Cinnamon Twists (Part 3)

With Grub Chick ready to kill,  suddenly the doctor came out.  He barely noticed me.  I tried to tell him I had brought cinnamon twists, but he walked by so quick I doubt he heard.   

I walked out dejected, back into the waiting room, only to see the entire room had almost emptied out.  My heart sank to the floor.  I knew Grub Chick wasn’t in with the doctor, and she and the commentators were now all of a sudden gone.  Most likely waiting on the other side of that door. 

I needed to get out of this situation.  Something.  Anything.  A miracle.  I scanned the few people left in the waiting room, and an old lady locked eyes with me. Those eyes had seen it all.  She shook her head.  She knew.  I knew.  We all knew.  I was about to get my ass kicked over some cinnamon twists.  There was nothing anybody could do about it. 

But wait.  Maybe there’s one thing.  I went back into the area behind the receptionist’s desk and took the cinnamon twists back.  I was thinking of  the old bait and switch.  You throw the object of a criminals desire one way and then run the other way.  That was my plan.  Walk with my head held high and throw the twists.  

I opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight.  The coast seemed clear.  I didn’t want to run because that would show fear, but I didn’t want to saunter like an idiot.  I had to be careful not to trip on my strappy sandals.  It was like dead woman walking.

No sign of the posse, I quickened my pace.  It was more like dead woman sprinting.  I started to sweat a little.  Onto the grass, over the lawn, across the street, to my car, when suddenly I heard a car honking its horn. 

My hands went onto the twists.  My peace offering, my olive branch, my ridiculous plan.  It was Her.  Grub Chick.  My Arch Enemy.  The other crazy, fighting over food that cost five bucks!  

In the distance, an engine revved.  Click, Click thank god for automatic locks.  I dove into the car making sure not to drop my twists and locked the doors just as fast.  I quickly put my key in the ignition and looked up to see what was coming.  

Grub Chick was in her car with the commentators.  We made eye contact.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the twists had fallen slightly out of my bag and were on the passenger seat.  

Safe in my car, suddenly I felt ridiculous for running.  I had been the one who stood up for myself.  I was the brave one.  Now that I was safe, I wanted to win.  

With one hand on the steering wheel, and both eyes on her car I was able to open the box of cinnamon twists.  I put my car in drive, just in case, and with one dramatic flourish I took out a cinnamon twist and bit in.  

Delicious as always.  Worth every risk.  I couldn’t help but smile.  It’s fun being crazy.  I finished my twist and flew out of my parking spot after one last look over to them.  The look of shock mixed with admiration was enjoyable.  Until we meet again Grub Chic.  

Cinnamon Twists (Part 2)

My response of “yea, they’re not for you” was not appreciated.  Grub Chick didn’t like my back talk.  She exclaimed, “Give me those cinnamon twists.”  So I said, “No”.  That was received by a room full of “Oooooh."  The entire waiting room started weighing in on the fight.  

This was much better than just waiting for the doctor.  There’s about to be a fight between two bitches over nothing.  What a great day!  “Ooooh that white girl she just said no, just like that, just like that”  “Girl, did you hear what she said, mmmm?”  They were like a prison gang backing up the head bitch.

I didn’t even know what that person would be called in prison or gang talk because I’m a white girl from a middle class suburban area.  I didn’t even understand why this was happening to me because I love black people and black people love me.  Seriously, black people love  me.

First off, I have a juicy booty.  So that means all black men, plus hispanics, mexicans and puerto ricans automatically love me.  Second of all, I have a filthy mouth, so that just means all men that aren’t uptight also love me.  

And then females that are black also usually love me, and I love them.  Black women are tough.  They say it like it is.  They like to have a good time.  I really just like anyone who’s cool.  So maybe that was the whole problem.  Grub Chic was acting very uncool and as a result, this horrible, horrible event was taking place.
All I know is the commentators were a mixed motley crew of scary and scarier and  my opponent was the nuttiest one of them all.  A pyscho with a loud voice who was not afraid to say what she wanted.  In another world, at another time, we would’ve been “besties,” but right now there we were in this world and the lines were drawn.  On my side of the line, there was me.  Just me.  Dressed in white pants, a banana republic black tee and strappy sandals.  On the other side of the line, there was this tall, scary, loud woman in tight jeans and a tight t-shirt with a tatoo of an anchor on one arm and muscles on both.  She was backed up by a group of individuals looking just as tough, if not tougher.  The commentators were agitating the entire situation and I needed them to go away. 

