Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Winter Moods
You know when you want to snuggle in your comforter, watching your favorite sitcom. When you order a piping hot eggdrop soup and chicken broccoli from the corner Chinese place, and you finish it off with a bar of Swiss milk chocolate. You know when you sleep for 12 hours, and then you wake up, have a snack and go back to bed. You know when you go out with friends and you wear your dirty, stretched sweater or hoodie that you've been wearing non-stop for the last 2 months. You know when you'd rather stay at home on a weekend evening, instead of going out. You know when the loud-ass, smart-ass, obnoxious, attention demanding, non-stop shrieking girl acquaintance that you hardly noticed before is suddenly a pain in your ears. You know when you suddenly feel like the cold weather and the late train are an evil Godlike conspiracy against you. You know when you go to a petstore just to look at the cats/dogs. You know when you smoke once in months and suddenly you buy a pack and smoke half of it. You know when you want to stay under the hot running shower for hours. You know when you start writing bullshit in your blog.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Culinary Appreciator / Sunset Park Dweller
Look what I just happened to find today.
I always knew people would trust my judgment and quote my profound wisdom. It starts at pork skewers and it ends with WORLD DOMINATION!
I always knew people would trust my judgment and quote my profound wisdom. It starts at pork skewers and it ends with WORLD DOMINATION!
Monday, December 11, 2006
Apartment Generations
My mom told me that my grandma (her mother-in-law) had a bad taste. Perhaps she said that because of my grandma's choice of furniture, or perhaps because grandma disliked Mom.
My Dad's Mom passed away when I was one-year-old out of heart attack. Her husband had died three years before that out of heart attack. To be honest I never knew for sure what they did for living. Perhaps I should have been more curious and trying to somehow safeguard the family history. Whatever the case was, I was told by my Dad and his friends that my grandparents were pretty well off, having good places under the Communist party wing. I vaguely know that my grandma had something to do with chemistry (perhaps a teacher), and grandpa according to my Mom had something to do with the secret services, and apparently he spoke fluently 5 Western languages.Whatever the case was, they were crème of the crop, and at early age were the pride and glory of the Communist party.
The young couple ended up buying a 2 bedroom in a central location in Sofia (the capital of Bulgaria). At the time, the five floor walk-up was the highest building in this central neighborhood. The living room window overlooks the busy street of the major Vitosha Boulevard, where cabs and street trams run 24/7. The neighborhood consisted of family houses with small vegetable gardens, and an obligatory dog and a doghouse.
Now, along the boulevard, an everyday epic battle for parking space occurs. When my grandparents first moved in their home, they owned one of two cars in the neighborhood. In fact, their car, a brand new at the time Ford, was quite the sensation - a big, black, elegant, respect-demanding machine. My mom told me a film crew at the time rented it for a week to use it in a movie.
Dad was a studious child with addictive personality. Pushed by his parents he gets a civil engineer degree, when what he actually wants to do is write novels. He often abuses alcohol, and as a fairly well-to-do heir of my grandparents, spends couple of years doing very little but drinking. And this is when Mom comes in.
I never got to hear my Dad's version of he story, but according to Mom when she first laid eyes on him "he was drunk as usually". Mom and several of her college classmates went on a ski trip (to this day Mom doesn't know how to ski). The big mountain hotel they were staying had a night time disco club, where the youth gathered to dance to the disproved by the Communist party Beetles. The youngsters repeated the lyrics to the Beetles songs, without knowing precisely what they mean, but feeling rebellious and outspoken. Mom spotted Dad leaning on the bar. He was one of the few young people who could stand on his feet and not dance. My mom decided that this has to end at once, so she invited my Dad to a slow dance. Mom says he stepped on her feet a lot, but he was adorable in his drunken ways, sincerely apologizing after every step. From then on the story is kind of vague - it involves some really happy, crazy summers, drunken fights, jealousy, separation, more happy moments, and me.
