’d go find the kid and just tell ‘em:  “Don’t you worry about shit-head over there.  She’s a big mess and everybody hates her - that’s why she’s so angry all the time.  Just look at that shriveled, nasty face of hers!  Eww, right???   You’re never bothering me.  You come talk to me whenever you want, bubby.”

And they always would come back to hang with me because as one feisty little Latino gal told me when she found out I was quitting:  “Damn, Lynn!  You’re the ONLY COOL PERSON IN THIS PLACE.   NOW what’re we gonna do?”  (Sigh.  Wonder how she turned out.  She was a real pistol, that little one.)

But anyhow, before I left that scene for greener (?) pastures, aside from my clerical duties, the Depraved Shit-heads used to force me to also drive a school bus.  Well, not actually FORCE me to.   But for some damn reason I’d always relent and end up driving the school bus if one of the drivers called in sick. Which was pretty often.  Honestly, I did it for the keeeds. (ß  using my “Mr. T.” voice here) Because the place was not only an after-school daycare.  During the summer it became a sort of a hellish summer camp. 

Now, I don’t have a school bus license nor have I EVER had a school bus license.  But I had experience driving a huge Chevy van around with my band for years and honestly, this school bus handled better than my old tank.  So driving was mostly a breeze but the kids could get a little rowdy sometimes and that’s when I’d just pull over and stand up to face them in the bus and scream at the top of my lungs.  Usually something like this:

“I AM TRYING TO DRIVE, HERE.  I WILL NOT SAY IT AGAIN: IF YOOZ DON’T SETTLE THE FUCK DOWN I WILL END UP CRASHING THIS BUS INTO A WALL AND WE WILL ALL DIE.  DO YOU WANT TO DIE? BECAUSE I KNOW I DON’T WANT TO DIE.  WHO WILL FEED MY DOGGIES IF I DIE???   AND YOUR PARENTS WILL BE VERY UPSET IF YOU DIE.   SO JUST SHUT THE HELL UP AND SETTLE DOWN RIGHT NOW SO THAT WE CAN ALL LIVE!”

Which would send most of them into giggles, and then they’d settle right down. 

Little Sunil and Little Sulil were tiny Pakistani boys – brothers.   They had these huge, deep brown eyes.  Kinda serious, except they’d laugh hysterically every time I made a nasally voice and said: “Here we go again guys  – onto the JACKIE ROBINSON PARKWAY….”    They used to call me Cowboy because sometimes I wore a wide-brimmed leather hippy hat for our bus excursions.

So then I’d hear Little Sunil in the back of the bus: “Be quiet!  Cowboy doesn’t want us to die!”

And then Little Sulil pipes in: “…and her DOGS will be HUNGRY…!”

* * * * * *

Most of the time, I’d be driving the kids to the Jamaica Library or to Flushing Meadow Park to the Museum of Science because these things were free and the Depraved Freaks were always looking for a way to soak the parents for a “DAY TRIP”, just so they could pocket the cash and dump the kids at a shitty ‘free place’ for the day.  And honestly, I didn’t mind because at least it got us all away from the Depraved Shit-heads for an afternoon.    

So it would be me driving the bus, with like 35-40 (mostly unhinged) kids packed in solid, along with one “Assistant” who was supposed to be handling these unhinged kids.  The Assistant was a gentle, highly intelligent middle-aged Guyanese woman. I’ll call her “Grace” because honestly, she embodied the word.   The children loved Grace, too, but she had little or no control over them whatsoever. 

The Depraved Shit-heads treated Grace like an indentured servant because they knew she needed this job very, very badly.   Me and Grace loved getting together on these trips and talking trash about the Depraved Shit-heads.  Man, we could Yenta it up for hours while the kids ran amuck all over the place until we’d eventually get kicked out and have to head back to the daycare center…

* * * * * *

One day my impromptu driving assignment was to take Grace and the Gang to SYMPHONY SPACE on the Upper East Side to see – what else? – a FREE PLAY. 

I didn’t know where the hell I was going in that section of the city, but that wasn’t really the problem.  The problem was one kid that was gonna be on my bus.  He was always trouble.  A real hard-core black kid, Nathan.  This kid had a huge chip on his shoulder.  He came from a rough home.  He had no father figure to speak of and a very tough, very tired mom. 

Nathan was one of the older boys at the center, about 11 years old.  A big boy for his age.  Smart kid, despite it all.  Very talented, too – could sing and dance amazingly.  He was also a thief.  He stole from everybody, adults, kids, didn’t matter.  I used to regularly catch him climbing on a chair to get to my shoulder-bag that I kept high up on a bureau in my office.

Me (clearing my throat loudly): “Nathan, dude – not cool.”

Nathan (Smiling, still standing on the chair): “What’s not cool?”

Me: “Get off the chair, Nathan.  And don’t you dare try that again.”

