Sunday, September 6, 2015

From: Steve Fialkoff Fialkoff

Hi!
Steve Fialkoff Fialkoff
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Wednesday, March 4, 2015

From: Steve Fialkoff Fialkoff



Hi!
How are you?

News from Oprah http://blog.smallboxhardware.com/pounds.php she says it works!

Steve Fialkoff Fialkoff

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Missing Direction 2

My wife left me standing on a street corner in Manhattan one warm October afternoon. Pedestrians walking past me on Broadway and West 72nd would have never suspected that I was looking for a bus. I had on dark sunglasses and holding a white & red sight cane. My wife walked under a nearby store’ awning. The bright sunlight was bleaching out her cell phone screen making it difficult to read. I know all about that problem. I’ve lost about 92% of my eyesight over the last 20 years.
It was Tuesday, time for our bi-monthly trip downtown for a “couples counseling” appointment in Rockefeller center. Maybe I could take advantage of the 35 minute trip to figure out what I wanted to talk about at the session. My wife always seems to have a long list of topics to discuss.
“Can I help you across the street?” A woman’s voice gently asks.
I turned and smiled.
“No. Thank you, I’m waiting for the bus.”
“You know, you’re not near the bus stop.” The woman whispered.
I shook my head “Yes”.
I was in the perfect spot. At this corner, I could choose to get to Midtown via three different bus routes. Of course, the subway was right below but my wife didn’t want to go underground on such a beautiful day.
“After all” she would say. “How many sunny days can you afford to miss?”
She was right. My last bit of vision could disappear at anytime. A dark subway tunnel is the last thing on my “last thing I saw before I lost my sight” list.
Still, there were no buses in any direction. I began to wonder whether we had left enough time to make it to the therapist. You don't want to be there too early, because that might mean something psychological. Get there too late and that means something to them too. You know.
Being a proud New Yorker, I like to use my limited time effeciently. One must have the luck and skills of a Wall street stock analyst and weather forecaster to get around this city quickly.

I remember, one Saturday night, my wife arranged for a baby sitter for our children. We hadn’t gone out by ourselves for months. It was a simple plan, movie and late dinner. Ahhh... the old days. This way we could end the evening, stomachs full, heads woozy with wine. and fall asleep quickly without doing anything about the sex we hadn’t had in 3 months.
As things turned out, the babysitter arrived 15 minutes late. She couldn't find our building because I forgot to tell her our avenue address really wasn't on the avenue. A snooty NY device to make real estate more desirable. The "night out on the town" plans began to crumble before we stepped out our fadhionable Upper west side door. My wife took the kids aside to convince them that we were, indeed, coming back. All I could hear was; “Why mommy? Why Mommy?” Why Mommy? "
Then I remembered the “baby sitter” checklist. Standing in the doorway, I rattled off our cell phone numbers.
“… we’re not expecting anyone to visit so don’t open the door for any reason. The fire extinguisher was in the foyer. We don’t have a foyer but it sounded nice. The fire hose was outside the service door. Don’t leave the apartment unless instructed by fire wardens. Leave the apartment if the fire is within two floors of the apartment but don’t walk into smoky stairwells. Close the door behind you. Don’t forget to take the kids with you if you have an emergency. Kids are in bed by 9. You may have to read this book to the little one. The big one will try to convince you she’s not tired and never goes to bed before 11. She’s down at 9:30. OK? There’s no food in the house. There are some rice cakes and granola bars. Sorry. Don’t open the door for anyone. Not even the FBI. Here’s our cell phone numbers. Oh yeah, we went over that. Any questions?“
The wide eyed 16 year old babysitter slowly looked around, pointed at the TV and said “Where’s the remote control?”
We couldn’t get a cab right away because everyone was going downtown, so we had to run to an uptown avenue where the cabs are more likely to be empty at this time of night. By the time we arrived at the small Film Art Cinema on 63rd street, the movie was sold out. Her eyes were wild.
“Why didn’t you order advance tickets!”
I stammered.
“This movie has been out for weeks! I mean, how many people want to see a French movie sequel about Jean Lucs’ childhood in Lyon entitled “Mon petit chou deux.’.”
Watching Steve Martin in "Roxane" for the 10th time, on VHS at home, munching on microwave popcorn was beginning to look great.
Also, I rationalized silently, buying advance tickets would not have solved our problem. We would have been stuck in the front row looking up, with strained necks.
“All it takes is 100 like-minded people on a Saturday night to destroy an evening” My wife reminded me.
As if I needed reminding. Two million people crammed into 23 square miles. 20 million people, no more than an hours drive away.
I reminded her about the pregnant Texas tourist who turned to me one night in that very same theater and asked.
“Why is everybody always in such a rush, around this tow-own.” She drawled. I took a long breath in.
“If you want to see a movie in this town you have to get in line an hour before the show starts. For each five minutes you delay, one hundred people can get in front of you. That’s 300 people in about 15 minutes. Enough to sell out the theater or get you lousy seats.”
We stomped up Broadway.
We had no better luck eating out that night either. The restaurant had a 30-40 minute wait because this was primetime in New York. It was 8:15; our 10 Pm reservation was useless.
One slight miscalculation, a moment of hesitation and the herd had beaten us.

