A Chance Encounter

This is my original story chronicling how a Christmas holiday spent exploring NYC helped me cope with the emotional turmoil of leaving my home and family in Egypt after the Arab Spring.

A Chance Encounter

By: Amira Badawey

All my bags are packed I’m ready to go

I’m standing here outside your door

I hate to wake you up to say goodbye

But the dawn is breakin’ it’s early morn

The taxi’s waitin’ he’s blowin’ his horn

Already I’m so lonesome I could die

So kiss me and smile for me

Tell me that you’ll wait for me

Hold me like you’ll never let me go

Cause I’m leaving on a jet plane

Don’t know when I’ll be back again

Oh babe I hate to go

Leaving on a Jet Plan echoed in my head while I packed my life into two suitcases. I was preparing to leave my home, my family, my country and move to the US. I sorted through my belongings, selecting what to take. I wept, knowing that I’d be leaving behind loved ones, a lifetime of memories, and a future of dreams.

Hard work always pays off, or so we’re told. Study diligently and you are rewarded with high grades. Put in the time and effort at work and you get a promotion. Yet, a single incident can eradicate all the hard work and in a heartbeat you lose everything. One of the first phrases our parents teach us in Egypt is “In Shaa Allah”, if God is willing. Can you take us to the amusement park? In Shaa Allah. Can I get more allowance for doing the dishes? In Shaa Allah. We learn early on that we are not in control of our destinies, for everything is by God’s will. Nevertheless, we’re expected to strive at achieving life’s rewards. We must work tirelessly and maintain the patience of Job. When the coveted promotion goes to the boss’s inept nephew, people condole us with “God wasn’t willing for it to happen. He has something better in store for you.” When we lose everything we’ve worked for, all our hopes, all our reasons for being, it is God’s will. We are helpless. We can only pick ourselves up and start over, while thanking God for his mercy, for we are better off than others. Mourning our loss is a sin. “Do you object to God’s will?” we are accused, “This is a test. Patience and perseverance will get you through. God will reward you, if not in life, then in the afterlife.” We are programmed to endure hardship with a sliver of hope for a reward after death. 

Spring is a time for blossoming and prosperity. However, the Arab Spring hit Egypt like a hurricane, destroying everything in its path. The revolutionists wanted to dispose of the country in its entirety and start anew. The economy and every other domestic system crumbled with the crush of the political structure. The only form of communication to survive the tumultuous birth of democracy was argument. Everyone was fighting with everyone. If you didn’t wholeheartedly support the revolution, then you were against it. If you dared to criticize the situation, you were pinned with a scarlet letter of traitor, democracy hater. Egyptians only saw the world in black and white. White being their opinions and black was all the others, the naysayers. I had lost my country, my job and life savings were soon to follow. I sought refuge in leaving Egypt, while I still loved it. As I stepped off the plane at JFK with a tear stained heart, I was certain that I would fall apart after a few weeks. Yet, I survived the first year and was planning a vacation. 

For the past twenty years, I had been the good student, the obedient daughter and diligent employee. I was exhausted, always rushing to meet deadlines and working tirelessly to secure my career. I continuously did what I was supposed to do, when I was supposed to do it. And In the process, I became dull and humorless. I couldn’t remember the last time I laughed out loud, the last time I played hooky to go to the movies, or the last time I merely had fun for the sake of having fun. I decided to spend Christmas break in New York and enjoy myself as much as I could. Yet, solitary tourism was a grim notion. Not having someone to remind me of the memories, someone to smile with over the mishaps was disheartening. My insecurities about being a thirty-seven year old single woman unfolded. The thought of spending ten days with just me, and no other human contact, was daunting. Surprisingly, I received a message from a friend, Magdy, saying that he would be in Philadelphia for the holidays and might come into the city for a quick visit. 

***

On The night before the beginning of my vacation, I was as excited as a child on her first day of school. I woke up the next day with a smile on my face as I rushed through my morning routine, eager to get to the city as soon as possible and rendezvous with Magdy.

