Boob Under Glass

I amble out of my office, plenty of time to get to where I need to be at 11:15 - it’s that time of the year – as I merge with the other pedestrians, scarce on this day. It’s like minus Kelvin! And I’m reminded of how much I hate winter.

As I saunter towards an uptown train, a mysterious winter odor rises from a perforated manhole cover and I’m sure it’s some sort of virus spray the City government has unwittingly leashed on the 8Mil+ populace. That, or recycled cigarette smoke which is everywhere anyway, as out-of-doors in the City has become a nicotine nightmare. I constantly find myself walking behind a heavy exhaler, trailing a gray stream of pollutant: “Thanks, buddy” or ‘buddette’ as it were, since I see more and more, young women with a death-stick, clutched between two fingers or inserted between every-increasing wrinkled lips. Occasionally, I feel like giving them a piece of my mind, letting them know what damage they’re doing to not only their lungs but, their skin. Hell, I should just point out women with yellowed teeth and ashen, lined faces, who’ve been smoking for 30 or more years, to these young women. But at their age, they’re immortal…I remember that. Instead, I just try to hurry past them and out of their smoky trajectory, as I distractedly wave away their donation to the poor air quality. Sometimes, I hear things like, “Gawd, you own the sidewalk!?” or, “Excuse me for living!”…errrr…you’re excused. Well…here’s the thingy…

Consciously seeking a better, healthier life, I stopped smoking over 25 years ago. I was living with a pre-op tranny at the time in New Orleans (okay...that's another story...), you don’t think that was tough? No! Not living with the tranny but, puttin’ down the cancer sticks in the non-stop-party-town of NO? Well, I had very little control of my life at that time and felt sure the cancer sticks were killing me…couldn’t have been the needles I was still geezin’ into my arm on a regular basis…sheesh…like I said, the immortality of youth…NNN EEE WAYZZZ…long story, short, I not only stopped smoking cigarettes but, eventually, stopped the other destructive behavior as well, began eating healthier, exercising on a regular basis and visiting an OB/GYN once a year for the ole annual female exam. And when I became ‘a certain age’ the mammograms started. Yeah, there’s nothing more refreshing than standing in a darkened room, naked from the waste up, while a strange female, arranges your boob between two pieces of Plexiglas. Within seconds, my once full breast is suddenly transformed into a flat, flesh pancake! Looking out of the corner of my eye, I’m amazed at the length of my mammary gland when it’s displayed like this…it looks weird…deformed. The first time I had a mammogram, I asked the female attendant if this would be permanently damaging: would my boob plump up again; does this make stretch-marks? Ah…the vanity of youth. Now, although minutely discomforting, it’s a pretty routine thing. And thank you very much, once again, I have a clean bill of health.

Yeah, nothing like a good boob smashin’ on a cold, winter day!

New York

I used to live in the Bronx…well, sorta.

Whizzing along today, about as fast as you can go on the commuter train, coming into the City from points north and as the train slowed down somewhere around the Harlem River, I looked out the window to my right just in time to see the looming presence of The Projects.

As the child of a career Military serviceman, life wasn’t always easy as I was never really ‘from’ anywhere. However, when I finally grasped the concept of actually being born in New York (as in X marks the spot), I was wildly ecstatic over the fact I was from some place that featured the Capital of the World! Well, okay, I was really born in Highland Falls, New York but still, it was New York to me and close enough to New York City to count as being ‘from here’. So, the imaginative kinda kid I was (uh…well...hasn’t changed much!), I’d fabricate elaborate stories about where I was from and ‘share’ with the yokels I’d meet whenever my father was transferred to a new location. Hey, in another year or so, it really wouldn’t matter who I was or where I was from to those I’d leave behind when my father was again reassigned to a new place. And in my child's mind, I'd just be 'that cool kid from New York City', who everyone would fondly remember.

I seem to recall the 'story' went, I was from the Bronx and we’d formerly lived on 42nd Street. Which, in reality, doesn’t make any sense to anyone who’s been to the City. But hey, I was a storytellin’ little kid and of course, the New Hicks On the Block didn’t know the difference…generally…and I was simply lucky I didn’t actually run into anyone who’d actually lived in the City. This seemed to work well…until I was 12 when I was fully busted by a skinny, geeky little kid whose father was from Brooklyn: Bernard Ehrenstein. It’s funny how I still remember his name. ‘Course, if I’d REALLY known anything about the City, it would have made sense.

Fortunately, within 3 months, my father was stationed at a new Air Force Base: Chateauroux, France. And somehow, that seemed like a much better place to be from than the Bronx.