My grandparents had two sons, with 10 years difference between. When my grandma passed away, my uncle became an 18 year old orphan. At the time my father, a man of 28 was married to Mom and had a little pooping, non-stop crying machine - me. He tries to stand behind his young brother in the hour of pain, but somehow the family loss gets them even further apart. With no control or supervision, my uncle barely finishes high school and takes up odd jobs (like painting, and construction building) with no plans for college. As an heir, he got half of my grandparents fast disappearing savings - including half of the three bedroom apartment. Mom and Dad were residing in one bedroom, my uncle, their roommate had the second bedroom.
Things started to get complicated. Mom, longing to have a real home for her family, disproved of living with her brother-in-law. My uncle, at his prime, was living the vida loca, breaking heart after heart. In his early 20's, he would make just enough to pay for his dates, who he would bring to the apartment. Other times he would not make enough and have his dates pay for him. The dates would not last long. My uncle's disregard of sleeping hours, and cleaning the apartment drove Mom off the wall.
Unfortunately little could be done. No lecturing could change my uncle’s ways. This situation continued until I was 14 years old, when Mom finally collected enough money and got my uncle to sell his half of the apartment to her. My uncle was reluctant at first, but the living situation was becoming unbearable, and somebody had to move. Up until then I was taking turns with Mom sleeping on the pull out sofa or on the bed. I just loved the pull out sofa. It felt like camping, and late at night, when Mom and Dad where sleeping, I would turn on the TV (which I was forbidden after certain hour). At 14, when uncle moved out, I finally got my own room.
My Dad's Mom passed away when I was one-year-old out of heart attack. Her husband had died three years before that out of heart attack. To be honest I never knew for sure what they did for living. Perhaps I should have been more curious and trying to somehow safeguard the family history. Whatever the case was, I was told by my Dad and his friends that my grandparents were pretty well off, having good places under the Communist party wing. I vaguely know that my grandma had something to do with chemistry (perhaps a teacher), and grandpa according to my Mom had something to do with the secret services, and apparently he spoke fluently 5 Western languages.Whatever the case was, they were crème of the crop, and at early age were the pride and glory of the Communist party.
The young couple ended up buying a 2 bedroom in a central location in Sofia (the capital of Bulgaria). At the time, the five floor walk-up was the highest building in this central neighborhood. The living room window overlooks the busy street of the major Vitosha Boulevard, where cabs and street trams run 24/7. The neighborhood consisted of family houses with small vegetable gardens, and an obligatory dog and a doghouse.
Now, along the boulevard, an everyday epic battle for parking space occurs. When my grandparents first moved in their home, they owned one of two cars in the neighborhood. In fact, their car, a brand new at the time Ford, was quite the sensation - a big, black, elegant, respect-demanding machine. My mom told me a film crew at the time rented it for a week to use it in a movie.
Dad was a studious child with addictive personality. Pushed by his parents he gets a civil engineer degree, when what he actually wants to do is write novels. He often abuses alcohol, and as a fairly well-to-do heir of my grandparents, spends couple of years doing very little but drinking. And this is when Mom comes in.
I never got to hear my Dad's version of he story, but according to Mom when she first laid eyes on him "he was drunk as usually". Mom and several of her college classmates went on a ski trip (to this day Mom doesn't know how to ski). The big mountain hotel they were staying had a night time disco club, where the youth gathered to dance to the disproved by the Communist party Beetles. The youngsters repeated the lyrics to the Beetles songs, without knowing precisely what they mean, but feeling rebellious and outspoken. Mom spotted Dad leaning on the bar. He was one of the few young people who could stand on his feet and not dance. My mom decided that this has to end at once, so she invited my Dad to a slow dance. Mom says he stepped on her feet a lot, but he was adorable in his drunken ways, sincerely apologizing after every step. From then on the story is kind of vague - it involves some really happy, crazy summers, drunken fights, jealousy, separation, more happy moments, and me.
My grandparents had two sons, with 10 years difference between. When my grandma passed away, my uncle became an 18 year old orphan. At the time my father, a man of 28 was married to Mom and had a little pooping, non-stop crying machine - me. He tries to stand behind his young brother in the hour of pain, but somehow the family loss gets them even further apart. With no control or supervision, my uncle barely finishes high school and takes up odd jobs (like painting, and construction building) with no plans for college. As an heir, he got half of my grandparents fast disappearing savings - including half of the three bedroom apartment. Mom and Dad were residing in one bedroom, my uncle, their roommate had the second bedroom.