I arrived at Penn Station at 8:30 am. The streets weren’t yet littered with tourist. I leisurely walked around without fear of stumbling over sightseers. Hidden snuggly in my jacket was a faithful travel companion, my digital camera. I took it out and captured the memories for future returns. I photographed Macy’s window displays along 34^th street, the statue at Herald Square, the Christmas tree at Bryant Park, Radio City Hall, the enormous holiday decorations lining 6^th avenue, and the Cartier store disguised as a gold and red glittery gift. I spent the majority of the day roaming Rockefeller Plaza. I enjoyed chocolate dipped macaroons from Godiva. I browsed the merchandize at the NBC experience store, reminiscing about Seinfeld and Friends. I admired the Chinese silk tunics on display at the MET shop and scrutinized the overly priced Egyptian memorabilia. I obsessively glanced at my phone, checking for missed calls or text messages, although I knew there were none. “This is ridiculous”, I thought, “Am I expected to spend the entire day tethered to my phone, hoping it’ll ring?” I decided to call Magdy. I looked up the familiar number and dialed. The phone rang for a while and then it went to voice mail. I left a message, 

“Hi! This is Amira. I just wanted to let you know that I’m already in the city. So call me when you get in and we can meet up, . . . or whatever works for you. . . . um. Okay, looking forward to seeing you. Byeeee.” 

I wondered aimlessly around the Plaza. With nothing better to do, I decided to ascend Rockefeller Center to the Top of The Rock and observe Manhattan. 

It was a sunless New York winter day with clear skies. I could see as far as the George Washington Bridge. Forgetting my fear of heights, I surveyed the magnificent Manhattan horizon. It is always the unexpected that brings so much joy. If Magdy hadn’t stood me up, I would’ve missed the best view of New York City. I sat on a large leather bench and took in the sight. The sheer size of Central Park was overpowering. Although it looked more like a winter horror than wonder land, it was captivating. As I rode down the psychedelic elevator, I checked my phone. There were still no messages, but to my surprise almost ninety minutes had passed. My ticket included admissions to MoMA. I wasn’t sure if Magdy was coming. Ever the planner and always the hopeful, I convinced myself to call him one last time. There was no answer. I reached for my guidebook and headed north on 6^th Ave in search of the modern arts.

I started on the last floor of MoMA and worked my way down. I looked at exhibits and paused on occasion to read the descriptive plaques. My heart wasn’t really into it, until I came across “The Scream”. I couldn’t stop staring at the painting. It was smaller than I expected, yet quite poignant in the expression of agony. The distorted face conveyed congealed shock, pain and fear. I could’ve been looking into a mirror. During my first year in New York, I was overwhelmed with the newness of the experience. I missed my family and the familiarity of little things like the metrics system and Celsius degrees. I missed Egyptian food I rarely ate but always had the convenience of consuming when I got the urge. I frequently ended in bed, crying and catching my breath between sobs. Washing away the tears, I was always surprised by the person staring back in the mirror. I didn’t recognize myself. I was a stranger. An old stranger agonizing over what the future might hold. “The Scream” evoked all those tearful nights.

Upon exiting MoMA, I walked straight to Penn station. It was early, not yet dark, but I had no desire to remain in Manhattan. I wasn’t hungry, despite only eating the macaroons. It’s amusing how things changed over the course of the day, how harshly they turned from sweet to sour, from light to dark. My feelings were dark, a mixture of blue sadness, black anger, and gray melancholy. I was homesick. I was lonely. I was angry for being homesick and lonely. As the train moved away from Manhattan and back to Long Island, my disposition darkened with the skies.

***

I had planned to see a production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof the next day, but I wasn’t in the mood. I decided to stay in and watch TV. The rest of the holiday wasn’t any better. Every morning, I forced myself to get out of bed, to get dressed and do something, anything. Every second, I forced myself to breathe in and breathe out.  I saw a couple of movies and I caught a cold. I went to an outlet mall seeking retail therapy to alleviate my somber trance, but to no avail. Each evening, I had dinner in bed and counted the days until the end of my self-induced sequester.

