Changing Hands
“I’ll bet you a dollar she’s got at least four,” the chubby man says to his lunch partner ashe teases him, waving me back and forth in the air before letting me fall onto the table. I’ve been a part of so many wagers, I always route for the other person to win so I can get change of scenery.
“All right, you got it. What’s this place called again? The Hampton Inn? That Manhattan clam chowder was pretty skimpy on the clams, I hope the Greek stuffed flounder I ordered is more impressive,” says the thinner man (Fabricant).
“You love spinach and feta, I’m sure you’ll like it (Fabricant). So when the waitress comes back, I’ll ask her how many sundresses she has. I’m telling you man, I see those things everywhere. They’ve been all over New York City since July (Taylor). So are you going to the New York/Boston game tonight?”
“I wouldn’t miss it! Both of their relief pitchers have pretty much been carrying those teams all season. Sparky Lyle either won or saved 35 of the Yankee’s 88 victories so far and Bill Campbell’s done the same for the Red Sox with 38 out of 86 games. And they’re paying both guys pretty well for it too. Lyle’s getting $425, 000 for three years and Campbell’s getting $1,050,000 for five years. Man, I wish I had a job like that (Kornheiser).”
“No kidding,” sighs the heavyset guy. “Hey, here comes the waitress with our lunch.”
“Here you go guys. One Greek stuffed flounder and one sirloin steak. Can I get you another bottle of the Italian Soave?”
The thinner man nods his head, “Yes please, it’s very good (Fabricant). Let me ask you something. Did you give in to the big sundress craze this summer? Are they really that comfortable (Taylor)?”
The waitress blushes a little, but reveals, “Yeah, I’ll admit I’ve got about five or six of them. They’re only about $7-$10, and they’re so easy to wear. Even if the weather’s chilly, I can put a shirt on under it like a jumper (Taylor).”
“Just what I thought,” says the heavier guy. The men finish their lunch and they leave me and a few cohorts on the table as a tip.
I follow the waitress around for a few hours until she hands me over to a guy at the restaurant’s front door, thanking him for the slips of paper he hands her. “Thanks so much for picking these up for me. I can’t wait for this Alice Cooper concert! He’s still using those boa constrictors on stage; it’s gonna be a riot! I just hope none of us get hurt, I heard the crowds are getting pretty rough (Palmer).”
“Well, it’ll be nothing like the shows Elvis used to put on. The only controversy he stirred up was a little hip wiggling back in the day,” says the man as he slips us into his back pocket. I think of yesterday when I heard the awful news that he died. I can’t believe he was only 42 years old and he didn’t even smoke or drink (Rockwell).
“Yeah, that’s true. Well, thanks again Joe,” shouts the waitress as we head toward the parking lot.
I am now sandwiched between this guy’s read end and the front seat of what I hear is going to hold the record for sales during a car’s first year on the market: a Ford Fairmont. It’s got a European feel to it and the gas mileage averages at 23 miles a gallon, which is just above the Federal Law statutes (Stevens). He turns the radio dial up and I hear the banter of talk radio.
“âÂ?¦The Secretary of Health, Education, and Welfare blames legislation for Medicare patients paying a bigger share of their hospital bills next year. Secretary Califano also pled with Congress to pass a bill that will cap hospitals from increasing their fees at nine percent. He also said that Canada’s health care system is something we should try to model ours after (“Medicare”)âÂ?¦”
We drive down the road with the windows open and while I’m not in a very comfortable position, I can hear the rush of the wind. I hope I’m lucky enough in the next few weeks to score a ride on State Route 29 on the way to Saratoga Spring. It’s a great drive this time of year for nature lovers who like the colors autumn brings (Carr).
He parks the car after some time and takes me along into a deli. I feel relieved when he finally fishes me out of his pant’s pocket and opens me up to view the store and the man behind the counter. “Hey Joe,” says the man. “You got family in Kansas City, don’t you? There was a huge flood last night that killed 19 people and a lot of others are missing (Kneeland).”
Joe’s voice turns dour. “Yeah, my aunt works at some pricey clothes store there.”
