Brown Rice

So, eventually I moved away from 63 Carmine Street further west into the deep West Village, to a charming red brick building with a court yard.  It was more upscale, quirky with great character. It was a smaller space but finally it had grown up attributes.  It was a big step and I started to upgrade my accoutrement.  One of the many things I purchased was a complete set of pots and pans.

I decided that I would make a big pot of brown rice every Sunday to have throughout the week.  I started cooking the brown rice and then popped in a movie.  I don’t recall what movie it was but it must have been engaging.  Deep in the movie, I’m smelling some cooking and I think my neighbors must be making potatoes.  A little later I smell the cooking and think, those potatoes are getting burnt, but boy, do they smell good.  Later still, I think those potatoes must really be burnt, I like burnt potatoes.  Later still I think, I think they better get those potatoes out of the oven, they must be really burnt.  Finally, I think – Potatoes!  That’s my brown rice! 

I ran to the stove. I burnt the brown rice and the brand new pot. The pot was burnt through and through. My new pot set was now less one pot. After telling the story, my friends gave me timers. I had quite the collection. I just don’t make brown rice anymore.  I still eat it though.

Job Training at Coney Island

So, I met Khawaja when I started working for one of the Bad Bosses I mentioned in my True-ish piece by that name.  The boss who practiced real estate law and extortion.  I shall call him Steve.  Steve had a little fiefdom in a big bank.  Khawaja was his main serf.  Steve used a word processing software called MASS11, a friend was working for Steve, I had just learned MASS11 and that’s how I was hired.  MASS11 was a looming dinosaur when I learned it, but someone told me to do it, so I did.  That’s pretty much how my life played out at the time.

Khawaja (a very nice man) was Steve’s everything serf including his expert on MASS11 and how his documents needed to be formatted.  So, when I was hired I was told that I needed to be trained by Khawaja and that I would be paid for the training.  Sounded fine to me.  I was told that I would need to go to Khawaja’s home to be trained.  Okay.  Then I was told Khawaja lived in Coney Island and I needed to be there at 11AM on Saturday.  Sure, I thought, this will be an adventure.

I take the subway and arrive in Coney Island, it’s a cold grey day and the wind off the ocean goes through you and beyond. Khawaja opens the door and introduces me to his family - his wife, his 2 daughters ages 10 and 12 and a 6-year-old son. We sit in their living room making chit chat. They are very warm and welcoming. 15 minutes in, I’m taken to the office and given an easy assignment.  No problem.  After a half hour, Khawaja comes to tell me the lunch is ready.  Lunch! Not what I was expecting but I rarely turn down a free meal.

I sit down to a lavish Pakistani meal that went on and on.  The food was very good however, I was not allowed to have one helping, I had to have two, three. I am stuffed, and I’m wondering if it would be okay if I lay down on the floor for a nap. I go back to work for about an hour, and then I’m told that I’m done, and they will see me the same time next week.  Alright, this wasn’t a bad way to make money.

Next week, the same.  Perhaps the food was more extensive and the time spent working was less. The following week, even more of the same with the accent on more. During the lunch, I’m thinking I can’t keep doing this. At a certain point being forced to eat becomes abuse. After lunch, we sit in the living room and I’m shown the family picture album. Picture after picture is of his son. Where are the photos of the girls, I wonder?  Nowhere is the answer.  I believe that day I may have worked a total of 20 minutes. 

I start my job and learn that the son goes to a Hebrew school because they needed the food to be Halal and Kosher is similarly aligned.  Everyone involved was fine with this.  There was only problem that came up.  The son kept exposing himself.  This was not fine with everyone.  I kept thinking about the photo album I saw - this is my son, this is my son’s weenie, this is my son…

I’m sure that Khawaja found a much better boss when Steve landed in jail.  I certainly hope so.  I also hope his son straightened himself out.

Running Away From Home

So, I ran away from home when I was seven. I read a lot when I was young and someone was always running away. It just seemed to be something one did, so I decided to wait for the opportunity. One day I argued with my mother over something not very important, I can’t even remember what it was about, and I thought okay here we go. Before starting out, I went to my best friend’s house and told her I was running away to my Aunt’s house. And off I went - on foot.

My Aunt lived five miles away.  We had driven it many times so I knew the route. There were many busy streets, and I had no fear.  I walked and walked and had a jolly time. It took me a little longer than I thought (I was seven after all) but I was performing a rite of passage. I didn’t take any money and remember thinking how hungry I was, and hoping my Aunt would have some food. 

My friend told her mother who told my mother, and my parents went searching for me. I have a good sense of direction and took many short cuts. It was this that prevented my parents from finding me on the route. Apparently, my father had driven back and forth hoping to spot me.  

Finally, I arrived at my Aunt’s house and it was my mother who opened the door. She was overwhelmed to see me. I am sure my parents were distraught, though this was not the reason I ran away, I simply wanted the experience. I was not punished, admonished but not punished. It was a simpler time and I was lucky.

My cousin told me that my Aunt used this story over and over again praising my sense of direction and I guess hoping to improve hers. What strikes me about this story is that I’m still the same way.  I love to walk and figure out new routes and find adventures.  I just don’t call it running away from home.