On the last Saturday, I had a ticket to see The Nutcracker. Lincoln Center was a vision out of the enchanted forest. Snowflakes cascaded onto the fountain and an animated toy train circled a large Christmas tree atop Avery Fisher Hall. I stood outside admiring the view. My mood lightened as I watched children catch snowflakes in their mouths and tourists pose for photographs. Entering the David E. Koch Theater, a smile emerged and remained plastered across my face throughout the entire performance. My joy didn’t deflate during intermission. Nestled squarely in the middle of a bank of seats, I was privy to the interactions of those around me. I sat in my place happily thumbing through the playbill and eavesdropping on their conversations. As the final act came to an end, I jumped out of my seat with jubilance and applauded with all my might. I understood why The Nutcracker was a cherished Christmas tradition and why families continue to attend the performance whether with their six year old daughters or grown sons. Clara and Fritz invite us to venture to their amazing dreamland, where gingerbread soldiers battle mice and little girls are crowned princesses of the Sugar Plums. A land we can revisit as often as we please as long as we hold the memory of The Nutcracker in our hearts. A land I was fortunate enough to witness in all the glory of the New York City Ballet.

I woke up the next day still basking in a dreamy state. My sadness, anguish and melancholy were fading, not so much for the imminent end of the vacation but rather the joyful aftertaste of The Nutcracker. I resolved to spend the day in my small town of Rockville Center, sleeping in, checking Facebook and Twitter, and eating at a local diner. 

One topic in particular was trending in the Egyptian Twitterverse that day. The country’s political unrest had devastatingly devalued the local currency. The elected government did nothing to rectify the situation. Instead, they adopted a passive attitude, blaming the old regime and never putting any solutions forward. Everyone was tweeting about the economy free fall. Comprehending the complicated tapestry of Egypt’s infant political system was as vexing as following the online rants. I escaped to Facebook, yet the Egyptian Pound’s plight followed me. The virtual arguments were taxing. Rather than justify their rational, people hurled insults at one another. I responded to tweets and posts with humor to deflect the tension. Soon after, I was frustrated and my earlier exuberance melted away. “To Hell with this”, I thought as I turned off my computer, got dressed and left for Manhattan. Not wanting to spend the day stewing in an endless political debate, I jumped on the train and retreated to New York City, hiding from the chirps of my twitter account.

I exited Penn Station and walked up the familiar path to Time Square. It was December 30^th, preparations for the New Year celebration were underway. A large crystal ball hovered over the busy intersection of 7^th avenue and 47^th street. Two stages were erected to accommodate TV presenters. The area was packed with crowds of people. I turned left onto a side street to escape the masses. As I walked down 46^th street, passing Broadway marquees, I noticed a poster promoting Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. I bought a ticket for that night’s show. 

The play had nothing on Elizabeth Taylor and Paul Newman. The cast stumbled around Maggie and Brick’s bed while shouting out their lines. The performance finally ended after three agonizing hours. As I stood up and turned around to put on my coat, I noticed James Franco in the seat behind me. I was overtaken with the urge to proclaim “That’s James Franco”, but to whom? Should I have told the couple to my left, who spent the entire time sipping wine and kissing? Should I have told the lady to my right who was chatting with her husband? I stood there looking left to right, following some invisible tennis match. On a whim, I decided to complement his acting, but for the love of God I couldn’t think of any other movie besides Pineapple Express. “You are a sophisticated thirty seven year old woman who enjoys the ballet and Tennessee Williams, how can you praise a stoner movie?” I scorned. After a while I finally remembered one of his worthier performances, thus saving face, but not for long. As I conjured up enough courage to approach him, his back was turned. That didn’t stop me, for I was hell bent on talking to him.  I tugged at his sleeve and he turned around. His face was five inches away, if I had tripped, I would have fallen into his arms. I gave him my most poised smile and said, “I liked you in Milk.” He nodded and replied with a silent thank you. For a sane person, that would have been enough. But I was running low on sanity that day. Instead of walking away, I gushed, “This is such a big deal. I have been in New York for a year and you are my first celebrity”. As soon as the words flew out of my mouth, remorse followed.  Concealing my blushed induced embarrassment, I looked down at the floor and wished him a happy holiday. Mr. Franco’s response was quite charming and gracious. He smiled, with all his face, and wished me happy holidays in return. Although he was smiling in amusement to my comic reaction, I chose to believe that he was simply smiling at me.