Things started to get complicated. Mom, longing to have a real home for her family, disproved of living with her brother-in-law. My uncle, at his prime, was living the vida loca, breaking heart after heart. In his early 20's, he would make just enough to pay for his dates, who he would bring to the apartment. Other times he would not make enough and have his dates pay for him. The dates would not last long. My uncle's disregard of sleeping hours, and cleaning the apartment drove Mom off the wall.
Unfortunately little could be done. No lecturing could change my uncle’s ways. This situation continued until I was 14 years old, when Mom finally collected enough money and got my uncle to sell his half of the apartment to her. My uncle was reluctant at first, but the living situation was becoming unbearable, and somebody had to move. Up until then I was taking turns with Mom sleeping on the pull out sofa or on the bed. I just loved the pull out sofa. It felt like camping, and late at night, when Mom and Dad where sleeping, I would turn on the TV (which I was forbidden after certain hour). At 14, when uncle moved out, I finally got my own room.
Thursday, December 7, 2006
Street Vendor
I was walking down on 4th Avenue in Brooklyn. Had just gotten off on the 36th Street Station. I saw my favorite street vendor on his usual spot. The guy and his daughter, who looks about eighteen, appear on the corner every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night. Their street cart barely fits two people, has two stoves, and a plastic glass window that slides shut during particularly cold nights.
In the summer, group of Mexicans would pull out folding chairs or sit on the sidewalk in front of the car and talk till late evening. Something of an improvised barbeque. The cart is parked next to a large van, which is accommodated for living. You can hear the sound of a TV set, and occasionally a young boy would pop his head through the sliding doors. Perhaps the street vendor's other child.
Food is OK. It fits the taste of the Sunset Park Hispanic population. I first fell in love with it, after a drunken night. I was hungry and short on money - the sight of the street cart was magical. After this I always had to stop in some ungodly drunken hour, and had my favorite - 3 pork skewers with mayo and mustard. The street vendor eventually got to recognize me. On several occasions, blinded by my hunger, I would drag myself and sit on the pavement in front of his cart, he would see me and make my usual without even asking.
Tonight however, I didn't feel like pork skewers. I wanted McDonalds. McDonalds is on the next block from the vendor. I grabbed my order and I circled the block instead of going straight past the vendor. I didn't want him to see my McDonalds meal. Not that his food is much healthier, I just don't want to loose the unspoken drunken nights bond we have.
In the summer, group of Mexicans would pull out folding chairs or sit on the sidewalk in front of the car and talk till late evening. Something of an improvised barbeque. The cart is parked next to a large van, which is accommodated for living. You can hear the sound of a TV set, and occasionally a young boy would pop his head through the sliding doors. Perhaps the street vendor's other child.
Food is OK. It fits the taste of the Sunset Park Hispanic population. I first fell in love with it, after a drunken night. I was hungry and short on money - the sight of the street cart was magical. After this I always had to stop in some ungodly drunken hour, and had my favorite - 3 pork skewers with mayo and mustard. The street vendor eventually got to recognize me. On several occasions, blinded by my hunger, I would drag myself and sit on the pavement in front of his cart, he would see me and make my usual without even asking.
Tonight however, I didn't feel like pork skewers. I wanted McDonalds. McDonalds is on the next block from the vendor. I grabbed my order and I circled the block instead of going straight past the vendor. I didn't want him to see my McDonalds meal. Not that his food is much healthier, I just don't want to loose the unspoken drunken nights bond we have.
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
Miami Wise
My plane landed about 4 hours ago, a smooth flight from Miami Beach where I spent the last 4 days. October in Miami Breach is where an annual Fuel Oil/Energy Byers Conference happens (you can Google it).
The conference, which I and 6 of my colleagues went to, is an excuse for people from the oil industry (specifically fuel oil) to wine and dine for about 3-4 days, reestablish some business contacts, create some new contacts, bring their wives shopping, or leave their wives at home and visit a striptease club or two.
