Tell Me A Story

New York Magazine (aka the closest thing I have to a bible) has a regular feature on its website that asks famous New Yorkers 21 questions. The answers are usually self-referential, tongue-in-cheek, or they exude the uncomfortable air that typically surrounds celebrities trying too hard to be witty and/or funny to remind us why we should pay attention to them in the first place.

But Touré — writer and national talking head on hip hop, race, and politics in America — had some of the best answers I’ve ever read. His responses really cut to the core of what it means to live in New York, without relying heavily on the “I <3 NY” ethos that pervades Manhattan.

A sample:

Who’s your favorite New Yorker, living or dead, real or fictional?
I gotta say Malcolm X. In many ways he was the embodiment of the city: larger than life, brash, bold, courageous, influential, and a self-crowned king. His speech rhythms borrowed much from the jazz being made in New York in his day and would inform the hip hop that would be made in New York later. [He’s also one of the] great immigrants who came and helped continue New York’s reputation of being peopled by gargantuan people who could change the world.

Someone I used to know said he loved me “buttloads.”

It was a perfect example of how unique and quirky and lovely he was and how lovely and quirky and unique we were as a couple. What an idea! What a concept! How silly! How novel! That phrase eventually found its way into my everyday vocabulary and popped up unexpectedly in a conversation with my dad.

You see, I always make a point of saying “I love you” as I’m getting off the phone with my parents. I say it in case it’s the last time I talk to them. I want us to have the small comfort of knowing that we at least got to say those words to each other before some lurking tragedy tears us apart. My mom says, “I love you. Bye! Smooches!” and my dad says, “I love you the most”  when it’s time to sign off. But me, I keep it simple: “I love you.”

Except for one time a few years ago when I was on the phone with my dad. “I love you,” he said. “I love you buttloads,” I responded.

But being the American-born child of immigrants who talks a little too fast, my dad heard “busloads.”

So now sometimes when we say goodbye, he’ll switch it up and say: “I love you busloads” or “trainloads” or “boatloads” if he’s feeling saucy.

Even though we have our ups and downs, I’m glad that unique, quirky and now not-so-lovely thing I once shared with someone is now a funny, thoughtful and lovely thing I have with my dad.

I got bad news over the phone today.

I sat in the nursing room’s dirty chair for a moment longer after I’d said good bye and I let out a gasp. Tears burned behind my eyes.

I excused myself from work ten minutes early. The elevator and somehow my legs take me outside. I fought the crush of people going and coming along the chain link fence separating Ground Zero from gawking tourist traffic. “Jesus Christ,” I mutter, holding back the tears. Seriously?

The train comes and makes its stops and my mind wanders to the incomparable… What if he d…? And then as the door’s close at 23rd street, I hear the unmistakable airy yet brassy sound of an accordion.

Seriously? Jesus Christ. I turn my head, eyes narrowed.

“Excuse me for the disturbance, ladies and gentlemen,” a man trills. His accent makes his tongue sound heavy. It trips on the word disturbance. Perched on top of the small black accordion resting on his belly is a two-year-old boy. The toddler’s fine dirty blonde hair curls sweetly along the nape of his neck.

His father presses the keys; the black and white folds of the bellows move in and out. A version of Jennifer Lopez’s “On the Floor”—fit for a stroll in any Paris arrondissement—shatters the usual subway din.

Wanting to be more than eye candy, the little boy presses keys too, adding an out of tune honk to La Lopez’s familiar autotuned track. His father continues to play, but bites at his son’s cherry red jacket to keep his fingers away. The toddler is undeterred, reaching down from his musical throne: Dance the honk away … Tonight we’re gonna honk on the honk!

I smile. And feel the anger and the tears retreat. And for that, I pull out a crisp $1 bill from my purse and hand it to the little boy as his father ambles by, his fingers and hands working to recreate an awful melody.

A crowd of people — employees that have been evacuated, New Yorkers waiting to get their licenses, etc. — hover near the entrance of the Queens DMV on 91st Avenue in Queens.

A West Indian woman, probably in her 70s, speaks up over the din of pissed off people standing in the hot midday sun. Her black shoulder length hair is in teased waves; she wears a black cardigan over a white blouse and a knee length black skirt. Her legs look sturdy, despite the fullness in her knees — they look as if they’re retaining fluid. She repeats the following 3-5 times.

“Do not be alarmed! It was prophesied!”

“Every 2,000 years there is a cleansing!”

“I did not expect it to happen now either, but it was prophesied!”

“The plates in the Earth move!”

“Scientists can not fix it!”

“Go to your book, the Good Book. There is only one book that matters!”

A woman approaches me and asks how to get to South Ferry from the C. I tell her over the roar of trains. She compliments me on my outfit and post job interview glow.

Mom Incarnate: Something good is going to come your way, I can tell. It took me 15 years to get paid for my writing. I didn’t have the, “Oh, let me live in my 2 bedroom East Side apartment with some man.” I had to get a job to pay my rent… but now… it’s happening. (Closes eyes briefly, a beatific smile on her face.) I’m working on a book. But for you, it won’t take that long. I can tell. You’re positive. And I don’t know if you believe in a higher power, but faith… You always need faith.

This statement strikes me because my mom ends every heartwarming pep talk with, “And I don’t know if you believe in a higher power…” I tear up.

Me: You’re right. Thank you so much, you’re saying this at a time when I’m really going through something. I needed to hear that.

MI: Oh, you’re welcome. (She hugs me, her sweaty cheek presses against mine) I’m also studying to be a guidance counselor, isn’t that wonderful?

The woman gets on the C train before the door closes.

Me: That’s great! You have a good one.

MI: You have a GREAT one.