My daydreaming was interrupted by an elderly gentleman.
“Can I assist you across the street?”
“No” I smiled “I’m OK, thanks... I am waiting for the bus.”
“ Oh. “ The man eyes widened. “ You know the bus stop is over there.”
“Yes.” I sternly said. The reason my demeanor changed was because he said “over there.” A blind person doesn’t know what “over there” means. I recalled a childhood memory of one of my mom’s annoying habits.

“Get me the thing in the living room next to the thing. You know.”
"Ahh, the thing," I mumbled.
A few seconds of scanning around the living room, trying to figure out what it was she was talking about...
“You want this? “ I held up the Tv guide.
“Of course, that’s what I told you to get.” Swiping it out of my hand. I didn't realize that my mom was training me for married life. She helped me to develop the ability to read minds and read between the lines. A skill that a "couples" therapisst would say, you should never use. "Communicate with words... don't guess... ask...talk" Yeah right.
A car horn blared, snapping me back to the present. I turned to see what my wife was doing. She waved from the shadows, her head bobbing while talking on the cell phone.
“Tell me when you see a bus.” She said. Her attention turned back to her conversation.
She assumes that I can still see well enough to do this bus-scouting task and I assume that she is watching from the shadows pretending I am doing a useful job. Maybe I could use that topic for the “couples therapy.” I recently relinquished the job of “chief “ bug killer of the house. My vision is so narrow that the insects move out of sight too quickly. My new job is bug scooper.
My wife moves my arm, which holds the dustpan, to within inches of the overturned cockroach, the legs still twitching, and she says; ”It’s right in front … just… that’s it.. gross…in the toilet .. now flush… yeeecchhh.” A shudder ripples through her body as she gives me a hug for a job well done. I wonder what the next challenge will be. Perhaps chief window closer or jar opener

“Can I help you across the street?” A beautiful young woman wearing sunglasses, blonde streaked hair pulled back into a ponytail, and a back pack covered with dozens of little straps dangling from zippers.
My mind raced to find an answer better than the two previous.
“I am having a rendezvous with a strange woman.”
That was the winner of the “snappy, and clever answer lottery” I had just held in my head. She eyed me. I Think I scared her.
“Not you, I mean, I wasn’t talking about you.” I stuttered.
“I know it’s not me.” She smiled and bounced away. I thought she was no more than 18 years old because her walk reminded me of my high school girlfriend’s gait; each long legged step like a spring about to explode with the carbonated energy of youth.

When I was a 17 year old Brooklyn teen, I used to borrow my Dad’s car and take my girlfriend to see a movie or a play in Manhattan. The local residents affectionately called people like us “the bridge and tunnel crowd.“
Even then I knew which side-streets to take to avoid the thousands of other invaders from the outer areas. My father’s survival commandments would echo in my head.
Commandment 1: Thou shalt not travel the expressways so as to never get stuck in traffic”
2nd commandment: “Thou shalt not ever pay for parking.”
I also knew where to find free street parking. The regulations in the “garment” district allow parking after 6 PM. My brown,1970 Plymouth Valiant wasn’t an attractive car so I wasn’t worried about vandals. It was an easy 6-10 block walk to the theater district. Some call it cheap; I call it “middle class street smarts.” In any case, I got to hold her hand, or cuddle next to her as we walked uptown feeling like the city was ours for the evening.
I heard my wife voice as I stood remembering a feeling that I hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Maybe that was a good topic for discussion.
“I called ahead.” She shouted from the shadows. ”The doctor IS running ‘on-time."
What a surprise, a psychologist running on time. It's not like it's brain surgery.
I waved back still lost in the old warm feeling. Looking down I remembered the day i first talked to my old girlfriend. The decades opened like transparent curtains revealing a small rehearsal room at the start of sophomore year of high school. I saw her sitting in the back of the "Sing" competition auditions, wearing her hair in 2 braided buns covering her ears like earmuffs. (later to be made famous by Princess Leia of Star Wars fame) After I sang "Climb every mountain" from the "Sound of music", in my best non- Brooklyn accent, she came forward and introduced herself and proceeded to write her name in pen, in 30 different places, over my brand new sneakers. Later that night my mom asked me
"Who is Sandy?"
Shocked, i thought she had spies in my new high school. I coughed.
"How do you know i met a girl named Sandy today?"
"Because you let her ruin your brand new sneakers, GAH DAMMIT!"
"Oh yea." I smiled and thought about the cute girl with the green eyes and other attributes that 15 year old boys notice. I remember having a silly grin on my face and not caring a whit about the sneakers, which only made my mom more angry.

“The Bus! It’s the #5!” My wife shouted.
“Honey, are you sure you want this one? We can take…”
“No, it’s fine, get on, get on.”
We both stepped onto the M5 and collapsed into the hard blue plastic seats.
“So much for my careful trip planning.” I mumble.
“What were those people talking to you about?“ she asks.
“Directions. They were lost.” I quip.
“Very funny.”

The bus turned down Broadway into slow traffic. I knew the doctor was running on time but now maybe we weren’t. Maybe the M5 wasn’t the best choice. Maybe the M104 or the M72 and switch… Maybe I should worry more about what I was going to discuss in therapy. I tried to remember what I was just thinking about before we jumped on the bus but it was gone. I was sad and played with the cane top.

We made it to the appointment with 30 seconds to spare.
“Perfect! Couldn’t have planned it better.” My wife congratulated herself. The therapist began the session.
“How was your week? Last time we were here, we discussed the importance of listening when all you want to do is scream. “ ....