You Never Give Me Your Money

You Never Give Me Your Money – The Beatles

A man in a wheelchair just got on the subway. He pushes off the platform with his left leg; the right one is amputated well above the knee, a helpless stump that nonetheless moves with every physical exertion. With visible pains he maneuvers around seats and poles until he screeches to a wobbly halt in the centre of the near-empty car. It’s a steamy hot Friday morning in July; rush hour has just died away on the A-train to Far Rockaway Beach. ‘I’m messed up!’ the man says. ‘Gimme some change.’ The few travelers in the car try their best to ignore him – including me. Still, our averted eyes cannot ignore the ripe smell that is clinging to the man like a wet fur coat. The man winds his chair around a pole a couple times and tries again. ‘Listen yall, I’m just completely fed up with this shit. Come on. Just gimme some cash.’

In the summertime the number of beggars and buskers on the New York train seems to explode. Every line reveals people making the most of their bad situation: they sing a song, do a little dance, sell candy, rap, tell their story, juggle, recite poetry, and in turn they accept small change from travelers. It’s great, really: no need for anyone to be self-conscious or embarrassed, for nobody is bluntly asking for money, and it is only natural that displayed talent does not go unrewarded. Smiling faces everywhere. Everybody wins. Except, of course, this guy, who has no leg and no talent – he doesn’t even have a sob story. Could be he’s genuinely worn out; could be he’s a genuine dick. Maybe he just told his story one time too many.
Maybe he simply does not have any skill whatsoever – not even to ask nicely.
Television gives you one commercial after another for the Financially Challenged. For every car commercial there’s a law firm commercial sporting an official-looking spokesman guaranteeing have-nots a small fortune. The most promising one is from LawyersGroup. ‘Were you injured in a car accident? Does your child suffer from birth injuries? Do you have brain injuries? Did you fall or slip? Get fired? Bit by a dog? Die a wrongful death? There is no reason you should keep suffering financially or mentally any longer. Contact an injury lawyer in your area NOW absolutely FREE and get the money you deserve!’
The man has a minute to explain how everyone is entitled to damages of some kind or other – even if you bit the dog first. The company’s website, LawersGroup.com, explains things in further detail. ‘Even if you are partially responsible for your injury, you still may be entitled to money, depending on the amount of blame that is placed on you.’ If you can believe the narrator on TV (the phrases ‘not an actual lawyer’ and ‘compensated spokesperson’ flash onscreen, next to his tie), there is really no reason anyone should stay poor in the States. The thought that starts tapping the belly of your brain the tenth time around, is, inversely: if you don’t even have the talent to get some kind of legal compensation for your misfortune, you will end up getting exactly what you deserve. Which is absolutely nothing.

Meanwhile, our car is shrouded in an uncomfortable silence. Then, a crisp clear woman’s voice sounds over the intercom. ‘There are vagrants on this train. Please do not give them any money. Help us keep the MTA safe and operating in an orderly fashion.’ The voice falls silent. The man has listened intently, his face screwed up, head cocked towards the speakers. He now lets his chin drop onto his chest. The train snorkels on forever. Every ripple on the tracks has all of us lolling involuntarily back and forth in our seats in unison, wheelchair and stump included.

When the train finally comes to a halt, the man reels onto the platform on his hind wheels. Not to the exit. He turns to face the little window in the car next to mine, to the tiny compartment containing the lady who announces all stops and ensures nobody gets stuck between the doors – she must be the one who broadcast just now that we shouldn’t give money to beggars. He points a finger at her, trembling with rage. ‘Why the hell d’you say that, goddammit?’ he screams. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’ The lady leans out the window, towering over him. ‘Sir, just leave, before I call security,’ she says. The man is determined not to be intimidated. ‘How am I supposed to get my money now, bitch? Yo! I’m talking to you, bitch!’ he keeps yelling up at her. A genuine dick. The lady is hardly impressed. She knows the MTA angry passenger flowchart by heart; she has dealt with tougher customers. ‘Those are the rules. I do not make the rules. I am just doing my job. Have a nice day,’ she says dismissively. A born public officer. She closes the window and pushes the button for the doors. I can’t make out what the man yells after her as the subway accelerates, but I’m pretty sure they both deserve better.