“Well, if it’s the Country Club Plaza, you’d better get on the phone quick. That’s where most of the people were killed. It was so bad cars were swept away. Here’s your smokes. That’s two bucks (Kneeland).”
Joe hands us over to the deli man, takes the pack and hustles out the door. I get a reprieve when the man gets distracted and leaves me sitting on the counter, basking in the September breeze coming in from the open door. This place has a television set in the corner and the news is on. “The Manhattan DA is expecting the leader of the 1968 student revolt at Columbia University to turn himself in today. Mark Rudd has been a fugitive since 1970 and his lawyer would not reveal yesterday the reason for his surrender. The demonstration left 148 injured (Goldstein),” says an anchorwoman.
I’m not too interested in this and am pleased to know the deli man isn’t either; he changes the channel. He ends up on a biography of Larry Flynt. They’re talking about his magazine Hustler and the controversy around it. Apparently, he was found guilty of obscenity charges back in February and sentenced to seven to 25 years in prison for publishing sexual photos of nude women in what most people thought were too risque. The magazine itself was also charged for engaging in organized crime, found guilty and fined $10,000 (Carmody).
A young lady comes up to the counter and asks for a pound of macaroni salad.
Scooping the pasta into a plastic tub, the deli man inquires, “How’s that uncle of your’s? Al Shanker? I read he had a pretty good meeting with Cuomo the other day. You think your brother and the United Federation of Teachers will back him (Dembart)?”
“Well, the whole group is against Ed Koch because he’s accused them of working too little and getting paid too much. It’s really about whether the union wants to keep quiet or come right out and attach themselves to Cuomo (Dembart),” sighs the woman as she lays a five-dollar bill next to me.
“Well, Mr. Shanker’s not alone. There are all sorts of groups that are still on the fence. The PBA, the firefighters, the sanitation workers (Dembart). It’ll work out,” he says as he lays me on top of the macaroni and slides us toward the woman. “Tell him I’d be honored to cater his victory party. Free delivery and all!”
“Thanks, Sal. I’ll tell him,” she grins as she stuffs me into her front shirt pocket and the salad into her tote bag.
I’m back on the street with the woman. She must really enjoy the breeze, as we seem to be wandering around, not getting anywhere. We finally stop and since I’m stuck in a pocket, I can’t quite tell where we are. She sits down and I hear the sound of the bag she’s got rustling on a table. Maybe we’re at an outside eatery of some kind. Someone approaches and asks my keeper what she’d like. She orders a sweet iced tea and I wish I had an arm to pat my self on the back with. I’ve been doing this so long, I’m hardly ever wrong.
The lady takes something out of her bag and starts talking to her self. It sounds like she’s reading a novel of some kind. I hear tidbits of information: there’s a family from New Zealand and the book centers on three of its women, in three generations. The years change while I’m listening, so this must be an epic of some kind. On second thought, I think I’ve heard these characters’ names before. In fact, I’ve heard bits and pieces of this story so much that I’m sure the publisher is making a killing. I decide she must be reading The Thorn Birds, a popular new book by Colleen McCullough (Schott).
I’m utterly bored here, so I’m glad she finally finishes her tea and leaves me on the table before walking away. A gust of wind carries me off the table and I float down the street, feeling the freedom that comes so infrequently. Eventually I get plastered against a garbage can. Now there’s nothing to do but wait. The sounds of shuffling feet surround me and a pair of them rests near the garbage can. A woman is talking to her companion about a space shuttle test. It sounds like the Enterprise, a space plane named after the flagship on “Star Trek”, did well on its second test before it goes into outer space. The other person she’s with says something about tests being especially necessary to judge how the plane will hold up when coming back down to earth and landing. There’ll be a third test in a few weeks (Lindsey).
Another gust of wind and I flip around and make my way further down the sidewalk. A massive foot stomps on me and I’m clenched between fingertips as I’m carried upward. I stare a man in the face for a few seconds and see his lips curl. He must think this is his lucky day finding me; I guess I’m back in the game. Another escort, another story I’m sure.
It’s late afternoon by now, and we enter a restaurant and he walks directly to a table as if he owns the place. As I look around, I’m only slightly impressed with the atmosphere. This guy must be a regular. A manager type walks up to the table and greets the man as he puts his briefcase on the floor and I get stuffed into yet another shirt pocket.