I wanted them to shut up.  Maybe this whole thing would just die down if they just shut up.  I waited to see what would happen next as I tried to keep my breakfast down.  All eyes were on Grub Chick.  It was her turn.   She looked at me and stuck with her basic demand.  “I want those cinnamon twists.”  I said, “If you want them, then get your ass in a car, and go buy them.”  I couldn’t even help myself.  Displaced anger is a real bitch.  We all know if I had brought Baklava this never would have happened.  

The receptionist behind the bullet proof glass pulled me into the next room, and I was unable to see my targets reaction, but could hear the uproar it caused.  One for whitey!  The staff knew about the cinnamon twist controversy and thanked me for them, but hadn’t touched them yet, sensing that this was not the end.  

Suddenly she charged back where I was behind the bullet proof glass and exclaimed, “I want those cinnamon twists."  I said, “You don’t give up do you?” She said, “You’re supposed to feed the poor.”  The commentators looked in,  waiting for my response.  I said, “I don’t have to do shit.”  Why couldn't she just let it go?

TO BE CONTINUED...

Cinnamon Twists (Part 1)

When I took a sales job working in pharmaceuticals, the company described the area I’d be working in as being a little “rough.” Needing a job, and not knowing what else to do I  thought, how bad could it be?  Once I started working there, I realized it made the bad areas of the Bronx look like Scarsdale. 

But for the most part it was fine.  I adjusted.  The people were nice enough, and it was all okay, until the one day somebody tried to take my cinnamon twists.  

I was going to see a doctor who didn’t speak to me, so I bought some cinnamon twists hoping that would at least make him look my way.  My dog responds to treats.  Why not doctors?  Besides, who doesn’t like cinnamon twists?  

Can we talk about the genius who invented them for a moment?  Fried dough, with sugar and cinnamon.  Heaven!  This is a dessert that makes sense.  When I see shit like baklava, I wonder what douche bag thought of that.  It looks like a pastry with meat loaf in it.  I’m supposed to eat something that’s laden with fat and calories, and this is what it looks like.  But everyone loves cinnamon twists.  Delicious and beautiful.  What’s not to love?

 I walked into the doctor’s waiting room holding my twists proudly.  The stagnant air in the office  smelled like a mix between urine and sweat; like a sack of un-showered balls.  It was dirty and crowded.  People were sitting in their chairs as though they’d been waiting for years to be seen by the doctor.  I hoped my twists would get me in and out quickly.  

I walked up to the bullet proof glass, trying to get the receptionist’s attention with my box of twists, when this female patient in the waiting room screamed out, “I want those cinnamon twists!”  WTF?  I looked over to see this skinny chick with a ton of attitude defiantly looking at me.  She was acting like the Queen of England.  Did this grub chick think I was going to just hand over my cinnamon twists?  

I gave her all attitude when I said, “Yea, they’re not for you.”  Trust me, I was a total bitch.  It surprised me a little because when it comes to work, I can really put on a show.  I can be nicey, nicey, sweetie, sweetie pie sales rep 99.9% of the time.  I can pretend to care all day long.  But not this time.  The demanding way she screamed out for my twists really pushed me over the edge, and I wasn’t having it.   

Little did I know, there was about to be a chick fight over cinnamon twists, and I was totally out numbered. 

TO BE CONTINUED...

Main Street Manhattan (Part 1)

Most people who live in NYC don’t know their neighbors. You could be living next to a drug dealer, a prostitute, or Mother Theresa and usually you’d have no idea. Daily you’ll ride the elevator in your building, and even if it’s the size of an umbrella stand, and it’s just you and one other neighbor, you won’t exchange words. Even if you get out of the elevator only to realize they live next door to you, you’ll just keep walking without speaking. It’s what most people do in New York City, that is, unless you’re me.

I’ve always talked to everyone and virtually anyone that I see, on a regular basis or sometimes even randomly, during my day. I talk to the mailman when he’s dropping off my mail. I talk to the old, cranky guy who sits on the corner with his fold-up chair who makes comments about everyone. I talk to the deli guy where I buy my bagel, and I talk to the crazy lady who talks to herself if she happens to start talking to me. At the very least I like to wave to her. Some say it’s a curse, but I think it’s a blessing that I can talk to a wall. But sometimes it gets me into trouble.