On my way back to Penn Station, I noticed a bounce in my step. I was dying to tell someone, anyone, that I had just met James Franco. I almost shouted it out to complete strangers. Skipping down 8^th Avenue my smile widened with each leap. The darkness dissipated into New York’s aura. As the sadness, anger, and melancholy lifted, I could see more clearly and out in the obscure crowd I noticed a face, someone I hadn’t seen in over twenty years. She looked up and smiled. We ran towards each other and embraced. The first thing she said was, “Oh my God, you look so old.” This took me by surprise, for I had forgotten how painfully honest she can be. Then I remembered detecting glimpses of her throughout the week. She was present in my passion for The Nutcracker and disdain with the political discourse, in the ferociousness of my humorous tweets, the spontaneity of planlessly riding into the city that Sunday, and the giddiness of proclaiming My First Celebrity. At that moment, I decided to hold on to her, to hold on to me. A me that existed before the seriousness of life took over, before I was burdened with the responsibilities of making a living and riddled with the guilt of disappointing my mother for never marrying. A me who made her own luck. A me who allowed herself to be silly and relished the experience. Since 2011, I’d been living the life of a victim, grieving the loss of my country and predictability of my life. I’d been pursuing the negatives and neglecting the positives. By approaching James Franco, I took control of the situation. I changed it from “Seeing James Franco” to “Meeting James Franco”. I made that happen, and I can make my time on earth a great and memorable experience. I have learned to savior the little things in life and embrace happiness, even when it comes in the form of a chance encounter with James Franco and the pleasure of bragging about it to everyone I meet.

A Frankenstonian Dictatorship

Late January 2014 I was on holiday in Egypt. Jet lagged and unable to sleep, I got hooked on BBC's Sherlock, watching all three seasons consecutively. I was already aware of Benedict Cumberbatch, for he was all over the place in 2013, yet I wasn't intrigued enough to learn his name. I regrettably referred to him as the English Cucumber. Sherlock was my tipping point. I have been on a Cumberbinge since.

It is such a shame that in the larger moviesphere, Mr. Cumberbatch might be known for Star Trek into the Darkness and The Fifth Estate. Not to fault his performance in either film, God knows I do not want to anger his Cumberbitches, but the man has such an artistic range with twists and turns that Khan or Assange do not do him justice, despite his tribute to both characters. A quick YouTube search returns remnants of amazing performances by Cumberbatch as he engages his entire faculties to convey sentiment. He breaks your heart with a single tear drop cascading down his long face. He imparts consonance with a constrained um and menace with a smirk. Those of you who know Benedict Cumberbatch only as Sherlock have simply tapped the tip of the iceberg.

While cyberstalking researching Mr. Cumberbatch, I came across Danny Boyle's Frankenstein. In 2011 Danny Boyle adapted the play for the Royal National Theater in London. Both Benedict Cumberbatch and Johnny Lee Miller portrayed Frankenstein and his creature simultaneously, iterating the roles each day. Available on YouTube are various clips on the making of the play and snippets of the performance. Reviews bestow special praise for Cumberbatch's creature as he was recognized with an Olivier Award for his performance. Upon watching the small clips, I was enraged, angered for not being blessed with the opportunity to experience Frankenstein live. The production was broadcasted in certain cinemas in limited release. I scoured the internet in search of future showings. My efforts were in vain. My heart sunk further, for it was set on seeing the full performance. Then I had an epiphany. If the play was shown in cinemas, thus it lives on film. Somewhere there was a digital copy of Danny Boyle's Frankenstein.

