is the word 'diary' better than the word 'blog'? probably not.
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Rules and Exceptions.
Last week on my way home from Philly, the train was packed. I come home on Mondays when I spend the weekend in Philly, which means that I usually get to ride during hours when the trains aren�t packed. But last Monday was Labor Day. And apparently every person of Caribbean origin or extraction who now lives in New Jersey was bound and determined to make his or her way to my neighborhood to walk around looking at people during the Caribbean Carnivale that was going on just a few blocks from my house. Did I mention that my neighborhood is mostly populated by people from the Caribbean? I think I did.
Anyway, so the train from Trenton to New York was packed with loud loud teenagers (and some adults) on their way to a day out of doors and away from parental guidance. They were so loud, I swear it was louder that many of the louder rock shows I�ve ever been to. I was sad I had forgotten my earplugs. But I managed to tune it out after some time being annoyed, and I did get some work done.
Then they were on the subway ride with me from Penn Station to Brooklyn. And then when we all got off the train at the Franklin Avenue stop, policemen were making us exit only through one stairwell because of crowding in the streets. They had totally shut down the Brooklyn Museum station, also near my house. Turns out, however, that that stairwell I was forced to use as an exit left me on the wrong side of Eastern Parkway from my house. And Eastern Parkway was totally closed for parade traffic. And no one would let me use the subway underpass to get to the other side of the street. RULES were being applied. Crowds need to be controlled. Stories cannot be listened to or evaluated. It was sad because I had a rolling suitcase and a heavy shoulder bag, and my suitcase kept running over people�s toes, and then people would get really afternoon-drunk-irate at me, and also my back hurt from carrying my shoulder bag, and I had to pee. Anyway, at some point I just gave up and approached a police officer to ask how far I�d have to walk to get to a place where I might get to the other side of the street. But I didn�t even get a chance to ask that, because this police officer, who must have noticed the dual look of nihilistic resignation and not-here-to-party I was wearing, yelled out to me, �Hey, Cynthia! HOW ARE YOU?� As you might guess, I looked back at him in utter confusion. He then said to me, quickly, under his breath, �youknowme� and then followed it with, �How are you, CYNTHIA?� I said, �FINE! HOW HAVE YOU BEEN?� and he said �GREAT� and he let me into the subway underpass.
Much could be said here. Like: why would my KNOWING him make it more explainable that he could make an exception to the rule for me? I mean, isn�t that MORE objectionable than making an exception because I really did live on the other side of the street? But let�s forget that and just concentrate on this: CYNTHIA?! Ha. Apparently that is the generic name for white girl in the mind of a Latino cop trying to control crowds in a Caribbean neighborhood.
Anyway, I thanked this old friend of mine profusely and made my way down the stairs. Then I was told I couldn�t walk across to the other side. Oh, how tantalizing close the stairway to the other side of the street was, a mere ten feet or so. But the no-exception-making cops downstairs were bound and determined to enforce the rule that the only people allowed in the subway area were people taking the subway. At first I tried to explain that I had just been on the subway, and hadn�t been given a choice of which stairway to take, and I live in the neighborhood and just wanted to go home. But then I shut my trap because I realized, all of a sudden-like, that it would only cost me $2 to get home if I just reentered the subway system and then immediately exited on the other side, as if I had just come from Coney Island instead of Manhattan. And that is exactly what I did.
Later that night I went back out to Manhattan to have dinner with Sara and Darien, and watch Justin Timberlake on HBO with Linda at Marian�s place. But by then the parade and party had moved elsewhere, so all was well. We dined at Republic then had tasty tasty drinks at some italian place on some street in the low 20s somewhere between broadway and park.
11:54 p.m. - September 09, 2007
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