How often have we seen the ad on Amazon or elsewhere for a product that says, “Easy Set Up. 15 Minutes or Less Right Out-of-the-Box?” How many times has that been the case for you?
Let’s see. It usually takes about 10 minutes to get a new monitor, fan, printer, lens, etc. out of the box. I respect that e-tailers try to pack merchandise carefully. No one wants a scratched lens or monitor. We’ve all received products ordered online that came damaged. The same can be said for products we purchased in the store and threw in the back of our cars or shlepped home on the subway.
My New Printer
About two weeks ago, my new HP printer arrived from Amazon. It replaced an HP printer I had for over a decade. It has the standard Wi-Fi or USB connection. After yanking it out of the box, I tried to do the Wi-Fi connection. I had the same problem its predecessor had. It tried to connect. But didn’t fully want to join. Thankfully, I plugged the USB cable in, and it worked. It prints fine. Did it take fifteen minutes? Hell no.
Monitors
For the record, I miss the Apple Thunderbolt monitors. I beg Apple to bring them back. Yes, BenQ makes a nice monitor. I had one for years. Dell makes an okay monitor. But it does not sync well with Apple. Anyway, both monitors are fantastic when they work correctly. BenQ rarely had issues. Dell always does. The graphics look great. But sometimes, the device doesn’t accept the updates as quickly as it should. I have Dell laptop for my job. I do not like it. It should take five minutes to connect the stand to the monitor. If only that were the case.
Photography Equipment and Speakers
Fortunately, I get Nikon equipment and Bluetooth speakers for my TV or MacBook from B&H. First, that store is the best. The prices are great, and the customer service leagues above other retailers. The lenses and filters are easy to remove from the box and connect to my camera. The speakers, whether they be Sony or Bose immediately recognize the Bluetooth connect instantly and U2 or the Yankees sound and/or look great over Apple Music or the YES network.
The bottom line is, don’t say it is a quick set-up—it never is. Talk about how great you will feel once your new toy is put together.
Until you glanced at the subheader, I bet you thought I was writing about that rascally rabbit, Bugs Bunny. Well, finding a doctor could be like walking into the world of Looney Tunes. It can be a trick or treat.
When Doctors are Picked for You
Sometimes, doctors are picked for us. Sometimes not. Sometimes, we pick the right physician and get well. Sometimes, we get sicker than before we went for our examination. When doctors are picked for us, I mean when you’re a kid, and mom brings you to the doctor. My mom (full disclosure: she’s a retired RN) always scheduled appointments for me. Nothing was wrong. She was known as a holiday or weekend ruiner. If we had a holiday weekend, I wound up at the pediatrician, the dentist, or the ophthalmologist.
Doctors are picked for you when you walk into or are flown to the ER. You don’t have a choice. You are stuck with the ER docs. I have done it a few times. My first kidney stone (I’ve had four) was in May 2013. I went to the ER. The doctor was fine. My mom liked her. That was a plus. I remember her calling her friend, another retired RN and saying this doctor and treatment seems fine.
Picking a Doctor Recommend on the Hospital’s Discharge Sheet
After kidney stone number one, I walked out of the hospital feeling somewhat better from the morphine and Toradol. I thought they said tortellini not Toradol. I guess I wanted good food. In hand was a list of urologists. The next day, I called the first one on the list. At the time, he was about a ten-minute walk from my residence. He was very nice and knew what he was doing. A few weeks later, he performed the procedure to remove the stone. My mom liked him.
When a Doctor Picked for You Might Be Clueless
About a decade later, I got stone number two. It was over Rosh Hashanah. I walked home from a nice lunch and felt sick. My mind flashed back to my first stone. I called Mom. She knew something was wrong since I was calling on a holy day. I told her what was happening and said I would shower and try to sleep. If I am still feeling sick after an hour, I will head off to the ER. It lasted about 30 minutes until I headed to the hospital. I noticed an orthodox woman being triaged a few stations next to mine. It’s a great way to start the head of the year. The doctor prescribed a painkiller for me to pick up at CVS, not Tamsulosin (Flomax), the drug used to treat kidney stones. Of course, I did a CT scan. I have had many. The radiologist reported two nodes in my lungs. The ER doctor told me about this and said it was a sign I probably had lung cancer, and I needed to get it checked.