American Pie

American Pie – Don McLean

The water boy, a hummingbird in black jeans, darts in and out of sight, promptly dipping a decanter into our glasses whenever we put them down. The lanky hostess prepares to pounce and cite a significant list of desserts to choose from. But she has to wait for us to finish our entrees first. She stretches elaborately; her nails scratch the register. Whenever she catches our eye, she leaps up to our table and asks how we are managing. Ready for dessert now? We are just fine, we nod, mouths still stuffed with the rack of lamb, the mozzarella, the lobster, the artichokes. Dessert is not even an itch in our bellies yet. ‘Take your time!’ she prompts us with a toothy smile as she bristle-tails off again. The maitre d’ is aimlessly hovering up and down the narrow pathway between our table and the exit, a dragonfly deftly dodging the bus boy consigned to clear our plates between courses. He in turn operates from shadowy corners. He dashes into the light only to lunge at any serving dish that looks finished, picking off unattended platters one by one in a flurry of quick, ruthless hits.

Eating out in New York City is about as relaxing as wandering around, lost, in a night-time jungle. However exciting, it has very little to do with enjoying a lay-back night of good food, wine and company – a smiling patron gradually dimming lights and music as the hours turn wee, happy to join in with a fresh bottle of wine. New Yorkers don’t do slow food. They spend an average of 48 minutes in an eatery – and that is not including fast food joints. This is actual restaurant statistics, places where people are welcomed by a maitre d’, invited to sit down and take pleasure in a carefully prepared meal presented by a proud chef. From the second customers are seated to the second they hand in their credit cards, it takes a joint effort of staff and guests a mere half a soccer game to choose, prepare, serve, enjoy, finish and clear appetizers, entrees, desserts, a bottle of wine, coffee and a bout of quality conversation. (Interestingly, that is roughly the same amount of time it takes any Dutch waiter to acknowledge your existence.)
New York City has different and wonderful kitchens in abundance. Why is it, then, that New Yorkers don’t take time to dine? It just seems anomalous for a city that harbors such a significant amount of Latin-Americans, Italians, Spaniards – no amateurs when it comes to marathon meal sessions – to cater mainly to the anxious eater. And what’s worse, to run down those who wish to slow-dine.

We glance at each other, keeping a fork to our plates at all times. It’s getting hot in here. Did someone just turn off the air conditioner? What was that, over there in the dark? As I start chewing on my last bite of lobster tail, a bit wary but looking forward to the legs on the plate in front of me that are yet to be devoured, the bus boy angles in from an unexpected corner. He’s after my dish. I instinctively throw my body between boy and food, and, to his and my own horror, I hear myself actually snarl at him. ‘Grrrrrrrrrrrr!’ I can’t help myself. No one approaches our table for a bit after that. Then the hostess slowly steals closer. She stays downwind, careful not to draw our attention. Six feet, two, one… She abruptly flings a tab onto our table and leaps back, purring, ‘We loved serving you – please come back again!’ No second bottle of wine for us. No dessert. No coffee. It’s been over an hour. We must leave now. There is a hand drawn smiley face at the bottom of the check, next to the suggested tip. We look up. All lights are on. The music’s off. The staff are all looking positively hungry at the exit door where the maitre d’ is busy buzzing a new group of hungry customers to our table, inviting them in for what’s bound to be yet another early night in the urban jungle.

The Sun Always Shines on TV

The Sun Always Shines On TV – A-Ha

- ‘He's still alive. You piece of lint!’
- ‘Die, you marmaluka!’
……
- ‘I said, “All right, I'll tell you something: go feel your mother!” ’
……
- ‘Now go home and get your lovin’ shinebox.’
- ‘Get my shinebox?! You, you finking piece of chintz!’

That does it. No more Goodfellas for me tonight. Movies aren’t what they used to be. Or rather, movies on American TV aren’t what those same movies are in theaters. American networks, after they buy the rights to show a feature presentation, can choose to show their own cut of a movie, edited for content before any viewing. That means they use bleepy sounds to cover up any profanities or blasphemies, or sound-alike voices to turn vulgar language into minced oaths. Mincing an oath can be a rather delicate procedure. If the mincer takes pride in his work he makes sure the oath stays close to the original line so as to minimize any disturbance to the flow and soundtrack of the movie. However, it’s still disturbing to watch a movie and discover it’s been teleported to a parallel universe of near-freedom of speech, a world of artistic almost-expression.

