Shitshine day

On Thursday New York basked in a freakish 70 degree March heatwave and out came the inevitable display of flesh. Stoops burst to life with lovers and smokers and The American and I strolled leisurely down to Union Square and felt the first heat of the year on our faces.

Then I saw a man trying to do a poo on the street.

I didn't spot it at first, at least I didn't catch what he was trying to do. I saw him from the other end of W16th street because he looked as if he was trying sit down on an invisible chair. Some kind of performance art I wondered? He was wobbling around a lot, so sitting on his make believe chair was quite hard.

It's not until I'm next to him that I see it's not so much a chair, than a throne the guy needs. Or a potty even. He is fiddling with his jeans zip when it hits me.

"Jesus Christ." I say under my breath to The American ''That man is trying to do a poo on the pavement."
"Gross." he says and walks on dismissively without looking back.
"Honey, look!" and I point back down the street.
"Emma, I don't want to look."
"No, you have to! Check him out, he can't even get his pants down."
"I am not looking!"
"Well I am."
"You are going to stand here and watch a man shit on the street?"
"Yes."
"You're grosser than he is"
"Just look! There's no poo yet, he hasn't even got his jeans off." 
"He probably went already in his pants."
"Oh. I feel bad for him now."
"Why are you still watching him then?
"Because... It is morbidly fascinating."
"Watch away, I'm going to get cigarettes."

He dives into the nearest deli and I stay outside to watch poo man. He is still trying to sit on his imaginary toilet. I wonder what you have to be drinking to think there's a loo right in the middle of the pavement.

I raise my head up to the sun, push my glasses back onto my head and breathe in the sun.  I hear a loud rattle and look right to see a lady coming up 5th avenue dragging a giant sack with hundreds of empty soda cans in. She stops right in front of me.

"Hey honey! I love your top!" she enthuses to me.
''Umm...Thanks"
"Where'd ya get it sweetie?"
"Oh, in the UK."
"Pretty!"

And then she clatters off down fifth with her bag of cans, each one worth a few cents rebate.

The American comes out of the deli, Malboro already in his mouth.

"A bag lady just told me she liked my top." I say.
"Cool!" he mutters, clearly not listening.
"Hello? A bag lady just complimented me on my top!"
"And that's bothered you more than that guy taking a shit on the street?"
I nod.
"You're a real New Yorker now honey."




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For obvious reasons this blog has been somewhat difficult to pictorilise. So here is a picture of my new beloved Liberty London for Target lamp, to take your minds off poo. 

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The Golden Arches of 6th Avenue

  

My local Mcdonalds is the scariest place on the block.

There's always lots of men in front of it wearing baggy jeans and walking around in circles. They swing one arm down in front of them, really low, like monkies. I don't know what they're all doing-hanging out there, but it looks dodgy. I don't pay $RIDCULOUS a month to deal with that nonsense in my hood, so I just scurry faster when walking past.

However, motherhood will make you take risks you never thought possible. So when The Teenager wants a Mcdonalds hot fudge ice cream sundae to distract her from the abject misery of missing The Boy-I have to brave it. Rather me than her.

Outside The Golden Arches is scary…inside it's Baghdad. I run in and order six sundaes on the basis that the rest can go in the freezer and I won't have to come back again. I wrestle considerably with the fact this means the fudge sauce won't be hot anymore.

Next to me at the counter is a skinny homeless guy with no teeth questioning the Mcdonald's girl

"How much a Quarterpounder?"
"How much a Quarterpounder with tax?"
"How much... fries?"
"How much fries with tax?"
"How much a…hamburger?"
"How much a hamburger…with tax?"
"Hmm…" he says ponderously, in response to her robotic answers and eye rolling.  He scrambles in his pocket for change and starts counting through it. I can see a palm full of brown coins. I think I notice him because he is neither scary or aggressive, he seems quite...happy.

He smiles at the Mcdonalds lady and then mooches over to some girls next to me. They dive straight in:
"Maaaaan, don't you come near me, don't you be asking me for no money. Back up Mr. Back up!"
"Hey, I don't want your money" he says calmy "I'm just trying to buy some food."

Oh God. Here I am watching my six ice cream sundaes get made, looking like a greedy cow and this man just wants some dinner. OK-I'm going to buy him a meal, I'll even supersize it. I go into my purse and there is no more cash in there and I've left my cards at home. Shit. Shit. Ok, I could just give him an ice cream sundae? It's not the most nutritious of dinners, but it's better that eating out of a bin? And he has no teeth, so ice cream might be a good choice?

But by this point the manager, who looks about 15, has begun the process of throwing him out. I'm not quite sure on what basis and clearly neither does he as he laughs protesting:

''I'm a daaaamn customer!"

To be fair, he was only getting the prices. The exact prices. New York sales tax is a bastard.


Oh crap. Do I still offer him the sundae now? Is that even more humiliating than being thrown out of a Mcdonalds? What I really want to do is offer him the ice cream and flee, cos I don't want to converse with him.

I turn around and he is half way out of the door and the woman serving me is only just bagging up my sundaes. I grab them and run out onto the street to find him. He's talking to himself and staggering down the block lighting a cigarette.

"Money for fags but no money for food! " I can hear my Mother say.

I ignore her imaginary nag and follow him down the block holding a single hot fudge sundae aloft.

"Come back!" I shout, but I realise I am still having an internal dialogue, so the words don't come out.

He is moving pretty fast for a man who unlikely has anywhere to be. I break into a run. And then I stop myself. I am running after a homeless man with a hot fudge sundae.

I come to a stop on the street and people whizz by me on the pavement. Standing still is the worse thing you can do in Manhattan. You get pushed and shoved and tutted at loudly. The Empire state blinks green like a gremlin in the distance-which strikes me as a funny colour. The man disappears into the crowd and my moment is gone.

My ice cream is starting to melt.