When Mom Picks the Doctor
I freaked out about the possibility I had lung cancer. I called Mom. She said I did not and to call the urologist. I called his office, they were shocked the doctor didn’t prescribe Tamsulosin. I went to see him and got the prescription. Sadly, he is now two subway trains or an Uber away from me.
My mom said she knew a pulmonologist and had no worries that I had lung cancer. I went to see him. I was decked out in my Yankee apparel. He’s a fan of the Bronx Bombers. He looked at the hospital CT scan. He said, here’s your kidney stone. That’s for your urologist. Here’s part of your lungs. Here are the nodes. He noted since it was an abdominal scan, it didn’t show my full lungs, and the ER doctor should have never said anything about cancer, particularly because only a portion of my lungs were on the scan. He prescribed another CT scan. It showed nothing. We briefly chatted about Mickey Mantle and that was it.
Doctor My Eyes
Maybe Jackson Browne is singing about me? I hope the doctors who are doctoring my eyes aren’t running on empty. I have been wearing glasses since I was about five. So, my eyes needed to be doctored. My first ophthalmologist was the one my dad went to. He was fine. I had a few different eye doctors over the years. Most were fine. Eventually, I found one my mom knew; he was the best. I went to him for many years until he was forced to retire early due to a medical condition. Years ago, I had a vision issue, and he spent quite a bit of time on the phone with my mom, walking her through what needed to be done. I wouldn’t have understood a word they said. All worked out well.
After his retirement, the doctor who took over his practice was a colorful and fun character. No problems. I liked him. The only problem was I moved, and heading to his office from my new location took too long. I found someone near my former midtown office. He was decent. I needed an eye drop prescription filled. He said he’d do it right away. Over a month later, I was still waiting. I called his office regularly and was told they were working on it. Eventually, I was able to stroll into Walgreens and get the eye drops.
A former friend of my mom’s, a general practitioner, suggested I write a review on Zocdoc. I did. Nearly two years later, I walked into his office for an exam. His assistant dilated my eyes. Then he came and complained to me about the review and said he could do this exam if I wanted. But he would never see me again. I told him, you already dilated my eyes it would have made more sense to call me before the appointment and cancel. He just looked at me. I did the exam. All was well.
A few years later, I went to another ophthalmologist. He did a visual field and said my pressure was very high. He wanted to do surgery. I checked with other eye physicians. They said it was not high. The number was about two points below what’s considered high. I now go to one of my friends for eye exams. We do the exam and talk about a special swimming hole that no longer exists in our beloved summer camp. If you want to see it in your eyes, you need to look carefully. That may not be what Peter Gabriel meant in his tune. But be careful.
A Doctor Who Bilks the Elderly and Others
I had back pain. It has happened. Thankfully, not in many years. I hope I am not jinxing myself. I went to a general practitioner that I knew. She did a physical and decided I had high blood pressure. I didn’t. Like the visual field, the numbers were a few points below high BP and could have gone either way. She wanted me on all sorts of meds and sent me for tests. I didn’t take the meds. I did one of the tests. It showed nothing. I went from my office to Cornell Medical Center on a very wet day. I was so drenched I had to go to the Gap and buy a new outfit to return to work.
Here’s another one of her foul ups. She was supposed to send my records to the hospital before my kidney stone procedure. The hospital and urologist requested them. She never did. She said she forgot. I once told this story to another doctor. She said, I shouldn’t ask this, but it is…? I said yes. She said the doctor is known for these problems and for messing around with overbilling the elderly. Her Zocdoc reviews were loaded with stories. I didn’t write one. After my experience with the eye doctor, I decided I would never write a review again. I could write many great reviews and a few bad ones. BTW, Zocdoc has been very helpful when picking a physician and making an appointment. Some of the docs have been awful. A few have been fine.