“Hey Mr. Wooten, glad to see you in here again. Are you meeting someone?”
“No, not this time Gary. I’m just hungry. I just got in from Washington where I did a story on Bert Lance, the director of the Office of Management and Budget. What a hard guy to read, that one is. He insists he won’t step down any time soon, but his cohorts think he will after he speaks in front of the Senate in a few days (Wooten). I tell you, this flying back and forth all the time is getting old,” Wooten says.
“Well, you are down there a lot. I sure liked that article you did back in June on Carter’s plea with Congress to follow him on the energy issue. You put a lot of other stuff in there about him. Like that fact that he’s changed his mind on the B-1 bomber and he didn’t want to comment on the trial of the conspirators in the those North Carolina riots back in ’71 (Wooten) I tell you, he’s all right, but those politicians sure can change their minds when it suits them, eh?”
“Yep, they canâÂ?¦,” Wooten says. “Say, can I just get my usual? I’m getting tired and I’ve still got to get home and unpack.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Wooten. It was great seeing you again. I’ll send Caroline over with a Coke. You take care now,” the manager says as he walks toward the kitchen.
Sometimes I get lucky and meet up with someone in a famous person’s posse. I think back to July and the time when Isreal’s Prime Minister came to New York City. I was around for that. He was supposed to meet with Carter to start up a peace treaty between Isreal and some Arab countries. While he was here, he had other meetings scheduled in his hotel before hand. I wonder if he ever made it to Brooklyn to visit the rabbis (“Begin”).
The restaurant is quiet and I hear a couple at the table next to us in their conversation.
“So sad, he did so much in his lifetime. For seventy years, Stokowski gave his orchestras such great direction (Hughes),” says a woman.
Her husband replies, “Yeah, well, he was pretty old. You can’t ask much for more than living to the age of 95 in this day and age. Think of it this way honey: we’ll always have Fantasia to watch whenever we want (Hughes).”
I’m surprised the sun is setting and I just got wind of this news. My life is filled with so many people of different ages and colors, from a variety of places and lifestyles. I realize once again it’s not my job to expect information in the order I’d like it in. My only job, after all, is to change hands.
“All right, you got it. What’s this place called again? The Hampton Inn? That Manhattan clam chowder was pretty skimpy on the clams, I hope the Greek stuffed flounder I ordered is more impressive,” says the thinner man (Fabricant).
“You love spinach and feta, I’m sure you’ll like it (Fabricant). So when the waitress comes back, I’ll ask her how many sundresses she has. I’m telling you man, I see those things everywhere. They’ve been all over New York City since July (Taylor). So are you going to the New York/Boston game tonight?”
“I wouldn’t miss it! Both of their relief pitchers have pretty much been carrying those teams all season. Sparky Lyle either won or saved 35 of the Yankee’s 88 victories so far and Bill Campbell’s done the same for the Red Sox with 38 out of 86 games. And they’re paying both guys pretty well for it too. Lyle’s getting $425, 000 for three years and Campbell’s getting $1,050,000 for five years. Man, I wish I had a job like that (Kornheiser).”
“No kidding,” sighs the heavyset guy. “Hey, here comes the waitress with our lunch.”
“Here you go guys. One Greek stuffed flounder and one sirloin steak. Can I get you another bottle of the Italian Soave?”
The thinner man nods his head, “Yes please, it’s very good (Fabricant). Let me ask you something. Did you give in to the big sundress craze this summer? Are they really that comfortable (Taylor)?”
The waitress blushes a little, but reveals, “Yeah, I’ll admit I’ve got about five or six of them. They’re only about $7-$10, and they’re so easy to wear. Even if the weather’s chilly, I can put a shirt on under it like a jumper (Taylor).”
“Just what I thought,” says the heavier guy. The men finish their lunch and they leave me and a few cohorts on the table as a tip.
I follow the waitress around for a few hours until she hands me over to a guy at the restaurant’s front door, thanking him for the slips of paper he hands her. “Thanks so much for picking these up for me. I can’t wait for this Alice Cooper concert! He’s still using those boa constrictors on stage; it’s gonna be a riot! I just hope none of us get hurt, I heard the crowds are getting pretty rough (Palmer).”