Random example. When Keanu Reeves tells his interrogator in The Matrix: ‘How about I give you the flipper?’ waving a digitally touched-up fist, he unwillingly crowns himself king of nerd castle. This nincompoop can’t be The One! It gets worse when Bruce Willis’ signature ‘Yippee-Ki-Yay, motherfucker!’ at the end of Die Hard is lopped off to a meager ‘Yippee-Ki-Yay’, sometimes leaving the camera on Bruce Willis as he mouths part two; the hearing impaired are left to their own devices. More concerned networks replace the entire line by a whopping ‘Yippee-Ki-Yay mother trucker!’ – reducing the razor tongued action man to a cowboy impersonator who, well, has a thing for wide loads.

When deemed necessary, networks delete what are considered inappropriate sounds or scenes altogether. You’ll see paint dry before you’re allowed to see the (ostentatiously fake!) old ladies’ boobs in There’s Something About Mary (director’s cut: 134 minutes. TV runtime: 117 minutes). On rare occasions, so many scenes are cut that a network actually throws in restored, never-before-seen footage to fill the allotted runtime – apparently pitting David Cronenberg fans against each other in heated discussions on which was better: the director's or the TV cut of Videodrome.
Movies on TV can be verbally sanitized to absurdity. Hilariously well done at best – watch Samuel L. Jackson decide ‘I’ve had it with these monkey fighting snakes on this Monday-to-Friday plane!’ – but mostly it’s just depressing.

Who decides that ‘finger’ in The Matrix is an inappropriate word and prop? Who seriously came up with mother trucker? Why would a network choose to show Scarface if it intends to neuter Al Pacino’s performance into a ride through Candyland? ‘Never fool with me, Tony,’ the Bolivian drug lord warns him. ‘I warned you not to fool with me, you foolish little monkey!’ Who’s afraid of this Disneyfied fiend? Pacino sure isn’t. He continues to shoot everybody to a bloody pulp with his little friend. Darn drug dealer boys and their silly ways!

There are exceptions to the rule. Networks like Sundance Channel and IFC (Independent Film Channel) show uncut or theater versions of movies. These networks are rare islands of resistance - never mind that they show Korean cult classics and Harvey Keitel's penis rather than All American Blockbusters.

Why the country with the largest number of murders in the world seriously thinks its citizens need protection from fake violence, is between it and its god, I guess. I find little solace in one thought: in a future world rated E for Everyone, the people who wish to expurge any unseemly content on TV will in fact end up being the only ones to teeth-grind their way through entire director’s cuts – albeit right before they snub them. Take that, you foolish little monkeys!

Cross Town Traffic

Cross Town Traffic – Jimi Hendrix

We are having Visitors this week. They will be landing shortly at La Guardia Airport, up in Queens. Not having a day job makes me the picker-upper by default. And so I’m taking the M60 bus from West 125th Street to the airport. A guy in a baseball cap takes a seat in the front, next to a little old lady; I find a spot halfway down the aisle. As we start driving, the guy looks around and mutters something unintelligible. He pauses and says it again, louder this time.

- ‘Pissassniggawhitebitch!’

Pardon?

- ‘Imafuckingkickyourblackmotherfuckingfaggotass, youcrazyfuckinglilywhiteskank!' he proclaims, to no one in general and everyone in particular. At first, nobody moves. When the guy charges on, apparently confusing baffled silence with approval, the little old lady can take no more. She tries: ‘Well, now, mister. Is that really necessary?’

Contrary to what the movies teach you, New Yorkers are surprisingly soft-spoken. People really don’t swear in everyday life – the incidental try-out gangsta rapper aside. In general, people express their inner turmoil using minced oaths like ‘shoot’ and ‘oh my gosh’ and ‘darn’. They don’t do excrements, or sexual slurs, or profanities. People are happy to self-censure up to the point where the fishmonger in my grocery store, when he gets to the punch line of one of his dirty jokes, actually says ‘f**cking’ – clenching his teeth between the ‘f’ and the ‘ing’ – so as not to be offensive.

Meanwhile, back on the bus, tension is mounting.

- ‘Cocksuckingmotherfuckerbitchass!’