Getting Your Diet Right
Last August, kidney stone number four made me cancel my vacation to Milan. I got my money back and plan to go. But I have been freaking out since August 2024. I have been reading nonstop the flyers from the urologist on proper dieting to prevent stones. I visit legit sites like the American Urological Association, Mayo Clinic, and the Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Health. I do not trust Dr. Google or social media for medical advice. I decided to see a dietician. I did it years ago and did OK. I found one on Zocdoc, and the hell started. I misread her profile and mistook MS for MD. I guess I need to doctor my eyes a little more.
I did three sessions and ran. The first session was basic. She told me to download an app to take images of what I was eating. One night before attending the NY Philharmonic, I went to PJ Clarke’s and had their burger and fries with a Stella. She’s the best woman out there. One day I need to go to Belgium to see her birthplace. I told her about other things I eat. Mind you, I am controlled and eat a very low sugar diet and stay away from salt as much as possible. All the good things are all the bad things. She flipped out that I went to Clarke’s. The next session she was still attacking the place. She said her parents live near Lincoln Center, and she is very familiar with the restaurant. She must have had bad service, didn’t like her meal, or had a bad date at this venue. She wanted me to buy vitamins from some vitamin sales company she gets a commission from. I did not.
She said I should do blood work to help her figure out my diet. I said OK. She got the results, which were fine. Some items were borderline. But not high. Basically, from what the RNs and MDs I know that I sent it to say, you have nothing to worry about. The dietician also said she forgot to ask them to test for a few things. But the labs just do that anyway. So, it doesn’t matter that I forgot. Those items were not included from the lab. The medical professionals I spoke to say the lab will only test what’s on the prescription. She told me I was diabetic. She also said I had nonalcoholic liver disease and needed a liver test. Then she said she is an elite runner and a trainer and tried to sell me her services. This nut thought I was going to have lung failure. That’s when I said goodbye.
The scary thing is she billed my health care provider $2600 per session. They paid her $520. Therefore, she made about $1600 for around two hours’ worth of work. Is she stupid? As a dietician, she is the dumbest of the dumb. Her eating recommendations conflicted with what the urologist said. Her scamming was off the charts. Thankfully I did not fall for it. She said, I needed to see her for at least a year to correct my lung, liver and other issues.
The bottom line is to stay healthy. Jumping back to Peter Gabriel, picking a doctor can be like playing games without frontiers.
Memories of Lazy Weekend Reading with the Newspaper
By Mitchell Slepian
My mom sometimes said, my dad was married to his New York Times (NYT). My parents divorced before I was a teen. I often spent weekends with him. I have distinct memories in the mid-to-late 70s of my dad reading his Sunday newspaper and, of course, reading his copy of the daily paper on his NYC subway train from Sheepshead Bay into Bloomingdales when he was a manager of its finance department.
In 1978, a great year (the Yankees repeated their World Series title), dad, mom, my sister and me left Brooklyn for an exotic place – Staten Island. Dad now had a much longer commute to work. He took his paper on the bus or the Staten Island Ferry.
“You can read it in the Sunday papers. Sunday papers.” We know Joe Jackson was criticizing the British tabloid press when he wrote “Sunday Papers” for his debut album “Look Sharp.” Much of it rings true. But I wanna talk about the Sunday papers in a different mode. I know most people get their news from their phones. I do love Apple News. But there is something about having the old-fashioned newspaper in your hands. I still get a Sunday paper. My mom taught me to read it by placing it on a beach towel on the kitchen table. She said you’d save our and eventually your table from ink stains. The stains that got on my hands that’s what the sink is for.
My memories of the Print Edition
Some of us are old enough to remember the old school weekend NYT. It had tons of thick special sections that were delivered on Saturday. The Arts & Leisure section had information about what was happening in NYC’s museums and elsewhere. Often, you’d see how if you went to one at a certain time you got in for half price or got a free something. My dad clipped out all of this, and on Sunday, we went to Museum Mile and other spots. I have an older cousin whose dad did similar, I loved the museums. My cousin hated them. I’m a member of nearly every museum in NYC. Years later, when both of us were laid off, I spent my time at the Guggenheim, Whitney, Tenement Museum, and others. I always asked my cousin to join me. He would never.
