No Way Out

It is the time of year when folks are diligently trying to recover from the holidays. Emotionally and financially people are easing into the New Year since the economic forecast is grim. For me, it is the time of year where every imaginable conference occurs pertaining to my vocation.

This means I am schlepping to many different places for these grand events. As usual, I often set out with effervescence and glee. However, once I set out to drive into the city I realize why they make drugs like Prozac and Lithium.

To say that traffic is gnarly going West is an understatement. It just seems as if the cars have multiplied all by themselves over the holidays. Then to make things even more aggravating, the few days off from the festivities seems to have given everyone brain freeze.

Therefore you are quite lucky if you end up in a lane that is moving swiftly. By the time I get where I am going I feel like Joan of Arc who has just battled several armies. Any roads, once in the city it’s smooth sailing…Well, almost. If dealing with dare devil cabbies is your thing you will feel right at home.

Okay, so once you battle the quagmire of traffic, overcome the cabbies, you become astonished by the prices at the garages. Can you believe to park a car for three hours it is about $39.74. So what happens if one parks his/her car on a daily basis?

The daily bill for parking for an 8 hour work day would be around $94.00. What if they ask for him/her to work overtime? He/she would definitely need a loan to get his/her car out of the garage. No wonder the new Brinks trucks are looking like Good Humor vans. They even have a small window for dispersing cash.

I suppose you just get the app and SOS when necessary. Since paying approximately $500 a week for parking is ludicrous, and that is only for a five day work week. The workaholics who work on weekends are taking a huge hit for being “company people”.

I sure hope these employers are giving them discounts or subsidizing a portion of the garage bill. If they are not splitting the cost, then surely there should be some hefty paychecks being distributed. None of this nickel and dime nonsense.

Anyhow, I ambivalently sprung to pay for the parking. I noticed that the majority of businesses had gone under on one entire block. The storefronts had huge posters stating, “For Sale” with contact numbers. Some time ago, I heard that the rents for proprietors in the city were unconscionable. I just did not realize how dire the matter was.

I shrugged my observation off thinking I am sure there are probably a few trendy stores taking their place and life will be just as peachy. I was wrong. Once I parked and began strolling to the venue, it was like a ghost town.

The only persons on the street were homeless students. They were not wayward. They looked like they came from respectable homes. I began pondering what the Helsinki is going on with the current Administration. They should be providing substantial loans and grants for these youngsters to be taken care of when studying.

Although I am all for foreign policy and helping, a parson always christens his child first. Apparently, the young people in America are experiencing tough times and the government needs to hear them out.

While continuing my journey, I encountered every other store front was displaying an OOB sign (Out of Business). It was eery. I knew the Coronavirus epidemic had altered a good percentage of workers’ schedules. Most employees felt safer working remotely. The bleak images I was experiencing first hand was unprecedented.

I have been traveling to the city since I was about 15 years old and I do not remember it being this dismal. Even the morale of the workers seemed filled with low energy as if they were just making the best of a bad situation.

As I sauntered a few blocks to my final destination, it felt like a sojourn in the desert. A very expensive desert due to the fact that, as desolate as the city streets seemed, construction workers were just a-hammering away putting up high rises as if nothing’s wrong.

As my feet buckled under from the eroding concrete, I wondered if the construction workers would mind fixing the “infrastructure” so tourists and every day folks don’t make it a habit to have sprained ankles. If the economy is imploding via a New York minute I do not think the city could withstand a bevy of lawsuits.

The only workers that had any joie de vivre were the construction workers. They worked while grilling and chilling with Reggaeton in the background. All that was needed was for the Village People to go zipping by.

In the few minutes I strolled the city I was quite sure the marijuana that permeated the air was making me a tad high. Not only was I running a few minutes late but I was going into the conference as if I was the third member of Cheech & Chong with red eyes from the sensemelia smoke. Thank goodness I brought my sunnies with me.

My godfather often told me whenever a city is besieged with tons of construction at rapid rates, it was a sure sign there are illegal drug activities going on. The druggers and dealers are extracting the life out of New York City.

I finally made it to my conference. I hoped and prayed that the conference would not go longer than two or three hours because quite frankly, they would have to pry the funds out of my hands if I racked up a hundred dollar bill in parking.

As luck would have it, the conference was only an hour and thirty minutes long. I thought, “Hallelujah!” My attention span gets a bit shaky after three continuous hours of rambling. Besides, I was thrilled that I would make it back to the garage without having to take out a loan from the nearest Citibank.

It was a very interesting conference and I learned a lot. I was elated they decided to give the condensed version of Iridology. Although the weather folks mentioned it would be warm, lovely and sunny. All I saw were Armageddon clouds accumulating and I thought, “A blizzard is coming! Gotta make an exodus out of the city.”

In that moment I could hear Bob Marley’s record playing faintly in the recesses of my mind, “Exodus, movement of Jah people….”

As soon as the conference convened, I hustled my dilapidated muscles as fast as I could to retrieve my vehicle. While walking back to the garage, I noticed that there were barely any tourists exploring landmarks. I did view plenty of police officers out in full force guarding the city.

