Verklempt

Lately I’ve been as verklempt as this Bergdorf mannequin; minus the glamour. Enervated at work, fed up, really (if you happen to work in an office populated by gossips and hypochondriacal, litigious malingerers, a workplace operating on anarchy, then, well, you know what it’s like).

And so it goes. Most days, you put up with it. Some days, it’s just too much. It could always be worse, however.

Outside the office has its own issues, for instance. Look at this poor horse. The other day, near Central Park, one of his comrades keeled over and dropped dead in the street while pulling a hansom cab. A newscaster on CBS reported that the horse had begun its second career (i.e., hauling tourists in the park) at the ripe old age of 15. How old is that in people years?

The bad economy has trickled down into the four-legged world. Options are severely limited for everyone (except for a select 10% or so — mayor Mike Bloomberg, being one, who stays awake nights, I’d wager, pacing, trying to concoct a plan to drive out the “Occupy Wall Street” protestors from the city — it’s bad for business– Hello…take a look at the big picture. Unemployment, bank fraud, insider trading, hedge fund greed mongers — are bad for business.)

The question is: When we will be allowed to dream again without being dismissed as blithering idiots?

Not a lot of light at the end of this tunnel. Ask all the homeless people who live in it. Or those who spend the night in the 57 St./6th Ave. station. In the morning, when I climb up the stairs from the F-train subway platform to the station, seeing all these people lying on the concrete floor, with sleeping bags or bed rolls or less than that, human beings — I’m ashamed. Ashamed for the city, ashamed that I have unwittingly intruded upon the pseudo-privacy of these people, ashamed of a world imploding due to greed, that our country allows this to happen.

If I take the E train instead and get off at 53rd St. and 5th Ave., on any given morning I will see a terribly unfortunate, homeless man — in rags, shoeless, his swollen feet swathed in filthy bandages, a confused sad man, obviously mentally ill, sprawled on the same bench, gazing into space in kind of stupor, mumbling jibberish.

Yesterday, I thought, maybe I could buy him coffee.  There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts on the second level of the station. But I chickened out. I was afraid he might be uncontrollably insane or that I might scare him and he would lash out at me. It’s not exactly an unfounded fear.

But, this morning, I saw him and he was on the bench eating soup from a cardboard container. Someone was looking out for him. Again, I felt ashamed that I had chickened out the day before, but glad for him.

I left the station and walked down 5th Ave. and saw the skinny elderly woman I see almost every morning sitting in her usual spot, near Gucci, on the cold pavement with a piece of cardboard separating her from the concrete. She wears a hoodie and sits cross-legged. Avoiding eye-contact, she gazes at the sidewalk through her oversized glasses, her stringy gray hair loosely pulled back in a pony tail. A paper cup ready for coins is next to her feet. Usually, I drop something into it.

Every time I see her, I can’t help thinking, how did this happen to her? I think of my own mother. It breaks my heart.

The usual coffee truck with the Jersey guy proprietor doling out buttered rolls for a dollar was on the corner of 56th St. So I bought her a regular coffee. She  took it from me and placed the cup on the sidewalk next to her. I wondered if she would have preferred a dollar bill. Sadness is all around us. It’s easy to find. Lately, it takes some effort to locate the good stuff.

Heading toward my office, I crossed over 57th St. I happened to look down. This is what I saw.

 A heart carved into the sidewalk, shadowed by the Trump Tower.

Why I Love NYC Bus Drivers

During our recent heat wave, which seems not to be ending anytime soon, I’ve been taking the bus most mornings rather than walking to the subway station.

Eschewing the 10-block walk to and from the subway stop is not the best way to stay physically fit. But it’s been too hot outside and it’s just disgusting arriving at the station dragging a pool of sweat.

Each day, I curse Mayor Bloomberg whenever I board a bus or a train thronged with commuters — which is just about every morning. In a cavalier manner (which is his way when dealing with just about everything), he has cut services on all commuter buses and trains due to the “economy.”

Just the other morning, climbing down the staircase during rush hour, I was not able to descend onto the subway platform itself — because every inch was filled with commuters. Not to mention commuter backwash, which was spilling upwards onto the stairs.

A man next to me on the stairs complained loudly, “Forget this s#!t,” and climbed back up the stairs to the station. I guess he decided to call in sick.

In times like these, I always recall Jack Nicholson’s line in the movie “Five Easy Pieces,” snarled right after he pounds the steering wheel while sitting in rush hour traffic: “Do  you believe having to start your day like this?!”

Amen to that. And, oh, thanks for all your play-acting, Mayor Bloomberg. However, I suppose this means that because of all your cuts, you will no longer pretend to make your faux commutes to the subway (you know the ones I mean, where your chauffeur drives you to the station and then you ride the train for, like, one stop, but only if there’s a news camera present…?)

There is an upside to all of this. And that is the NYC bus drivers.

They are most patient individuals in the city. Sometimes they plead: “Puleeese would you step to the back of the bus? Pretty please?”

Sometimes they turn their entreaty into song: to the tune of “The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round” – “Passengers on the bus please move to the back, move to the back, move to the back.”

Other times, they verbally ramble: “It would be soooo nice if you would just move back so that your fellow passengers can board the bus. We all have to go to work here. Lah di dah…”

Occasionally, the driver will turn into your third grade teacher. He or she will say: “Please move to the back. We cannot get going until you move to the back.” If no one moves, he will just sit there. And sit there. (Remember in school when your teacher would say: “I will not continue until everyone is quiet.” And then just sit there until the class was shamed into shutting up?)

And not only that, in the mornings when it is so crowded, the front of the bus is packed to the door and you are standing at the stop staring at the crowd in despair, our Wonderful Bus Driver will say: “You wanna go in the back door?” and then open the door so two or three people can squeeze in back there.

Wonderful Bus Driver isn’t all hung up on having you swipe your Metro Card at the front of the bus. Because Wonderful Bus Driver knows darn well that everyone on his bus will be getting off at the subway stop and will be swiping their card in the subway turnstile — and, thus, paying their fare.

It’s a transfer fare either way, so the city doesn’t lose a cent. You either swipe your Metro card on the bus or in the subway; same difference.

The bottom line? NYC Bus Drivers rock. I, for one, would like to reinforce how much WE APPRECIATE YOU!!!!

There’s a reason that most passengers de-boarding the bus at their stop say thank you to the driver. It’s because they deserve it.