At home on Staten Island, we got our daily delivery of the Staten Island Advance (Advance). I read it. I loved reading Moss Klein’s stories in the sports section about my beloved Bronx Bombers. My first job was in politics, serving as a press secretary for a local NYC Council Member. I pitched our news releases to the Advance and was friendly with several reporters. My sister another newspaper reader became a reporter at the Advance. I was long gone from politics when she was employed at the paper, so we never worked together. That would have been interesting.
When I was a kid, my grandparents would come over from Sheepshead Bay for Sunday afternoon barbeques. We had the NYT and Advance on the table. As we were getting ready for our hot dogs and burgers, grandpa would read both. He usually read the New York Post or New York Daily News at home. In the metro section of the NYT, he always looked for stories about Staten Island. It was funny. That never happened. That’s why Staten Islanders swore by the Advance.
Eventually in the late 90s, I moved out and started buying my Sunday papers. I started in Rego Park and came back to Staten Island. I read all the dailies, the New York Daily News, the New York Post, and my eventual favorite of the bunch, The Wall Street Journal (WSJ). I would buy them before boarding the Subway or Staten Island Ferry. That’s when they sold papers all over. It was before you woke up, and your iPhone was buzzing like a madman with the latest from Apple News, social media, and Snaps from your friends, about, as Depeche Mode would put it, “the world we live in and life in general.”
I enjoyed reading the papers on the commute to and from work. Of course, the news in the morning wasn’t any different than the news on the ride home. I just read a different paper. So, the only differences could have been the opinions of the writers. Nothing was updated from the morning to the evening. We sometimes had the radio or news channels on at work. So, we followed Wall Street and breaking news with the available technology to the best of our abilities.
On my ferry rides, I often sat with a group of friends on the a.m. commute into the city. We discussed the latest news. Most of us had a paper. Usually, our conversations focused on the Yankees. We did discuss politics and movies. We compared the opinions of the writers in the different papers.
When I was back on Staten Island, my sister got an apartment in the same building complex as mine. On weekends, I would read my copy of the NYT and walk over to her building, throw it at her door, and scream out, “Mr. Flintstone.” During the holiday season, I put a card into the paper and begged for a tip. She gave me a dollar. It was so sweet of her.
As you have realized, I love baseball. I remember sitting at my table reading the NYT, which we know is not known for having a great sports section. I read its feature about the orthopedic surgeon Dr. James Andrews (now retired). You got nervous when you heard your favorite athlete was going to see him. You knew he was down for the count. The article gave an in-depth feature about how he evaluated and treated the athletes. It was a great learning experience. Holding the paper in my hands and reading about baseball feels more real than scrolling through my phone or tablet.
The Arts & Leisure section of the NYT offered similar. When “Wicked” was still starring Kristin Chenoweth and Idina Menzel, it did a terrific feature about how the two Tony winners were brought up and how they began their storied acting careers. Jumping ahead to the WSJ’s Off-Duty section, Lettie Teague’s weekly wine column offers great advice on what to sip, buy, and order. The paper’s magazine sectionoften has beautiful watches. I want all of them. Sometimes, I get ‘em.
One more memory of dad and his paper. All the Sunday papers had many circulars featuring coupons of the latest sales at the drug store, supermarket, local clothing stores and restaurants. My dad called them “couponys.” He used to sit and clip them out. He stored them in an index card holder and had a filing system. He was one of those people, who would walk up to the register in Waldbaum’s with more groceries than you can imagine and pay about $10.
I Began Having Newspaper Issues
I moved off the rock and went back to Queens. I transferred my weekend NYT subscription. Eventually, I switched to WSJ’s Weekend Journal. Pre-Covid, the paper used to be delivered to my apartment door. During the height of the lockdown and today, all the papers are in the lobby. We rarely had any problems. There was a pile of newspapers on the radiator. On Saturday morning, I would walk downstairs around 6 a.m. and take mine. The walks up and down the steps prepared me for the day. I would start reading. Sometimes, I would finish the main section and go to morning services or elsewhere— hopefully, Yankee Stadium. They returned to deliver the paper to my front door a few months ago. Then it went back to the lobby.
Most people I know stopped getting newspaper delivery or stopped buying them at newsstands. Many newsstands are only selling junk food. Several have closed. Just walk along NYC’s streets and you will see many locked-up newsstands. Most of the people I know, just get their news online.