Try as I may, I couldn't find that lone digital survivor. Surely I could stream it! No, I could not. Surely I can get it on DVD! What ever the price, where ever the location, I did not mind. I would have paid hundreds of dollars and waited months just to see Cumberbatch's Creature, and possibly own it for life. But no DVD existed. I was beyond angry. I was annoyed. My desire to see the play intensified with each failed attempt to locate the filmed footage. I was insulted by the depravity of  accessing something I strongly desired. This took me back to a time not long ago when I was growing up in Egypt during the 80s and 90s. Back to a time when access to books and movies where restricted. If one could afford to buy books with bloated prices due to taxes and tariffs, one couldn't always find what they were looking for. The scarcity of bookstores, pre-Diwan, and censorship made it difficult to find certain materials. Even Naguib Mahfouz, an Egyptian Nobel laureate for literature, was not spared the scrutiny of narrow minded censors. Films were butchered and violated in the name of virtue. During my school days, video tapes smuggled from abroad were a hot commodity, with Silence of the Lambs and Basic Instincts at the top of everyone's choices. Yes, we congregated around a friend's entertainment center and giggled at the stylized sex scenes, but we also enjoyed an unadulterated version of Oliver Stone's JFK. With these forbidden fruits, my disdain for censorship was born. As years past, Egypt became enlightened and technology advanced. With satellite television and the internet, an abundance of content is available literally at my finger tips, but not Danny Boyle's Frankenstein.

The makers of the play state that their production was meant to be seen in the theater. Anything else diminishes from the experience. An opinion I can respect as their artistic prerogative. Yet, filming the play indicated that the creators intended for it to been seen in a medium other than a live performance. So, why limit it to a cinema screen? I have no doubt that the live performance was electrifying and moving in ways not transpired to remote viewership. In an interview, Miller states that the play was created in a manner to provide every member in the audience with the same experience, allowing Frankenstein and his creature to be viewed in the same light regardless of seat position. Am I to infer that a larger than life cinema projection provides a similar perspective. What difference does it make and why must the creators dictate how audiences enjoy their creation? Why film the play and not give access to the masses?

As a teenager I didn't have the means to travel to London, Paris or New York to view illustrated art in museums. The only resources I had were prints and art books. I learned early on that I had a proclivity for  Degas and Monet. Yet, nothing prepared me for Monet's magnificent  water lilies when I had the opportunity to see it in person years later. Visiting MoMA in Manhattan, I sat on a bench in front of the massive canvas, jaws wide open in awe. The visible brush strokes gave the drawing a third dimension, transporting me to the 1800s as I stood before the landscape, breathless. The years spent admiring a small print of the painting, inspired me to go to the museum in the first place. I am sure Mary Shelley intended for her Frankenstein to be read not seen, yet that did not stop her from attending theater productions of her master piece. Shakespeare is meant to be seen not read, yet who amongst us doesn't have a favorite play they secretly read every year. The creation of art is a selfish act. Artists seek to relate their point of view through their work. Once the art is publicly released, it belongs to the audience to do with it as they may. Artists cannot, nor should they, control how their work is received by others. Nowadays, there is so much talk about political democracy and freedom of speech. What about the freedom to experience beauty and to be inspired by it. Who will uphold such freedoms if not artists. So, to the creators of Danny Boyle's Frankenstein, I petition the release of this magnificent creature into society to be loved and to be marveled.

Fall to Fly

I close my eyes and step off
Will I fly or will I fall?
Find myself not wondering which
Embrace both, life is what it is
We fly to fall and fall to rise
It happens, just a matter of time
Embrace both and move on
For the sun shines everyday
In clear skies or behind a cloud
The sun's there, it'll be found
Smiles endure pain, Agony endures joy
One without the other, doesn't exist
Together they intensify and persist
Joy Happiness Lonely Goodbyes
I am I and will always be until I die

Are you a ball or a balloon ?

Last year, I enrolled in a creative writing class. I had several motives for approaching the class. I wanted to learn how to write fiction. I also hoped to meet new friends. During the class we developed inspirational lists, a rendition of topics from which we find inspirations for our stories. One of the lists was titled "Obsessions". Each student wrote down the topics they just couldn't stop thinking of. The instructor told us that Obsessions are good. As writers, we should fuel our obsessions as they generate the most passionate pieces.