“Well, it’ll be nothing like the shows Elvis used to put on. The only controversy he stirred up was a little hip wiggling back in the day,” says the man as he slips us into his back pocket. I think of yesterday when I heard the awful news that he died. I can’t believe he was only 42 years old and he didn’t even smoke or drink (Rockwell).
“Yeah, that’s true. Well, thanks again Joe,” shouts the waitress as we head toward the parking lot.
I am now sandwiched between this guy’s read end and the front seat of what I hear is going to hold the record for sales during a car’s first year on the market: a Ford Fairmont. It’s got a European feel to it and the gas mileage averages at 23 miles a gallon, which is just above the Federal Law statutes (Stevens). He turns the radio dial up and I hear the banter of talk radio.
“âÂ?¦The Secretary of Health, Education, and Welfare blames legislation for Medicare patients paying a bigger share of their hospital bills next year. Secretary Califano also pled with Congress to pass a bill that will cap hospitals from increasing their fees at nine percent. He also said that Canada’s health care system is something we should try to model ours after (“Medicare”)âÂ?¦”
We drive down the road with the windows open and while I’m not in a very comfortable position, I can hear the rush of the wind. I hope I’m lucky enough in the next few weeks to score a ride on State Route 29 on the way to Saratoga Spring. It’s a great drive this time of year for nature lovers who like the colors autumn brings (Carr).
He parks the car after some time and takes me along into a deli. I feel relieved when he finally fishes me out of his pant’s pocket and opens me up to view the store and the man behind the counter. “Hey Joe,” says the man. “You got family in Kansas City, don’t you? There was a huge flood last night that killed 19 people and a lot of others are missing (Kneeland).”
Joe’s voice turns dour. “Yeah, my aunt works at some pricey clothes store there.”
“Well, if it’s the Country Club Plaza, you’d better get on the phone quick. That’s where most of the people were killed. It was so bad cars were swept away. Here’s your smokes. That’s two bucks (Kneeland).”
Joe hands us over to the deli man, takes the pack and hustles out the door. I get a reprieve when the man gets distracted and leaves me sitting on the counter, basking in the September breeze coming in from the open door. This place has a television set in the corner and the news is on. “The Manhattan DA is expecting the leader of the 1968 student revolt at Columbia University to turn himself in today. Mark Rudd has been a fugitive since 1970 and his lawyer would not reveal yesterday the reason for his surrender. The demonstration left 148 injured (Goldstein),” says an anchorwoman.
I’m not too interested in this and am pleased to know the deli man isn’t either; he changes the channel. He ends up on a biography of Larry Flynt. They’re talking about his magazine Hustler and the controversy around it. Apparently, he was found guilty of obscenity charges back in February and sentenced to seven to 25 years in prison for publishing sexual photos of nude women in what most people thought were too risque. The magazine itself was also charged for engaging in organized crime, found guilty and fined $10,000 (Carmody).
A young lady comes up to the counter and asks for a pound of macaroni salad.
Scooping the pasta into a plastic tub, the deli man inquires, “How’s that uncle of your’s? Al Shanker? I read he had a pretty good meeting with Cuomo the other day. You think your brother and the United Federation of Teachers will back him (Dembart)?”
“Well, the whole group is against Ed Koch because he’s accused them of working too little and getting paid too much. It’s really about whether the union wants to keep quiet or come right out and attach themselves to Cuomo (Dembart),” sighs the woman as she lays a five-dollar bill next to me.
“Well, Mr. Shanker’s not alone. There are all sorts of groups that are still on the fence. The PBA, the firefighters, the sanitation workers (Dembart). It’ll work out,” he says as he lays me on top of the macaroni and slides us toward the woman. “Tell him I’d be honored to cater his victory party. Free delivery and all!”
“Thanks, Sal. I’ll tell him,” she grins as she stuffs me into her front shirt pocket and the salad into her tote bag.