I have never been to Florida before, and the feeling could only compare to a kid in a candy shop. At the sight of the first palm tree on Miami Internatioanl Airport, an immense happiness came over me (without even a drop of liquor in me). In the cab to the hotel I removed my coat and two layers of sweaters, and rolled down the window.
Besides the obligatory schmoozing with potential clients, the trip was a nice little break from the stuffy New York office, which somewhat compensates for the miserable 5 work days vacation time I get the first year with the company.
The location - Miami Beach in October - provides perfect mid-80's weather, golfing, gorgeous beaches, and latino/caribbean/tropical themed clubs. Of course I am aware of the excruciating heat and humidity in the summer, the hurricanes, sharks, alligators, and Russian tourists, but I was lucky enough not to experience any of these disasters. Except for the pesky presentations and receptions, which were cutting in my laying on the beach time, I had some easy-going time.
Two of the 3 receptions I went to, hosted by renowned energy companies, were held in steak houses. The most popular choice on the menu - a 32 oz steak and a 7 layer chocolate cake. Nobody around me could finish their steak (and I'm talking guys with daily steak eating experience). What a waste of perfectly good meat that was.
Ocean Drive is where everything comes down -- the beach strip is full of tourists this time of the year, and at night time it turns into a flashy art-deco/latin festival. Convertibles parade slowly along the club infested Ocean Drive. Half naked big-breasted ladies and gay-looking buffed gentlemen walk about. Clubs, with their doors wide open, pump Latino music in the air.
One of the company gatherings was held at a jumping Latino place with a fruity name - Mango. Mango waitresses were sporting hip hugging low-cut, leopard skin imitation pants and something that looked like sports bra in the same leopard skin fashion. One of them, accompanied by a hunky guy, dressed in a similar ansamble were provocatively dancing samba on the top of the circle, pink, neon-lit bar.
I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw a homeless guy on Ocean Drive - somebody needs to tell this person he spoils the touristy image of the strip, and perhaps style his long beard, or put him on a work-out program. I thought that New York homeless people should be shipped to Miami Beach for the winter. The weather is great for sleeping outside (except for the occasional rains), and there seems to be an abundance of half-eaten steaks around.
And not to end on socially conscious propagandish way .. I did enjoy my steak and the time on the beach.
The conference, which I and 6 of my colleagues went to, is an excuse for people from the oil industry (specifically fuel oil) to wine and dine for about 3-4 days, reestablish some business contacts, create some new contacts, bring their wives shopping, or leave their wives at home and visit a striptease club or two.
I have never been to Florida before, and the feeling could only compare to a kid in a candy shop. At the sight of the first palm tree on Miami Internatioanl Airport, an immense happiness came over me (without even a drop of liquor in me). In the cab to the hotel I removed my coat and two layers of sweaters, and rolled down the window.
Besides the obligatory schmoozing with potential clients, the trip was a nice little break from the stuffy New York office, which somewhat compensates for the miserable 5 work days vacation time I get the first year with the company.
The location - Miami Beach in October - provides perfect mid-80's weather, golfing, gorgeous beaches, and latino/caribbean/tropical themed clubs. Of course I am aware of the excruciating heat and humidity in the summer, the hurricanes, sharks, alligators, and Russian tourists, but I was lucky enough not to experience any of these disasters. Except for the pesky presentations and receptions, which were cutting in my laying on the beach time, I had some easy-going time.
Two of the 3 receptions I went to, hosted by renowned energy companies, were held in steak houses. The most popular choice on the menu - a 32 oz steak and a 7 layer chocolate cake. Nobody around me could finish their steak (and I'm talking guys with daily steak eating experience). What a waste of perfectly good meat that was.
Ocean Drive is where everything comes down -- the beach strip is full of tourists this time of the year, and at night time it turns into a flashy art-deco/latin festival. Convertibles parade slowly along the club infested Ocean Drive. Half naked big-breasted ladies and gay-looking buffed gentlemen walk about. Clubs, with their doors wide open, pump Latino music in the air.