My list of Obsessions contained many items, one of which was Loneliness. Having moved to the US two years ago, leaving behind my family and friends back home in Egypt, I have been struggling with the challenge of coping with the expansive alone time I have on my hands. This theme isn't quite new. For seven years, I have been preoccupied with mental reflections on being single, otherwise known as spinsterhood. This topic has often intertwined and interacted with Loneliness. I wasn't brave nor confident enough to blatantly incorporate these sentiments into my writing. I masked them behind characters in my stories and vague poems. I also started working on another project titled 'Notions Of Love', where I watch and review popular romance movies while analyzing how Hollywood distorted our perception of romance. I came to the realization that my true obsession is relationships. I'm intrigued to learn how relationships work, what shapes and controls interactions among people. My focus is on romantic relationships, namely how and why we fall in love. I can only infer that my interest in the subject matter steams from my lack of knowledge. I have never been in a romantic relationship and therefore they remain a mystery to me. I don't know how they work nor how people in a relationship act. I don't have any first hand knowledge. My hypothesis are based on the examination of other couples. Having stripped my obsession of any emotions -  moving from Loneliness to Romance to Human Relations, I can observe more clearly without the influence of pink or grey colored glasses. I suppose my interest also steams from a pure desire to learn and expunge my ignorance. I also harbor a deeper desire to decipher the puzzle of why some people remain coupleless.

Some of the questions that came to mind upon reflecting on human relations were - Why do we want to be in a relationship? Why do we tether our happiness and self worth to other people? Are we really designed to live in groups and to have a mate? Is it a genetic disposition or a result of cultural paradigms?  When we find that one person with whom we connect, do we become a ball or a balloon? Balls interact with humans, bounce off of them and gain momentum. They do roll away on occasions. Sometimes they find their way back and sometimes they are lost for ever. Balloons, on the other hand, must be tied down, otherwise they'll fly away from humans. Balloons spend their entire life trying to escape, until they finally give in and deflate. So are you a ball or a balloon? Maybe that explains why some of us remain single, forever. We are the tenacious balloons who can't be tied down. We enjoy roaming the world, flying high, and discovering ourselves along the journey.

So, when any of you fellow singletons get the 'Why Me?" blues (you know what I'm talking about), take a vibrant red balloon to the nearest park and let it loose. Sit back and watch it soar, gleefully prancing alone.

Joy The Toy

Joy was a stuffed grey bear who lived at an amusement park. She spent her days propped up on a shelve, watching the crowds walk by the booth. She shared her shelve with the other prizes. Any human capable of throwing three colored rings onto three silver bottle necks could take home any of the prizes on the shelves. Joy couldn't remember when she first joined the booth. She only knew that the shelve was her home.

Joy liked to see the children herded by the big humans. She liked the little girls with their braids and bubble gum, skipping next to their fathers. She liked the little boys with their sticky cheeks and chins, eating cotton candy and candy apples. She liked it when the children jumped and chanted "Pleeeeeeeeeeeeease". Joy always wondered why they were so pleased. "They must be happy to be at the carnival", she thought. 

Every summer, for as many summers, Joy sat on her shelve and watched the humans pass by. Whenever someone walked up to the booth and handed Gus the green paper and flicked the colored rings towards the bottles, Joy prayed and prayed that they'd succeed and pick her for a prize. As time went by, summer after summer, Joy learned the habits of the humans. Families with little ones never stopped at the booth. The big humans held the hands of the little ones and hurried to the petting zoo. The big ones lured the little ones away from the booth with promises of ice cream. No one, big or small, stopped at the booth during the noon hours at all. Sometimes couples came to the booth. The males tried to fit the rings around the bottles to impress their dates. But those couples never chose Joy. They always attempted to win three times in a row, placing nine rings over nine bottles, and picked a prize from the shelves up high. Joy couldn't see the toys on the highest shelve from her shelve below. All she could see was the excitement on the face of the humans as the ninth ring landed over the silver plastic neck of the ninth bottle. Their eyes glistened as they gazed high above Joy, their hands darted left and right and a finger protruded to locate the coveted prize. Joy tried to stretch her neck and scooch to the edge of the shelve to get a look at the prizes above.But try as she may, she could never move her fiber filled body. She only saw glimpses of fluffy fur in Gus's hand as he handed the toy to the giddy human. Only then could Joy see those toys from above. "What is so special about them?" she wondered. They were big and chunky. The humans could barely carry them, nevertheless cuddle them. Joy kept count as long as she could, with each high shelve toy carried away, one by one. She counted 60 pandas, 15 Giraffes, 27 Koalas, and 9 tigers. 