Sadly, since the beginning of 2025 my WSJ stopped showing up. I go downstairs and see other papers. I have emailed and spoken to the WSJ’s customer care countless times. They keep promising to get it right. Occasionally the paper comes late Saturday night. It is still the weekend. But by that time, I do not want to read it. I have already seen everything on my phone. I like a Sunday paper. I enjoy being offline as much as possible on the weekend. Like most people, I am on too much. While disappointed to do this, I will likely cancel my Sunday paper.
Marc and Alana got off their trains. Each hoped their “meeting” would not be as horrendous as their prior two. Before heading over to Clarke’s they went to their respective banks.
They both smelled smoke and saw a haze in the air. It was emanating from the direction of the U.N. Their eyes wandered that way. The smoke thickened. Normal people would have walk in another direction. But they headed toward the source of the fire.
There were a few madmen and women lighting trash cans on fire while ranting about the world. Sirens were heard in the background.
Marc and Alana raced toward the criminals. Alana knew she couldn’t shoot her most powerful weapon, wine. It would make the fire burn brighter. But she knew she had to do something. Marc saw them. He didn’t want to get dirty. He was in his favorite Lacoste shirt and Gap jeans. He wanted to look nice for Alana. He knew he had to stop this madness.
One of the crazies bumped into him. He pushed her away. She charged into him. He ducked. He had no desire to expose his powers at the UN. Alana was trying to put out one of the fires when someone picked up a flaming trash can and tossed it at her.
She went nuts. She kicked the can down. But got minor burns on her legs. The person who threw the can was laughing. She ran up to him and punched him so hard. His mouth fell wide open. She unleashed pounds of figs down his throat. He fell down and choked. He passed out. She walked away from him.
Meanwhile, Marc was engaged in a fight with the woman who shoved him. She was throwing garbage at him. His arms bulged. He opened his hands as pomegranates flew out his palms. Several hit the woman right in her head. He shot barley and honey. Finally, he entangled her in his weapons. She started crying. He checked to see if she was ok. As he turned around to run an EMT was racing toward them.
He knew he had to be swift. Alana was racing ahead and shooting wine at a woman who was wielding a machete. She usually fought with grape wine. But started drinking an amazing Israeli pomegranate wine and added it to her repertoire. She knew she would probably hit Marc with it. But wanted to practice to make sure it was effective.
The two kept at it. The NYPD eventually arrived. One of them tripped over one of the trashcans.
Marc and Alana started running toward Clarke’s. They were texting each other that they’d be late for their get together. But both understood why.
Alana stood in front of Clarke’s. Marc never wrote back. That was unlike him. Although they only had a brief romance many moons ago, she knew him too well. They were always good friends. And enemies. Alana decided to wear pink sneakers. She wanted to play with his head.
She stood there for about 30 minutes waiting. He was never late. Tears fell from her eyes as she gave up and walked toward the E-train. As she was walking she heard a faint yell calling her name. She turned around. Marc was standing there. She was happy. Yet annoyed. She was about to start a fight. She really wanted to. But decided to momentarily hold off.
They looked at each other. Jen was not far behind Marc. Alana couldn’t tell if they were together or if she came on her own. Of course, they all knew of each other. She wanted to be the mature one. She knows Jen is a bit goofy. She saw the two of them walking closer to her. And she held her ground.
Marc got closer. Jen still trailed him by about 10 feet. Alana was ready to fire away. But she held back. It was so hard for her. Jen was smiling. Marc went right up to her and said, “hi”.
“What is she doing here?” retorted Alana. Marc started to shake. Alana was getting ready to take both of them out.
“She followed me from my office.” Alana shook her head.
“You know we have this crazy relationship.”
“Marc you nut cake. Isn’t that your problem with all the girls you date? Have you ever dated someone normal? I’m probably the most normal you’ve been with. And that doesn’t say much for either one of us.”
“Please, Alana. She’s has problems. You know she’s listening to us right now. I know you could take her out. I don’t want to have to fight again. But please don’t attack her.”