One of the company gatherings was held at a jumping Latino place with a fruity name - Mango. Mango waitresses were sporting hip hugging low-cut, leopard skin imitation pants and something that looked like sports bra in the same leopard skin fashion. One of them, accompanied by a hunky guy, dressed in a similar ansamble were provocatively dancing samba on the top of the circle, pink, neon-lit bar.
I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw a homeless guy on Ocean Drive - somebody needs to tell this person he spoils the touristy image of the strip, and perhaps style his long beard, or put him on a work-out program. I thought that New York homeless people should be shipped to Miami Beach for the winter. The weather is great for sleeping outside (except for the occasional rains), and there seems to be an abundance of half-eaten steaks around.
And not to end on socially conscious propagandish way .. I did enjoy my steak and the time on the beach.
Monday, December 4, 2006
Success
Probably all of you have thought at one point or another that you are destined for something grand like being an intern in the Whitehouse and blowing the president, or winning a hotdog eating contest, or inventing microwavable popcorn. Sadly 99.6 percent of you would go on to accomplish nothing.
I am one of those 0.4 percent who will be famous and rich. I am not right now, but I can smell the success. I can taste it even. Success is moving like a freight train about to hit me, and I can only stare mesmerized at its headlights. Mmmm tastes like blood, wait, is that my arm in he middle of the road?
I know I'm destined for great things, not sure which ones. Sometimes I feel like I need to give the success some laxative, like maybe write a bestselling book, or go and get a Masters degree, or learn how to shove hotdogs in my mouth for a record time. But success can't be forced, it comes on its own time. So I sit and I wait...and...I wait...WHERE THE HELL IS MY MONEY, MY FIRST PAGE INTERVIEW IN ROLLING STONES, WHERE THE HELL IS IT?...and then I wait some more.
Sometimes a homeless (or junkie) person approaches me and asks for money (homeless people are very perceptive, they too can sense that I am destined for greatness). And with hopeful voice I inform them “Not now Man, I am waiting for the freight train to hit me”. For the perceptive people homeless are, they always seem perplexed by my explanation. I sometimes look reassuringly into their eyes, trying to convey to them that I am not just an ordinarily person, but they turn around and run. And I understand, a few people could stand the might of my future success aura.
I know somebody who is completely unaware of my clearly eminent future – my boss. He does not understand the depth of the human being I am. He does not appreciate the layers of sophistication, wittiness and intellectuality. He surely does not want to hear about my freight train. Sometimes I think he thinks that I might be one of the 99.6 percent. Of course I try to forgive him, not everybody is given the gift of insight and aura-reading.
I am one of those 0.4 percent who will be famous and rich. I am not right now, but I can smell the success. I can taste it even. Success is moving like a freight train about to hit me, and I can only stare mesmerized at its headlights. Mmmm tastes like blood, wait, is that my arm in he middle of the road?
I know I'm destined for great things, not sure which ones. Sometimes I feel like I need to give the success some laxative, like maybe write a bestselling book, or go and get a Masters degree, or learn how to shove hotdogs in my mouth for a record time. But success can't be forced, it comes on its own time. So I sit and I wait...and...I wait...WHERE THE HELL IS MY MONEY, MY FIRST PAGE INTERVIEW IN ROLLING STONES, WHERE THE HELL IS IT?...and then I wait some more.
Sometimes a homeless (or junkie) person approaches me and asks for money (homeless people are very perceptive, they too can sense that I am destined for greatness). And with hopeful voice I inform them “Not now Man, I am waiting for the freight train to hit me”. For the perceptive people homeless are, they always seem perplexed by my explanation. I sometimes look reassuringly into their eyes, trying to convey to them that I am not just an ordinarily person, but they turn around and run. And I understand, a few people could stand the might of my future success aura.
I know somebody who is completely unaware of my clearly eminent future – my boss. He does not understand the depth of the human being I am. He does not appreciate the layers of sophistication, wittiness and intellectuality. He surely does not want to hear about my freight train. Sometimes I think he thinks that I might be one of the 99.6 percent. Of course I try to forgive him, not everybody is given the gift of insight and aura-reading.