The little old ladies’ courteous reprimand is hopelessly trumped by the guy’s ongoing random abuse. Others try to intervene, slinging shots the likes of ‘Sir, I urge you to please stop talking, please,’ and ‘Come one, man, cut it out’. Then a middle aged man in a borrowed suit rises from his seat. He turns to the guy, triggers a finger at him and states, calm and deliberate: ‘Now you better shut the fuck up, you god damn mother fucker.’ The guy’s face turns a distinct gray. He abruptly falls silent and ducks into his seat where he continues to stare morosely at the man. At the next stop, the guy jumps up and darts to the exit door. He squeezes past a still perplexed lady to freedom. ‘Fucsssscuze me,’ he manages before he runs off.
I can swear I hear the old lady send him off with a heart-felt ‘Serves you right, mother crusher!’

I go to sleep

I Go To Sleep – The Pretenders

The voices slowly spiral closer.
- ‘Is it real?’
- ‘Nah, I don’t think so. I don’t see the chest go up or down.’
- ‘It moved! Did you see that? I think she moved.’
- ‘Wait, let me just… Real careful now...’
- ‘Please refrain from touching the art!’ a kind, unwavering voice loops from across the room.
I know that voice. Calm, cool, collected, master to all the other voices in the room. My body is made of syrup. I am light-headed. All is soft and good. The voice is watching over me. I am a snail in a warm bath. I trail back to sleep.

Click. Click-click. Click-zap. Click-zap. Where did those flashes come from? For a second time I slow-motion my way out of an ocean of slumber. I carefully keep my eyes closed – bright light! – and gradually turn onto my back.
- ‘You are allowed to take pictures of the art, but please do not use flash photography!’ the voice bubbles again, gently reverberating in my cotton-candy head.

More people stop beside my bed: women, children, guided tour groups. Their breaths travel to the far depths of my subconscious. They speak English, French, Spanish. I feel the warmth of their bodies as they arch over me, the watchful eyes of the warden scrutinizing their every move.
- ‘In this work by Chu Yun we see a paid volunteer, transformed into a piece of living sculpture. Her sleep is induced by sleeping aids. The artist wants to pose questions like: What is the role of the female body in the history of art? What is the role of the museum as a platform of self-display?’
The participants are islands of enviable calm. They seem to exist in a charmed atmosphere, unperturbed by the fast pace of contemporary life or the exhibition around them, the sign on the wall of the New Museum exhibition room informs the non-guided visitor.

- ‘She looks so vulnerable.’
- ‘Not at all! She’s protected by the covers, isn’t she?’
- ‘Sure, but to be out there, for everyone to see…’
- ‘I think she’s just fine. She looks perfectly comfortable to me. Completely relaxed.’
- ‘She’s not relaxed, she’s drugged up! I think it’s weird. And a bit creepy.’
- ‘There, see? She moved again. I’m taking a picture.’
- ‘I kind of like it. And she still has the privacy of her dreams and thoughts. We might see her body sleep, but we still don’t know who she is.’
- ‘Whatever. I’d never do this. She's totally exposed.’
- ‘So what? She’s making money, isn’t she?’
- ‘Ten bucks an hour! That’s more than I make.’
- ‘Where do I sign up?’
- ‘I don’t like it.’
- ‘I wouldn’t mind a little snooze. You think there's room for one more?’

Could we perhaps turn down the volume a bit? I muse, half on my way to nowhere land again. The Art is trying to get some sleep here.

'This is Carlijn' is part of the exhibition 'The Generational: Younger Than Jesus', April 8 - July 12 2009 at the New Museum, New York City.

Going underground

Going Underground – The Jam

I love the subway. To plunge underground, burrow through the blind earth and come back up for air in a different place, I think it’s magic - however dark. Especially in wintertime. Late in the afternoon the trains are packed with heavy coats and stoic faces. They drone past bleak, dreary science fiction stations. Something is always leaking, seeping through the ceilings, leaving dark wet spots on the platforms. A concrete future of high humidity and quiet desperation. Think Blade Runner, or, better still, 1984. The subway as a brick version of Orwell’s boiled-cabbage smell. Eye contact is to be avoided at all cost while on the train. Only beggars and fanatics will try to fix their eyes on yours, looking to dig out the soul inside for fast cash or salvation. To answer the call of the crazy is at one’s own risk. The message of the commuting crowd is clear. You keep to yourself or you’re on your own.

I am on my way home. Above ground, an icy January afternoon is paper cutting its way through the streets. Underground I find line 1, the local train that stops at every station from South Ferry to 96th Street, where I get off. At Lincoln Center a young family gets on board: a man and a woman in their late twenties, and a toddler. The boy wraps himself around his mother’s legs and presses up against her as the doors close and the train starts moving.