It suddenly dawned on me that New York City was under a covert red alert watch. Hamas had probably called up the White House making threats and so New York’s Finest took to the streets like SWAT teams. The current administration wants to cut the NYPD budget. Yet, they are the only ones keeping law and order in this new era of crime we are in.

The tourists are concerned about safety especially in times of world chaos. Also the fact that it is heavily rumored that police activity is going to be down-sized. No one wants to visit a city where anarchy and mutiny reigns. Being worked over is no one’s idea of a good time. Surely the Democrats and Republicans must understand that safety is number one when it comes to Tourism.

When I told people I had a conference in the city, some were like Hamas is going to be rappeling up and down the bridges and tunnels taking people under siege. My stance was, “I gotta get this conference done and I’ll be damned if Hamas gets in my way. One minute of me arguing and carrying on and they will beg and pay NYC to get them out of the country safely”. I developed a ghost buster attitude…”I ain’t afraid of no Hamas!”

Meanwhile I am packing all sorts of prayer beads, holy water, Hebrew prayers, the bible, sterling silver cross, Star of David, Hamsa, silver stake, and symbols just in case I needed a little back up. I was quietly planning an Exorcism of Hamas.

Once I was only a block away from the garage, who do I see running away from a martial arts building Evan Handler (Harry Goldenblatt), Charlotte’s husband in “Sex In The City”. He was running as if he heard news or was scared out of his wits.

It reminded me of a scene from the “Munsters” when Marilyn brought home her suitor to meet Herman Munster. The suitor ran like a bat out of hell. I was viewing the scene first hand and it was comical. I shook off the experience and arrived at the garage to begin my trek.

While trying to cut tracks out of the city before rush hour, and doing quite well at it I might add. Traffic suddenly comes to a screeching halt because a lady missed her pizza delivery. She was running after the delivery van to get the order. Normally, I would be upset but it was completely understandable.

Imagine this, a well dressed, petite woman running down Madison Avenue to retrieve her office’s pizza delivery. I could only conjure up the ogre of a boss she may have to contend with. Informing him/her that the lunch order went awry would not bode well for her future in the company.

After all, pizza is the snack of champions. Once she got her order settled while holding motorists under siege, we were all free to exit the city. Then in my typical absent minded fashion I remembered I had to make a stop at the natural health store.

Everything was going great as I made my swift u-turn, and pulled into the Health Food Store’s parking lot. Out of nowhere I heard this deep, boisterous voice yelling, “The hand signal means stop!” Right then and there I thought, “Oh Lordie, did I break a traffic rule?” I did check to make sure it was alright. Then I saw this tiny, female, police officer acting like the Traffic Nazi as she pulled over an over sized SUV. I sighed a resounding, “Whew!”

As they say in Jamaica, “Little but Tallawah”. Meaning, little with Chutzpah.

I entered the store, and picked out my items and was about to make it to the cashier when in comes a Jamaican nanny and three American kids.

Two of the kids were like her sidekicks, while the youngest was off on a tangent in the store. He picked up everything he thought fascinating. The Jamaican nanny says to him, “That’s you all over. You always have to make things unpleasant.”

She was getting upset with the kid because he was veering off the course she had charted and was challenging her mercilessly. Within minutes, she had the children properly wrangled. My stance looking on was, “For God’s sakes just let the kid have what he wants!”

In those few moments I realized that is why I do not have kids. As soon as they shed a tear or start acting out, I would get them the Taj Mahal, a million dollars, a new car, whatever it took for them to be calm and quiet. They would be able to shake down this momma quite easily. Once the “Partridge family” left, I was able to pay for my purchase and resume my road warrior persona.

I eventually made it out of the concrete jungle. I was waiting at a stoplight around Queens Boulevard and here comes “Yellow” (a school bus) whipping and whirling like Ryan Blaney (Nascar Champ) at the wheel. I had to stop and look for a second if he was transporting children because those poor kids would have gone home with whiplash.

Thank Goodness, he was practicing his Nascar skills solo. He probably was on his way to pick the kids up from school and was running late. It reminded me of my school days when we did not wear seat belts while taking the school bus. I sure hope those kids buckle up when going for a bumpy ride on Yellow.

The bottom line is the fact that this nation is undergoing economic and lack of safety turmoil. The current administration should descend from their ivory towers sometimes and experience first hand what is going on. They need to view the challenges people are facing on a daily basis which makes them feel as if there is no way out.

Suicides and mental health diagnoses are at an all time high because residents and citizens of this country are wading through unchartered territory. America has never been this depleted before. I can only imagine that it may be associated with African gangs trying to take over, by running drug rings, sophisticated scams, and identity theft schemes to rid the wealthy of their well earned fortunes.

It is time for Capitol Hill, and The White House to go on Field Trips. None of this fixed meeting nonsense, where politicians and presidents only meet the elite of society or tutored persons who will make them look good and say the right things for the press to gobble up. They need to collaborate with real people in communities with real issues. I am confident that once they hear their stories of survival it will only motivate them to step up their game when it comes to economic betterment in this country.

My uncle Busta (Sir Alexander Bustamante) would often say, “As a politician, every once in a while you have to visit the inner cities an have an ale or two with the local gentry. Sometimes that means more to them than gold.”