Nathan: “Why?  Whatchoo gonna do?”  Climbs down from the chair, muttering under his breath as he saunters away leisurely: “White bitch.” 

Me: “What’s that, little brother?”

Nathan: (Big toothy grin over his shoulder): “SAND-WICH!”

* * * * * *

So anyhow, as soon as I find out that I’m driving into the city with Nathan onboard, I decide to enlist my boyfriend’s help.  Me and Chris weren’t married yet, I had only recently moved in with him.  I call him up quick, praying I caught him in time before he’s left for work.  He answers.

Me: “Honey, you gotta come with me into the city.  I gotta drive the kids to SYMPHONY SPACE.”

Chris: “Why do you need me?”

Me: “Because I need you, that’s all.  Please?  I’ll pick you up in front of our apartment?”

Chris: “Ok.  Gimme 10 minutes.”

THANK YOU, GOD.    As the kids board the bus, Nathan is already making one of the girls cry.  Another kid is screaming that Nathan took his candy and ate it.  Things are escalating quickly and not in a good way.  We hit the road and as we approach the block where I’ll be picking up Chris, I stop the bus and stand up for one of my infamous announcements.

OK, EVERYONE.  A GIANT IS COMING and if you DO NOT SETTLE DOWN AND BEHAVE he will THROW YOU OFF THE BUS, ONE BY ONE.  DO YOU GET THAT?  NOW, HE IS A KIND AND DECENT GIANT, BUT IF YOU GIVE ME ANY KIND OF SHIT WHATSOEVER WHILE I AM DRIVING THIS BUS, I WILL HAVE HIM THROW YOU OFF INTO TRAFFIC, ONE BY ONE.

Some of the kids giggle nervously but Nathan just glares at me. “Bullshit.” He says.

I sit back down and head onward.  Chris comes into view, all 6-and-a-half feet of him. 

Little Sulil (Reverently): “There’s the giant.”

Little Sunil: “I see him.  He looks pretty nice.”

Nathan really quiets down as Chris climbs aboard.  The whole busload of ‘em becomes positively angelic.  Grace catches my eye and gives me a happy little wink. 

And slowly, Nathan sidles up to the front of the bus so he can sit right next to Chris.  The four of us – Me, Chris, Nathan and Grace - end up conversing pleasantly for the rest of the trip about music and movies and sports and, oh, all kindsa good stuff!   That trip ends up being just a great day.  Even the free play didn’t suck so bad as I thought it would.

Me and Nathan were great friends after that and I never caught him climbing up on that chair ever again.  He was so talented.  I hope he did well for himself.

* * * * * *

Birthdays, Brothers and Mickey Mouse Banks

Howdy, my loves!  And I DO love YOU!

Whew, I really had to take a break from fine-tuning that damn MANUSCRIPT.  All work and no play, la-dee-daah and all like THAT.   I suppose it’s made all the more grueling when some of these chapters reflect some less-than-lovely aspects of my youth.  Little hard to take at times. 

But nobody wants to read a honey-coated memoir, least of all me.  The resulting past couple weeks have been a continuous opening of veins (maybe even an artery here and there...)  Hey, I got feelings, man!  I love the writing thing, but it DOES get me a little ferklempt occasionally.

At any rate, I woke up with an old song in my head today so it’s time for a little fun.  (For me, anyhow.)

* * * * * *

The Great Powers That Be have blessed me with two brothers this time around.  One is a year and half older than me and one is nearly four years younger, so for most of my life I have been neatly sandwiched between these guys within the familial realm.   They’re nice enough fellas.  They do their brotherly bit pretty well. 

Tomorrow is my older brother’s birthday and so this BLOG is dedicated to him! 

As kiddies, me and Bro # 1 were like Irish Twins, Frick N’ Frack, Beanie and Cecil, whatever the hell.

He was a real devil.  I’d really try to stay under the radar because sometimes my mom would be losing it with him.  I was too young to remember this, but it’s an old family story that when he was a toddler, he locked himself in the kitchen at the little apartment we lived in as kids.   My mom was frantically trying to open the door and she could see thru the key-hole that he was charging around in there brandishing a meat cleaver or some shit.  She could also make out thru her limited scope of vision what looked like BLOOD all over the kitchen floor.  (But it was actually a big tin of Paprika that he’d spilt all over the place.)  And all the while, he’s screaming bloody murder. 

My mom ended up getting a neighbor to break the door down or something.   I think they had to break a few doors down over the years for Bro #1.  Anyway, everything ended up okay.

 I idolized him with all my heart - just thought he was the bee’s knees.   He knew it, too and he took full advantage by getting me into all kinds of crazy hi-jinx.  I was such a sucker. 