The man takes a deep breath and clears his throat. ‘Can I have a moment of your attention please?’

As I am writing this, there are 100.000 homeless in New York City, 75.000 of whom are families roaming the streets. Couples with children, single parents, pregnant women. Every night there is room for 38.000 individuals somewhere in the city’s shelter system. Some 34.000 people are eligible for financial and other assistance from the New York Department of Homeless Services – a wonderful initiative to get people back on their feet, says the government. Just another temporary scheme to keep the poor out of sight, say the critics.

‘My name is John,’ the man says. ‘This is my wife Samantha, and the little man down there’s our son Michael. I am a technical engineer. I was laid off four months ago. We lost our home four weeks ago. The Department of Homeless Services is providing us with shelter, and for the time being they are paying for my wife’s tuition.’ The man speaks in a low voice, but I am pretty sure everyone in the car has heard him. When he mentions his wife, I can’t help but look at her. She nods in recognition as she looks back at me, and then continues to look at everybody in the car. One by one. ‘We are very grateful for their help. It means we have a roof over our heads, at least for now, and food every day. What we need is a future. I need work. I need to buy diapers for my son. I want to be able to buy flowers for my wife. If there is anyone who can help us out…’ I look around me. All eyes are on the couple. By the time the train starts slowing down for the next stop, nearly everyone has reached into their wallets. One dollar bills, five dollar bills, business cards. ‘Call my office in the morning,’ one man says as he gets off the train. ‘Maybe we can work something out.’ He pulls up the collar of his coat, puts his hands deep in his pockets and disappears to the nearest exit, outside, skyward.

Love in an elevator

Love In An Elevator - Aerosmith

I am staying in today. It’s time to conquer the proofread that has been staring at me all week. Nonetheless, procrastination demands that laundry be done first. For the second time this morning I flip-flop into the elevator and push the button for sub-ground level C1 – off to collect a first round of clean clothes in the laundry room. There’s a boy and a girl already inside, going down. I give them a nod of neighborly recognition and settle into the far corner.

As the door closes, the boy says: ‘It just grosses me out to see two people all over each other like that in public.’ Me, too! I think. Nothing worse than having to endure a couple of outdoor smoochers – it’s the kind of thing you really can’t tolerate unless you’re the one actually doing it. The girl isn’t pleased. She snorts at him and says: ‘Hmph. You know, some people like to see other people happy.’ There is something in the girl’s tone of voice that isn’t as mild as it could have been. The boy seems oblivious to the undertow in her comment. He flounders on: ‘Yeah, well it grossed me right out of the room.’
They both fall silent for a bit after that. Ten, nine, eight… The boy moves his lips as he helps the elevator count down the floors. But the girl is brooding. When we pass the fifth floor, she has reached a decision. ‘I am giving you a two week warning,’ she announces. ‘After that, if you’re still the same person, I’m gonna start seeing other people.’

A two week warning? Fortunately, the boy knows the idiom. ‘You mean you’re gonna see that other guy again?’ Oh boy, I think, here it comes. ‘No, it’s not the guy you know about. It’s someone else,’ the girl says matter-of-factly. The boy nods. And that’s the end of it. Four, three, two… I guess there is really nothing more to say. But shouldn’t some kind of further explanation be required? Where are the hot tears of misinterpretation? They both seem to understand perfectly what turn their love affair is taking from here. I, on the other hand, am left struggling. I speak the language, I hear the words, but I have no idea what just happened. Did they break up just now or didn't they? Is he planning to be a changed man in two weeks? Will he start seeing other people, too? Not as of now, mind you! Not for another fourteen days. And then what? She won’t mind him being the same guy he always was as long as they’re not exclusive? He won’t mind her dating other guys as long as it’s been properly announced?

The elevator touches ground level. The boy gestures for me to step out first, but no, I am going further down. ‘Oh, right, you’re just hanging,’ the boy states as they dart past me, into the lobby. The door closes again, and I’m off to a decidedly flooded laundry room with a superintendant shaking his head in dismay at a machine filled with my still dripping delicates. Why would I be hanging out in an elevator? I wonder. Is that something people do around here? Or was the boy trying to tell me something else? Was he in fact including me in yet another coded message, well understood by the locals, but completely lost on me? And if so, how will I ever know what it all means?