The little human boys and girls were the ones who tried to win only once. When they successfully placed three rings over three bottles, Gus told them to choose any prize they wanted except for the ones up high. "You'll have to try two more times, if you want any of the toys up high", he'd say.  The children tilted their heads towards their parents and gave them inquisitive looks. The parents would shake their heads side to side, signalling the little ones to selected a prize. All the little boys chose the bags of water with a yellow fish. "Don't they know the fish will die?" Joy wondered. The little girls chose purple horses and orange kangaroos. It seemed that no human, big or small, noticed Joy at all.

Summers came and went. Dust collected on the shelve around Joy. Her nice grey coat was shinny no more. Her black button eyes still stared at the humans who walked by, until the left one came loose. It didn't fall off completely. It hung loosely from Joy's head, giving her a permanent view of the lines of silver bottles below. Each summer arrived with fresh boxes of toys. Gus placed them on the shelves, the big ones up high and the others cluttered with Joy. One day Gus opened a box of pink bears. As he clutched each puffy pink toy and extended his hand to sit it down, Joy panicked. She tried to jump. She tried to shout, "Don't do it Gus. Don't hide the crowd. How can they pick me if I'm not around?". But her mouth didn't move and her legs remain seated. Gus kept adding pinky after pinky, crowding the toys. With each addition, Joy edged to the back of the shelve until she was completely sheltered by a clump of pink fuzzy hair. Under the curve of a pink round ear, Joy's one good eye peeked out to see the humans pass by. She told herself, "One day stinky pinky will be carried away and humans will see me crammed on the shelve. Some day a human will pick me too. I hope it's a nice little boy who will hug me to sleep, or a cute little girl who will make me some tea. Boy or girl, it's all the same. It won't matter as long as they love me." 

All the stinky pinkies were carried away. Little girls and little boys held pinky's hand and twirled him around as they skipped away. Joy looked on as each prize departed the shelve. Her heart wept as she said goodbye to them. She wished she was stinky pinky. She wished she was the panda. She wished she was the koala, the tiger, the giraffe, even the yellow fish in the bag of water. She wished a little human would twirl her by her arms. Her heart cried because her button eye could not. Her heart cried because it knew that Joy was destined to spend forever on the shelve. Her heart knew that Gus would place other toys in front of her. Even if Joy wasn't hidden by the other toys, her heart knew that no human will ever choose her as a prize. "No heart, you're wrong. That cannot be. Why would I be the only toy left? Why wouldn't any human want to play with me?"

More summers passed and Joy remained unclaimed, hidden behind layers and layers of new toys. "Okay heart, you win. I admit, I shall remain on this shelve for ever. I will never know how it feels to be hugged. I will never bring Joy to anyone. Cry as much as you need Heart, I finally understand. But it won't be long. My coat is no longer shinny, nor is it grey. It's dirty and dusty. A hole in my back has let most of my filling escape and my one good eye is hanging by a thread. Hopefully some day soon, Gus will clean the booth and throw me away, then I won't have to watch the other toys get carried away".

Many summers passed with Joy sitting on the shelve. She no longer kept count. She no longer watched the humans. She just sat there waiting, passing the time.

Smoking - A Cautionary Tale

Molly walked out of the office for her hourly smoke. "I should really try to quit", she thought while pulling her parka vest closed. She was recovering from a cold and didn't want to relapse. The weather was dark and gloomy. Molly could tell that it was going to rain, she could smell it in the air. She walked out to the picnic table in the parking lot. She had to stand at least fifteen feet away from the building to enjoy her imported cigarettes. The picnic table and adjacent garbage bin marked the closet spot she was allowed to be. 