There use to be these ugly little rubbery HUMPTY-DUMPTY figurines that came out of an old gum-ball machine on Myrtle Avenue and 80^th Street, right in front of what used to be SEAWALD’S GROCERY.    They were a quarter a piece.  These wiggly things were so stupid and pointless and grotesque, and EXPENSIVE – shit!  When I was 5, maybe 6 years old?  A quarter was like – MAN!   

Anyhow, Bro # 1 convinces me that these things are the best thing we will ever have, EVER, and that we MUST collect as many of them as possible in record time.  How?  How can we hope to accomplish such a feat? I wonder. 

He reminds me of our big, plastic Mickey Mouse banks that Mom keeps waaaaaaay up on top of the refrigerator.  Our Grampa has been giving us each a quarter all of our lives, every time we see him, which is like 2 or 3 times a week sometimes.  Mom has emptied them a couple of times already and still those banks are heavy. 

I don’t know where the hell Mom could be when Bro # 1 commences to breaking into those banks.  I mean, there was precarious climbing involved, as well as some clanking of coins.  I’m guessing she was in the bathroom or hanging laundry.  Whatever.  It amazes me to this day that we pulled that off.  THE GREAT MICKEY MOUSE BANK ROBBERY. 

And now, for the next part of the plan:  We are to walk up to Myrtle Avenue and GET THE GOODS.  

I am scared.  No, terrified.  I know that we are NOT ALLOWED OFF THE BLOCK.  Mom has been drilling this into my little head like the Our Father. 

Bro # 1 convinces me that it’s really only like going off ONE block, when you consider that -  technically - we’d only have to cross one street to get to Myrtle.  The rest of the blocks connect and it’ll only be like going around the corner and crossing one street!  Easy as pie and we’ll be back in no time and nobody will be the wiser. 

Aahhh….But when we return!  Yes, when we return, we will have riches beyond our wildest dreams.  Yes, we will be the proud owners of A MILLION OF THOSE HUMPTY DUMPTY THINGS. 

SOLD!   Heart hammering, I gear up for the voyage. 

As we leave to “GO OUT AND PLAY”,  Mom buttons my blue, nubby sweater and tells me brightly to:  “Stay close and don’t go near the street!”   I feel queasy with guilt, but determined.    Me and Bro #1 walk together up to Myrtle, me lagging a little behind – my heart tugging me backward to Mom.  Knowing that somehow, now that I was betraying her, I could never really go back.  Not really.

The stupid HUMPTY DUMPTY machine kept getting stuck.  Some of the fucking things had no arms and legs, musta been a bad batch at the rubber factory.  As we stuffed out pockets, I felt the eyes of passing neighborhood adults on us: “What the hell are THESE two up to?” 

Me: “I wanna go home.  I don’t wanna spend any more of my quarters.”

Bro #1: “It’s too late, we already spent all of yours.”

Mom found out, of course.  She probably needed a tip for the milkman or something and came up empty at the Mickey Banks.  She quickly puts 2 and 2 together when she starts spotting all of those useless, grotesque Dumpties laying around, getting caught in the vacuum cleaner and shit.   And man, she is pissed  when she realizes we have LEFT THE BLOCK. 

The rest is a blur, but this adventure really ended lousy. 

* * * * * *

Most of you know I’m a singer/songwriter.  But what many people don’t know is that both of my brothers have very lovely singing voices of their own! 

I gotta say, Bro #1 was positively OFF THE HOOK with his ‘in-the-shower’ renditions of many radio hits back in the day.  What he lacked in technique, he made up for with dramatic flair and sheer stamina. 

Now, I’ve always been in love with words and thus, lyrics.  Many people will listen to a song and concentrate on the melody line or the music-end of it.  And believe me, good music absolutely kills me.  But almost equally, I positively lust language and I worship words.

And you know how sometimes people THINK they know the lyrics of a song but it’s not even close?  Sure ya do.  Well, I gotta say that my dear Bro # 1 is probably THE most creative in this department that I have ever heard in my life.  

So herewith I bring you, in honor of his birthday, my Bro # 1’s top 3 HITS IN THE SHOWER

 (* circa early-70’s):

 Instant Karma – ©  John Lennon (1970)

 Real lyric:  Instant Karma’s gonna get you!

Bro’s lyric: It’s The Cops, They’re Gonna Get You!

The Night CHICAGO Died – © Paper Lace (1974)

Real lyric:  The Night Chicago Died!

Bro’s lyric:  The Night She Come…Or Die!

(And my personal, all-time FAVORITE): 

Angie – © The Rolling Stones (1972)

Real Lyric: Angie!  Angie! 

Bro’s Lyric:  I Am Jay!  I Ammmm... JAY! 

* * * * * *

So, BIG BROTHER … if you’re watching… Thanks for the memories.  And the melodies.  And if not those, at least...those incredible lyrics!  

Your Little Sister is wishing you a HAPPY BIRTHDAY AND MANY MORE! 

Lotsa Love~!   J  ~  *