Sunday, December 3, 2006
Realist
I hate cheerful people, with their silly little pink, rosy delusions that they call dreams. Let me clue you in on something you poor things. Life is a series of misfortunes, with occasional happy events. You get to see your parents die, loosing keys, constant fear of getting fired (from the job you hate anyways), dating (enough said), spouse cheating (and rip your heart out), or you cheating on spouse (take your kids, and money in court), pets die, debts (you can't pay off in your lifetime), all kinds of diseases, bad sex, excessive body hair, eating random junk food (unless you mastered puking), having kids (changing diapers, sleepless nights, constant nagging for money, puberty, only to finally call you once a year to ask for more money), sitting on gum, bad hair, dentists, people who dress up their dogs, people who are late for dates and never call, slow waiters, crowded trains/busses, laundry/cleaning, taxes and big Brooklyn cockroaches. Hope i said enough to convince you to kill yourselves (you happy ass fuckers).
I hate people who get excited when they get a memo at work about having to work on the weekend. What kind of sick, lonely, have-no-life, brownnoser celebrates having to get up at 7 am on Saturday and Sunday?! I hate hypocritical assholes who tell me to "relax" when i'm juggling five things. I'll relax when i want to relax, and save me your worldly wisdom, because when the shit hits the fan, you will be the fist one to freak out.
I hate people who get excited when they get a memo at work about having to work on the weekend. What kind of sick, lonely, have-no-life, brownnoser celebrates having to get up at 7 am on Saturday and Sunday?! I hate hypocritical assholes who tell me to "relax" when i'm juggling five things. I'll relax when i want to relax, and save me your worldly wisdom, because when the shit hits the fan, you will be the fist one to freak out.
Saturday, December 2, 2006
Finally, Something Worthy to Put in a Blog
Climbing the stairs to the third floor to my apartment, I saw my Chinese roommate standing in the middle of the staircase and speaking excitedly in Chinese on his cell phone.
My roommate's English boils down to 4 words which he has impossible time pronouncing - working (which sounds like uking), chicken (ziken), fish (he gets this one right) and boyfriend (pretty good too). Sometimes when English words don't come to mind, he mixes it up with Spanish - "mucho ungli?" is a common question I get from him when he sees me microwaving something. He is a friendly guy in his early-mid 50's. For the number of words he knows he's extremely talkative, and he always seems in a good mood. Unlike my other 3 Chinese roommates, whose English is proficient, but who choose to ignore me and not even say hello when I run into them in the corridor.
So the Chinese roommate starts gesturing frantically at me and points toward the apartment door. I get to the door, and I try to pull my tired brain together and understand what the excitement is all about. I pretty much stare blankly at him, while he frustratedly points towards his room and my other roommate's room. What is it?-I'm thinking. And then it dawns on me. Both rooms' doors are wide open, and everything inside is upside down. We've been robbed.
I run to my room and the first thing to do is check if my folder with passport and paperwork is still intact...nothing is missing. My roommate follows me to my room and makes a face at the mess. "God damned" - is the only thing I can think to say. "Moni?" roommate asks. No, the only money in my room is a jar of coins which is still there minus the coins – the only thing missing.
What the roommate doesn't know is that my room in its current messiness is pretty much the way I left it when I went to work this morning. I am and always been a pig. Leaving clothes, empty dishes and papers all over the floor - to the point where I can't make my way across the room. I can imagine the look on the burglars' faces when they opened the door. The burglars didn't even have to force the door, my lock is so easy to pick. Once inside they probably thought somebody beat them to the job - the only thing in sight is trash covering the floor, old mattress, an even older (but very faithful) desktop, ordinary TV, and a closet full of shabby clothes. Actually my room is so ragged, they didn't even try very hard to search and they missed a little box with some jewelry my mom had given me. Apparently being a pig could prove useful in situations like this.
Roommate has already called the landlord and the cops, so we wait. Cops are not too long. Two of them in their early 30's - one funnily resembles Raymond's brother from "Everybody Loves Raymond". Cops look at me like I'm a ghost. One of them finally asks - "You don't mind me asking. So you live here? Because you don't exactly fit the profile of the building." And if by profile he means - Chinese or Hispanic. Does he suspect me of anything? - I thought. So I defensively went into a lengthily explanation how I live in this room for 2 1/2 years now, and how I found it on Craigslist, and how I just sleep here and it's very cheap. The cop seemed satisfied.