“Jen, what’s your deal? We both love Marc. Neither of us is probably right for him. He’s probably not right for us. But I set this up. Get away.”
Jen started to cry. Alana wound her arm up. Her hand opened. She unleashed a bushel of apples right at Jen. She followed it with figs. But she threw everything in a way that’d they’d just graze her. She wanted to scare Jen. Scare her she did. Jen jumped away as the last apple flew by her head. She fell down and scraped her knees and hands.
Marc started shooting honey at Alana. But he was no match for her. She was on fire. He tried to hit her with pomegranates. He missed.
Marc enjoyed his drinks with Jen. She was as pretty and nutty as ever. Just the way he liked his ladies. They spent about two hours in the bar, kissed on the lips, and went to their respective train stations.
They didn’t make plans to see each other again. But knowing in due time they would. That’s how it goes. He hopped on the arriving E subway and headed back to Forest Hills. Little did he know the woman who was following him earlier was in the next car. She walked between the cars and sat several seats away from where he was standing. Marc was not drunk. He was just calm and happy that he spent time with Jen.
The woman was dressed in all black — black running pants, a black athletic skirt and a long-sleeved black tee shirt. She wore red lipstick, black nail polish, and had a chamsah chain dangling from her neck. She’s in great shape. Her ear buds was in her ears and was listening to Bauhaus.
Marc got off the train and so did the Goth chic. Marc hiked over to Duane-Reade to pick up some stuff. For a guy who orders most of his stuff online, he spends way too much time in stores.
He was moseying down 108 Street. Alana, the girl who has been tracking him was not far behind. She slowed down for a moment or two. Marc also stopped. He was paranoid. Not alcohol. Jen.
He sensed he was being followed. He knew people might catch onto him eventually. But he was doing good things. He heard Alana’s footsteps getting closer. He turned around and there she was. Her gorgeous green eyes with black eyeliner and perfect body were approaching him.
“Alana Elias?”
“So you remember me?”
“Of course.”
“I always liked you, Marc. I know we played a little. Remember when were both always dressed in all black? I know you still do.”
“Yeah. We had some good times.”
“They were limited. Hell, I refused to admit it. But I even enjoyed when we cut few days of college and went to that camp you call your temple. I complained. But thinking back those two or three days in the middle of nowhere and swimming in the lake were the best for me.”
“I loved our bathing suits, ha, ha…”
“I bet you did. But you burned me. I really liked you.”
“I burned you? Nah. You were always talking about other guys. I asked you not to.”
“Because I’m just a little daffy. But I’m better now. And I will have you. “
Her eyes turned blood red.
“Maybe you will.”
She looked so hot.
“Are you still lighting candles on Friday nights? “
“Yes. But I have my vices. Sometimes I light black candles or red ones. Sometimes I need to play Joy Division, as I’m lighting and keep listening. How about your vices?”
“Well yeah, I try but I have them. When the Yankees play well, Friday night and the boys from ‘da Bronx are needed. Sometimes a Brennan & Carr roast beef sandwich is needed. We all have issues.”
Marc smiled, waved goodbye, and started walking down the block. He loved her. But knows she’s a head case. So is Jen. But Alana is tougher to handle. They grew up together. As he was walking, Alana yelled at him for going. She started to scream. He didn’t want to fight.
She caught up to him and grabbed him by the neck. She then started kissing him. She was slapping him, too. He threw her down. She hit the ground hard. But bounced up so fast that he didn’t even see what was coming next.
Her tan face turned red. Her hair was flying. Her green eyes were blood red. Her toned arms wound up like a pitcher. She waved them a few times. She gritted her teeth. Alana’s legs stomped down. Marc was not sure what to do. He didn’t want to unleash his powers on her. He didn’t trust she wouldn’t put onto YouTube. He tried to back up. As he did she pitched several bright red enlarged apples. They flew at a high speed. One of them hit him right in the jaw.
He retaliated. His eyes bulged and he looked straight at her face. He unleashed a few pomegranates laced in honey. The two of them volleyed their weapons back and forth for several minutes. They were in incredible form. If only they were partners. Unlikely.
