I wake up the way I always do. Sit straight up, shadow-boxing the air. Clear my head. I lean over and kiss my still-dozing wife, and greet her the same way I’ve done for twenty-two years; “Ha! Once again, I have tricked you into sleeping with me!” Then I get up.

Breakfast. Froot Loops. I check my wallet. My eight-year-old son had snuck in during the night and stapled all my folding money together. My little six-year-old daughter comes in. “Daddy, don’t forget that you promised to build a guillotine for my little dollies. They’ve been bad!” she pouts just like Shirley Temple. Then, she and her brother began to argue.

“Stop it, you guys,” I said, “or, I’ll call immigration!”

 “Huh? Why?” asked my son.

“Because, you two are illegal aliens. Mommy smuggled you both into this country, in her tummy!”

“For real?”

“Yes. One word from me and the INS will fly you back to Babyland! So, cut out the fighting!”

After breakfast, I hop a New Jersey Transit train into the city. New York. The Big Apple. The Great White Way. Skyscrapers and squeegee guys. And me; Gary Norris, project manager. When I first started taking the train home from work, the conductor would announce my stop and then say, “Endor Zout!” Who was “Endor Zout”? The president of Planet Krypton? Soon, I realized that my stop had no platform, and therefore we had to use the doors with steps at either end of the car. “Endor Zout.” “End doors out.”

The morning commuter cars are usually quiet as a church, but this morning, there’s some idiotic interloper sitting in front of me who’s going in early for a day of shopping and doesn’t know the rules. I’m trying to sleep, but she’s one seat up, talking on her cell phone and describing every thing she sees out the window.

“We’re stopped at Woodbridge – you know; the town with the big shopping mall. People are getting on the train and looking for seats. Some people are getting off. Now, the doors are closing. We’re pulling out. The next stop is Rahway. There’s a junkyard! Here comes the conductor, punching tickets . . .”

On and on she goes, as relentless as a toothache. I sit down next to the woman, open my own cell phone, and pretend to dial it. Then I start an imaginary conversation.

“Hey, Gilbert!” I say into the phone, “You won’t believe this conversation! Just listen!”

 Then, I hold my phone up in front of the lady, as you would hold a cross to fend off a vampire.

 Her eyes dart toward me, and she says into her phone, “I’ll call you later!” She snaps her phone shut and looks out the window. I get up and return to my seat.

 When I get to Penn Station in the Big City, I hot-foot it upstairs to Seventh Avenue. One guy is trying to walk up the down escalator, and getting nowhere.

Out on the street, the crowds surge in every direction. The autumn sky is pelting dollops of raindrops, big as Chiclets. The Metro Man is out on Thirty-fourth and Seventh, giving away free newspapers.

“Get yo’ Metro here! Here’s yo’ Metro!” he chants. Like every morning, I walk by and say in a deep voice, “Met-tro-man!” as he hands me a paper.

“I am the Metro Man, y’all!” he continues. “The Metro Man! Get yo’ Metro here!”

That is the only acknowledgement we ever make to each other. This morning, I use the Metro paper as a make-shift umbrella.

I work all day. I’m dealing with internet stuff. One programmer is complaining about having to do too many “transparent drop-downs”. Sounds like some sort of lingerie, but it isn’t; it’s a half-invisible menu you find on a web-page.

Noontime, the wife calls. “Pick up a big can of cayenne pepper. I’m making Buffalo wings tonight.”

 She makes them every Friday night. It’s a family tradition; “Brain-freeze Friday”. We dip the wings in horseradish, and wash them down with 7-11 Slurpees. For a vegetable, Jalapeño peppers. The kids love it.

After work, I’m heading toward Penn Station. The rain has stopped, and I’m whistling “Anitra’s Dance”, from Peer Gynt as I hustle along with the after-work crowd. Some guy’s handing out hand-bills for a strip club where a porno start named “Dot Syntax” is making a personal appearance. Apparently, they have a senior citizen’s discount. A sidewalk vendor is hawking marbles. I buy a bag of 100 cat’s eyes for a dollar. The kids need ammunition for their slingshots. I shove the bag into my overcoat pocket. In the other pocket is the pepper. I hate carrying paper bags in the city; too tempting for a sidewalk thief. I continue on my way, now whistling “Dixie Chicken”.

I get to the station, and there’s two Amtrak trains caught in the tunnel under the Hudson River. Delays of two hours. I decide to trek up eight blocks to Eighth Avenue to Port Authority Bus Terminal to try to catch a bus home.

If Seventh Avenue is “Fashion Avenue”, Eighth Avenue is “Blue-Collar Boulevard.” Hard working people on their way to work mingle with hustlers and grifters on their way to avoiding work. After Giuliani “cleaned up” Times Square and Forty-Second Street, the Triple-x video stores and porno parlors moved west to side streets off Eighth Avenue.