The whole time this is happening, my Chinese roommate is listening to us, and I know he doesn't understand a word we say because he has this worried/confused look on his face.
The cop asked if anything is missing, and filled in a robbery report with our information. Soon, 3 more cops showed up, one of them Chinese so he could translate to my roommate. It turns out, another robbery happened yesterday 2 blocks from here. So the cop explains that they will most surely catch the robber, if he/she continues the robbing.
The fist set of cops left, I'm watching TV, and eating McDonald's salad, and waiting for the second set of cops to come and take fingerprints of the place. The good thing is that I shouldn't clean my room in case they have to take fingerprints. I can hear the roommates out in the corridor talking loudly in Chinese.
My roommate's English boils down to 4 words which he has impossible time pronouncing - working (which sounds like uking), chicken (ziken), fish (he gets this one right) and boyfriend (pretty good too). Sometimes when English words don't come to mind, he mixes it up with Spanish - "mucho ungli?" is a common question I get from him when he sees me microwaving something. He is a friendly guy in his early-mid 50's. For the number of words he knows he's extremely talkative, and he always seems in a good mood. Unlike my other 3 Chinese roommates, whose English is proficient, but who choose to ignore me and not even say hello when I run into them in the corridor.
So the Chinese roommate starts gesturing frantically at me and points toward the apartment door. I get to the door, and I try to pull my tired brain together and understand what the excitement is all about. I pretty much stare blankly at him, while he frustratedly points towards his room and my other roommate's room. What is it?-I'm thinking. And then it dawns on me. Both rooms' doors are wide open, and everything inside is upside down. We've been robbed.
I run to my room and the first thing to do is check if my folder with passport and paperwork is still intact...nothing is missing. My roommate follows me to my room and makes a face at the mess. "God damned" - is the only thing I can think to say. "Moni?" roommate asks. No, the only money in my room is a jar of coins which is still there minus the coins – the only thing missing.
What the roommate doesn't know is that my room in its current messiness is pretty much the way I left it when I went to work this morning. I am and always been a pig. Leaving clothes, empty dishes and papers all over the floor - to the point where I can't make my way across the room. I can imagine the look on the burglars' faces when they opened the door. The burglars didn't even have to force the door, my lock is so easy to pick. Once inside they probably thought somebody beat them to the job - the only thing in sight is trash covering the floor, old mattress, an even older (but very faithful) desktop, ordinary TV, and a closet full of shabby clothes. Actually my room is so ragged, they didn't even try very hard to search and they missed a little box with some jewelry my mom had given me. Apparently being a pig could prove useful in situations like this.
Roommate has already called the landlord and the cops, so we wait. Cops are not too long. Two of them in their early 30's - one funnily resembles Raymond's brother from "Everybody Loves Raymond". Cops look at me like I'm a ghost. One of them finally asks - "You don't mind me asking. So you live here? Because you don't exactly fit the profile of the building." And if by profile he means - Chinese or Hispanic. Does he suspect me of anything? - I thought. So I defensively went into a lengthily explanation how I live in this room for 2 1/2 years now, and how I found it on Craigslist, and how I just sleep here and it's very cheap. The cop seemed satisfied.
The whole time this is happening, my Chinese roommate is listening to us, and I know he doesn't understand a word we say because he has this worried/confused look on his face.
The cop asked if anything is missing, and filled in a robbery report with our information. Soon, 3 more cops showed up, one of them Chinese so he could translate to my roommate. It turns out, another robbery happened yesterday 2 blocks from here. So the cop explains that they will most surely catch the robber, if he/she continues the robbing.
The fist set of cops left, I'm watching TV, and eating McDonald's salad, and waiting for the second set of cops to come and take fingerprints of the place. The good thing is that I shouldn't clean my room in case they have to take fingerprints. I can hear the roommates out in the corridor talking loudly in Chinese.
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