Marc was about to release barley as an apple smacked him the head and broke open. Apple seeds infiltrated into his mouth, nose, and eyes. He was momentarily blind. Alana didn’t stop.
Marc shot out the barley and stuck her hands together with honey. She looked at him and took a breath.
“This is just for starters, Marc my boy. I’m sure our paths will cross again shortly.”
Marc got off the R line and was back in Forest Hills after a typical workday. Nothing unusual happened. Everything was chill. He strolled down 108 Street towards his apartment.
He saw all the usual folks along the way — The elderly with their aides taking them to the store, kids on their bikes and the religious folks with their noses deep in a prayer book as they walked down the block. It was amazing they could walk without tripping or walking into a tree. Perhaps a greater power was watching over them?
He strolled past his block and went to a few stores and started walking home.
Nothing unusual was going on. A light rain started. It didn’t bother Marc at all. He strolled along 108 Street. He passed a few of the shuls and went toward his apartment building. He walked in. Made chit chat with the doorman about his beloved Yankees. He checked the mailbox. As usual, he got nothing in the mail.
He was about the turn the oven and bake chicken when his phone rang. It was a friend he hadn’t heard from in a while. He always liked her. Years ago, they date. She said she was thinking about him and was wondering if they could meet in Long Island City for a beer. He grabbed his coat and raced to E train.
The train actually got him there quickly. He went to Citibank to get some cash and walked over to the bar. On his way, he heard some loud noises and saw some smoke. So he detoured a block or two to see what was going on. He saw a bunch of teens lighting M-80s and setting things on fire in the park near MOMA PS 1. Some parents were screaming at them. Their young children were getting scared.
Marc just wanted to see Jen. He always liked her. He dated many Jens in his life. They were always pretty, sweet, and a bit off the wall. Just what he lived for. But he knew he had to take care of things. He picked up his pace toward the park.
Quickly his eyes scanned the terrain. He noted there were four kids wreaking havoc. Two little boys were crying. Their moms were trying to calm them down. It seems the mischief-maker’s wares landed near the kids who were having fun on the slidin pond. They fell off and scraped their knees.
As Marc approached them a quarter stick of dynamite glazed his right arm. He began to convulse. People thought he was going to pass out. It didn’t look good. A lady came over to him to see if he needed help. As she approached him he began to shoot barley out of his eyes. The obnoxious teens started to laugh and taunt him. They quickly shut their mouths when the barley was making its way down their throats. They started gasping for air and choking. Marc backed up. He took a look around. People were staring at him. He knew he had to go. He took a look at the kids. They were still choking but coming around. As they got back on their feet he pomegranates flew out of his fingers. The kids were down for the count.
Marc checked his phone. He had about 10 minutes to get over to the bar and see Jen. Boy did he need a beer. He texted her and said he’s on his way. He started walking over there. Little did he know another woman was following him.
Marc woke up and said Modeh Ani, the wake up prayer. He slurped down a glass of Tropicana while wolfing down a bowl of Frosted Flakes. He put on a grey dress shirt, black pants and sneakers. He’d change into his dress clothes when he got to work.
He grabbed his bag containing his teffilin, talit and siddur and exited his apartment. He opened his shul and put on his religious materials and began to pray while awaiting a minyan.
Slowly folks strolled in. Prayers were said. People left.
Marc took off his kippah and went to the train. Marc is a good Jew. He doesn’t classify himself. He certainly isn’t a Chasidic or Ultra-Orthodox. But an observant person. Many people don’t even recognize him as a Jew. He looks like your typical New Yorker. Half the time he’s wearing his Yankee hat and t-shirt. The other times he’s in his usual Lacoste shirt and Gap jeans or dress pants.
He hopped on the train and went to Midtown to his office. He exited the M train and began to walk down Avenue of the Americas. The usual breakfast carts were bustling with customers. New Yorkers moved in their hurried way to them and raced to their offices.
Marc bumped into a friend on the way to his office. They chatted momentarily. “Hey, Marc Russo, what’s up my bud?”
“Nothing, Jimmy, you?”
“Marc I was invited for Pesach dinner at a friend’s house? What kind of wine do I need to bring?”