She stood by the metal and plastic structures, hunched over and cupping her lighter with both hands she lit a cigarette. It was early November on Long Island, cold but not too cold. Molly stood comfortably outside, preoccupied with her phone as she raised the long thin paper cylinder from her lips . The other smoke cohorts abandoned her for the warmth of the office. "Wusses", she said under her breath. She enjoyed these daily interludes, bonding over their shared guilty pleasure and gossiping about colleagues. Blowing smoke from her nostrils and thinking about a particular snarky fellow accountant, she felt sudden moister drip onto her nose. She looked up to the cloudy overhead and drew in tobacco laced breathes with haste to beat the rain. A sudden downpour fell upon her as if the heavens were pelting water balloons onto the earth below. She rushed to the side entrance and reached for her employee ID. Her pocket was empty. She stood in the rain, squinting and frantically running her hands over her jacket, attempting to locate the access card to enter the building, but to no avail. She raised her hands over her ears and bowed in defeat as she dashed around the corner to the main entrance. She opened the first door and stood in the vestibule twisting her long locks and shaking her limbs like a dog drying itself. She tapped on the security glass at the receptionists, mirroring the urgency of the rain tramping against the roof. She gestured at the door to get the receptionist to grant her access. Kelly looked up from her computer screen, startled at Molly's appearance. She raised an eyebrow in disdain and got up from behind the desk. She walked to the door and pushed the security lash. She stuck her head out and said, "I can't let you in with that thing in your mouth." Only then did Molly realize that the extinguished damp cigarette still hung limply from her lips. She discarded it in the waste basket and sheepishly crept by Kelly, who stood in the narrow door way holding it open. "I need a smoke", thought Molly sullenly as she entered the office, leaving behind her a path of wet footsteps in the beige carpeting.

The Wind

After checking website upon website, downloading MTA maps, and cluttering my phone with what-to-do-in-NYC apps, my vacation plan was complete. A neatly arranged spreadsheet organized my daily agenda. I simply had to wait for the weekend to arrive to start exploring the city. Little did I know that the capricious New York weather had a detour in store. The wind was insane that Friday. It blew in all directions. I had to wrestle with my hood to firmly secure it in place. My head hung low, cutting a path against the wrath of the elements on my way to the train station that morning. The surrounding buildings were shielding me from the worst. Approaching a major intersection, I saw that the street signs and traffic lights hung skewed to the west and rain visibly fell sideways as if Earth had been tilted onto its side. By the time I got to the platform it felt like I’d been through a few cycles in the washing machine. I was damp, dazed, and disheveled. Before reaching the elevator nook to seek shelter, a strong gust of wind bashed into me. It almost picked me up and carried me away. Thankfully, a bench broke my fall. I collapsed over the frigid metal frame. When I stood up in an attempt to restore some of my dignity, a bruise was forming underneath my jeans. This unexpected injury was going to derail my plans. How could I possibly walk up a storm in NYC for ten days, when I could barely make it up a flight of stairs without grimacing in pain? My mind was churning. If I didn’t mitigate this drawback, I risked wasting my time nursing an injury. The answer lied in Patrick. 

Patrick frequently participated in Ironman races and marathons. Thus, I assumed he’d be well versed in managing muscle pain. Once at the office, I darted to his desk and asked for advice, “What kind of ointment can I use to heal a bruise?” He simply stared at me without uttering a word. Perhaps he was surprised; I did just barge into his office, offering no hello or good morning. I explained my predicament. To my dismay, he stated that there were massage cream for muscle aches, Ibuprofen pills for pain, and cold presses for swelling, but no bruise-away medication. I panicked in fear of having to eliminate a large portion of my activities. As I limped over to the break area for my morning coffee, I bumped into Imke. Originally from Waldenbuch, Germany – home of Ritter Sport Chocolate, Imke has been living in the US for fifteen years. She looked at me and asked,”What’s with the sourpuss, aren’t you going on vacation? You should be glad that the week is almost over.” I told her about my dilemma. She gave me her signature smile and said not to worry, she had a magical cure. In Germany, she had access to various homeopathic remedies. Whenever she visited, she’d bring back ample supplies, especially a certain herbal cream for bruises and muscle pain as her sons frequently suffered from sports related injuries. She went to her car and came back with a tube of the miracle cream. She ordered me to apply it immediately. And magic it was. By the end of the day, the dark purple coloration on my upper thigh began to fade. Some pain and tenderness persisted, but it was bearable. Furthermore, the toe-numbing cold of December weather had a soothing effect on my bruise. I took this as an omen that my ten-day adventure would proceed uninterrupted.