I’m back on the street with the woman. She must really enjoy the breeze, as we seem to be wandering around, not getting anywhere. We finally stop and since I’m stuck in a pocket, I can’t quite tell where we are. She sits down and I hear the sound of the bag she’s got rustling on a table. Maybe we’re at an outside eatery of some kind. Someone approaches and asks my keeper what she’d like. She orders a sweet iced tea and I wish I had an arm to pat my self on the back with. I’ve been doing this so long, I’m hardly ever wrong.
The lady takes something out of her bag and starts talking to her self. It sounds like she’s reading a novel of some kind. I hear tidbits of information: there’s a family from New Zealand and the book centers on three of its women, in three generations. The years change while I’m listening, so this must be an epic of some kind. On second thought, I think I’ve heard these characters’ names before. In fact, I’ve heard bits and pieces of this story so much that I’m sure the publisher is making a killing. I decide she must be reading The Thorn Birds, a popular new book by Colleen McCullough (Schott).
I’m utterly bored here, so I’m glad she finally finishes her tea and leaves me on the table before walking away. A gust of wind carries me off the table and I float down the street, feeling the freedom that comes so infrequently. Eventually I get plastered against a garbage can. Now there’s nothing to do but wait. The sounds of shuffling feet surround me and a pair of them rests near the garbage can. A woman is talking to her companion about a space shuttle test. It sounds like the Enterprise, a space plane named after the flagship on “Star Trek”, did well on its second test before it goes into outer space. The other person she’s with says something about tests being especially necessary to judge how the plane will hold up when coming back down to earth and landing. There’ll be a third test in a few weeks (Lindsey).
Another gust of wind and I flip around and make my way further down the sidewalk. A massive foot stomps on me and I’m clenched between fingertips as I’m carried upward. I stare a man in the face for a few seconds and see his lips curl. He must think this is his lucky day finding me; I guess I’m back in the game. Another escort, another story I’m sure.
It’s late afternoon by now, and we enter a restaurant and he walks directly to a table as if he owns the place. As I look around, I’m only slightly impressed with the atmosphere. This guy must be a regular. A manager type walks up to the table and greets the man as he puts his briefcase on the floor and I get stuffed into yet another shirt pocket.
“Hey Mr. Wooten, glad to see you in here again. Are you meeting someone?”
“No, not this time Gary. I’m just hungry. I just got in from Washington where I did a story on Bert Lance, the director of the Office of Management and Budget. What a hard guy to read, that one is. He insists he won’t step down any time soon, but his cohorts think he will after he speaks in front of the Senate in a few days (Wooten). I tell you, this flying back and forth all the time is getting old,” Wooten says.
“Well, you are down there a lot. I sure liked that article you did back in June on Carter’s plea with Congress to follow him on the energy issue. You put a lot of other stuff in there about him. Like that fact that he’s changed his mind on the B-1 bomber and he didn’t want to comment on the trial of the conspirators in the those North Carolina riots back in ’71 (Wooten) I tell you, he’s all right, but those politicians sure can change their minds when it suits them, eh?”
“Yep, they canâÂ?¦,” Wooten says. “Say, can I just get my usual? I’m getting tired and I’ve still got to get home and unpack.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Wooten. It was great seeing you again. I’ll send Caroline over with a Coke. You take care now,” the manager says as he walks toward the kitchen.
Sometimes I get lucky and meet up with someone in a famous person’s posse. I think back to July and the time when Isreal’s Prime Minister came to New York City. I was around for that. He was supposed to meet with Carter to start up a peace treaty between Isreal and some Arab countries. While he was here, he had other meetings scheduled in his hotel before hand. I wonder if he ever made it to Brooklyn to visit the rabbis (“Begin”).
The restaurant is quiet and I hear a couple at the table next to us in their conversation.
“So sad, he did so much in his lifetime. For seventy years, Stokowski gave his orchestras such great direction (Hughes),” says a woman.
Her husband replies, “Yeah, well, he was pretty old. You can’t ask much for more than living to the age of 95 in this day and age. Think of it this way honey: we’ll always have Fantasia to watch whenever we want (Hughes).”
I’m surprised the sun is setting and I just got wind of this news. My life is filled with so many people of different ages and colors, from a variety of places and lifestyles. I realize once again it’s not my job to expect information in the order I’d like it in. My only job, after all, is to change hands.