“Just make sure it is Kosher for Passover. To be safe get a bottle that is also mevushal. I doubt the people that invited you are ultra observant. I’m willing to bet they don’t know what mevushal means. But go that way to be safe. Bear in mind, we have so many dietary rules, we don’t even understand them all. Someone at the Seder might,” chuckled Marc. They fist bumped and went to their offices.
Marc’s friends ranged from Chasidic to secular Jews and people other faiths. He is always happy to explain customs to his friends. He’s a firm believer that understanding each other will promote a healthier lifestyle. Most goyim know of Chanukah, Rosh Hashanah and Pesach. But the reality is they really don’t understand the customs and meaning behind the holidays. Or Yom Tovs as Marc and his fellow Yids would say.
He got to his desk and tried to login. Of course, the network was down. That’s the routine in his office. He checked in with his IT buddy. He was told they expect to get things going in about 20 minutes. He waltzed over to the kitchen for a glass of water and grabbed an orange. from the fruit tray.
He did a little work. He put on his Yankees jacket and decided to jump on the train to get a haircut at lunchtime. The people he works for are clueless. He was sad when he saw the number of homeless on the train’s platform. And really disgusted when he saw a rat on the tracks. They usually come out in the evening. But the city so overrun that they come out anytime. Two late aged male teens started harassing a homeless man.
They started taunting him and laughing at him.
“Why don’t you kids shut up. If you only understood my situation maybe you’d have some sympathy,” blurted out the homeless man, who was about 30, frail with blonde hair.
The kids just teased him and said he’s probably a junkie.
“No, I’ve never touched drugs. A beer or a shot of Vodka once in a while, but I’ve done nothing else. My brother and uncle sexually abused me. When I spoke up about it, I was beaten and thrown out of the house. I’ve lived here and there all of my life.”
The teen huddled and one yelled out, “Great story sounds like a load of BS.” Then they opened a Coke and poured it all over him.
Marc was pissed. He hated the way these obnoxious have it all, never worked for anything kids acted. They were walking around with $1,000 iPhones and the latest in everything else.
“Why don’t you guys leave this poor soul alone and jump on the approaching train,” Marc bellowed out to the kids. “Shut up you dumb Yankee fan. Boston rules.”
Marc decided not for to get too crazy walked down the platform. He was surprised he even opened his mouth that much. He normally was not confrontational. He thought he was done with the chaos when a Coke bottle hit him in the head. He turned around and saw the belligerent kids approaching him.
“I’d get walk back to the other side of the platform if I were you guys. Or better yet, exit the station and forget about your little episode,”
“Why Yankee what are you going to do? There are two of us and we are bigger than you.”
“And stupider,” chuckled Marc.
The teens ran toward him. He moved away and they fell on fell on their butts. But were up quickly and readied themselves to throw punches at Marc. The taller kid tossed a punch. Marc blocked the punch. The other kid tried to kick Marc in the stomach.
Marc laughed harder. The two kids started screaming. A small crowd gathered. Someone dialed 911. But lost the connection on their iPhone. The crowd continued to gather. But no one approached any of the three. They were a captive audience. All had their phones out ready to shoot away. It says little about our society. That people would rather snap photos of criminals than trying to help the victim. But Marc was no victim.
The kids lunged at him. All of a sudden Marc tensed up, his muscle toned arms got bigger. His head started to shake. His huge legs stomped down on the platform. He quickly reached his enlarged left hand into the pockets of his jeans. In his hands was bright red oversized pomegranate. He held it up to the sky. Then he let it loose with the precision of a game closer waiting for the third out in the World Series. While airborne it split in half and nailed each kid in the knees. The kids fell down. One started to cry. He reached back into his pocket. As he reached in he heard the kids beg for mercy. Another pomegrante magically appeared. He wound up and let it loose. It nailed the first kid in the face and ricocheted off and smacked the one in the arm.
“Now boys, I think you’ve learned your lesson. Let this be a warning if you ever harass anyone, I will unleash the other weapons in my arsenal. I don’t want to get into fights. But I won’t stand for troubled people getting hurt.”
The kids nodded in acceptance. The R-train pulled in and those on the platform shoved their way on.
Mitchell's thoughts, photos, etc. 