Coming up the sidewalk toward me is a skinny runt chased by two big bruisers. They catch him and toss him into a mountain of pregnant trash bags. Then, they turn and run back up towards Forty-Second.

He’s a scrawny little guy with squinty eyes. “Ouch!” he says, matter-of-factly. His whiney voice has a slight hint of an eastern European accent. He reminds me of my brother, for some reason, so I help him up.

He has on a herringbone coat, dark trousers ending high over his ankles, and white socks in brown shoes. On his head is a porkpie hat with the brim tuned down in front. Under his jacket is an “I Love New York” t-shirt.

 “I’m Skinny Sawyer,” he says by way of introduction. “And those two guys were ‘Teeny’ and ‘Tiny’, two enforcers for Roland Rotundo, the man dat stole my woman!”

“Sorry to hear that, brother,” I say.

“I gotta get back my Esmeralda!” he whines.

“She obviously doesn’t love you. You know how fickle dames are, pal. Buck up. Chicks are like subways. There’ll be another one along any minute. The hotter they are, the longer the ride. The only time they’re trouble is when they’re late”

I don’t really believe this guff I’m telling him, but I’m trying to cheer him up. He just squints even more and says, “Ya don’t unna-stan’. She’s bein’ held prisoner! Ya gotta help me get her back!”

“Okay, pal,” I say. “Let’s do this quick.”

“Dis way,” he directs, and we go up one block, cross Eight Avenue to the west side of it and head down a side street. We come to a brownstone. He takes me inside, and we walk up two flights of stairs.

Down a hall, and there’s a door with a frosted window. Black lettering on it, reading, “Rotundo Enterprises.” We knock and walk in.

There’s a big mahogany desk, with “Teeny” and “Tiny” standing on either side of it, their arms folded. Behind it sits a big man. Dark hair parted in the middle. Coke-bottle glasses. He’s smoking a cigarette through a long skinny holder. Next to him stands a woman in a tight pink dress. She’s got a wooden left leg. Her hair’s piled on top of her head; blonde, with dark roots.

“Esmeralda!”

“Skinny!”

“Shuddup!” says the fat man, who I take to be Roland Rotundo. “’Teeny’! ‘Tiny!’ Take dese two guys in de udder room ‘til I decide what ta do wit’ ‘em!”

The goons grab us and hustle us into a small room off the main office. They lock the door.
“Okay, Skinny. Give.” I say. “What’s this all about?”

“Rotundo is a small time hustler. Too small for da big guys to even bother with. Esmeralda is his ticket into da big time. You can see she’s a classy dame. And she can deal cards from the bottom of the deck like ya wouldn’t believe. He wants ta open a casino.”

“Using Esmeralda?”

“Yeah. I wanna take her away from here.”

I look at him and say, “If you wanna get outta here alive, listen to me. Here; take a fist full of this cayenne pepper. When the two big guys come in, we blow it in their faces. Then, stand off to one side.”

Ten minutes later, the door is unlocked and the knob starts to turn. “Teeny” and “Tiny” lumber in, and we blow the pepper into their faces. They yelp, and we dodge around them. I toss the bag of marbles back at them. They’re confused, and they slip around on the marbles, doing a confused tap-dance. Skinny and I each grab a corner of the desk and pin Roland Rotundo against the wall. Skinny throws Esmeralda over his shoulder, and we run for the stairs. Down two flights and out onto the street. Skinny starts toward Port Authority.

“No, Skinny!” I yell. “Too obvious! Go the other way!”

We run downtown. Out of breath, we slow, but we keep moving. Esmeralda’s limping along. She eyes Skinny. “My hero!” she sighs. We walk along, and suddenly Esmeralda starts to sing.

“I seen da bright lights of Georgia, an’ da Commodore Hotel . .  .” She’s singing “Dixie Chicken, and she’s not half bad.

Skinny and I join her on the chorus: “If you’ll be my Dixie Chicken, I’ll be your Tennessee lamb . . .”

Half an hour later, we’re in Chinatown, and I’m putting them on one of those cheapo buses to Boston.

“Don’t ever come back to Broadway,” I tell them.

“T’anks for all yer help,” says Skinny. He shakes my hand. He turns to Esmeralda and says, “You got da cash?”

“Yeah. It’s in my leg.”

“Now we can get dat house in da country.”

Esmeralda gives me a peck on the cheek and says, “T’anks, mistah!”

They get aboard the bus and wave from the back window. I walk back to Penn Station and have a couple of shots while I’m waiting for my late train.

An hour later, I’m home. I suddenly remember I forgot to call and say I’d be late. The wife meets me at the door.

“What’s the idea of coming home half drunk?” she demands.

“I ran out of money.”

It’s an old joke, but it gets me in the door. I have enough pepper left for dinner. After, we send the kids off to bed, and we put on some music in the living room. We’re slow dancing to “Dixie Chicken”.