I had just moved into a new building. Actually, it was a decrepit, rent stabilized, pre-pre-pre-war building. Trust me, all of the wars happened after this building was built, but it was new to me. It was an absolute steal for a huge, according to Manhattan standards, apartment with a big walk-in closet. A place for my shoes? I was sold. When I moved in, I immediately met all of my neighbors on the floor including some of the neighbors a few flights up. The building was small, so it didn't take me very long to make my rounds.

At first, it made no sense to me why this apartment was so cheap. Until I slept there the first night and was woken up to “HIIIII----YAAAAA!” My apartment was directly above a karate studio, who knew people get up early to practice karate? Why people find the need to be healthy or learn self-protective strategies at 8 am is beyond me, so it was tough at first, but soon I was able to sleep through all of the shaking, jumping, screaming and board busting that went on. Whenever I wasn’t home to take packages, the owner of the studio always took them for me. I figured if there was ever any trouble in my place, there were 55 black-belts nearby. I started getting comfortable in my apartment, and on my new block. I lived on Lexington Avenue and everyone from corner to corner knew me. I turned New York City into my very own Main street.

I was cutting out of work early one Friday to go to the beach for the weekend. It was going to be a weekend full of drunkenness and sun. I ran in from work and since it’s about 8000 degrees in NYC in the summer at all times, I immediately hopped in the shower. Between the entire city smelling like a urinal and feeling like you’re walking around in a sauna all day taking showers twice a day is critical to not feeling repulsive. I was psyched that I was going to have a great weekend and that I was getting an early start. I was packing a bag while standing in a towel, when my phone rang.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hi. I’m your neighbor Frank. I live in the apartment above yours.”

“Oh, hi. It’s so nice to meet you. How’s it going?”

I didn’t question for one minute how the guy got my phone number, how he knew my name, or why he was calling. I was living on Main Street, and I was enthusiastically talking to my new neighbor Frank who could only be calling with good news.

“It’s going okay, but there’s a little problem with our apartments. It seems that there’s a hole in my floor that goes into your bathroom.”

Wow, I was glad he was calling to tell me that. But then he said...

“Basically I see you when you shower, and I know when you get period.”

Okay, first of all, gross. I walked into my bathroom and looked up at the ceiling, and I didn’t see any holes. But with the building being 500 years old the ceiling was shoddy. I quickly exited Main Street and came back a little Jersey.

“Really? You can see me when I’m in my bathroom? Well I’m in my bathroom now, so what am I wearing?”
He said, “A towel. I’m only calling to help you out...”

Unable to hear anything else after “towel,” I freaked. “You’re trying to help me out? You call me up and tell me that you see me when I shower and you know when I get my period and that’s supposed to be helpful? Thanks alot *^&%&* I guess I’ll be caulking my ceiling this weekend!”

I hung up the phone, and I ran out of my bathroom and got dressed in my kitchen. Creeped out and not sure what I should do next my phone rang again. Is this guy kidding?

Gruffly into the phone I said, “Yeah?” But the voice on the other end was one of my coolest friends. She was calling to see what I was up to for the weekend. I told her about the phone call from Frank, and she came right over to call the police. The idea of the police coming made it seem serious. Plus before my friend called me she had just smoked a ton of pot. But even in her stoned state she insisted I call the cops, so I threw some sunglasses on her, and we made the call.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Main Street Manhattan (Part 2)

On Main Street the cops don’t have to be called in because some weird guy is tracking your menstrual cycles. On Main Street the cops walk up and down the beat and know you by name. The two cops that showed up at my place were not like the cops in my Main Street utopia. One was nuts and was just looking for an excuse to go Rodney King on someone’s ass. He was a short, Italian, cursing lunatic about to explode from the slightest provocation.

When I told him about the whole “I know when you get your period” thing, he screamed and punched my wall. Usually I’m not really into psycho cops, but when some weird guy is laying on his bathroom floor looking at you shower through a crack, suddenly you’re happy there’s a psycho cop who wants to help you.

His partner was the exact opposite. Composed and calm that wasn’t the only thing that made him standout from Psycho Cop. The partner looked like he was in the process of getting gender re-assignment surgery because he was definitely wearing blush and had serious man boobs. His voice cracked and seemed to be high for a man. I’m sure Psycho Cop wasn’t happy being partners with Gender Reassignment Cop, but I was happy to have the balance. Psycho Cop needed it, and if the other cop was in the process of turning into a girl, he’d know how I felt.

Stoner was trying to stay in the background and avoided acting paranoid. Gender Reassignment Cop thought they should go upstairs and talk to Frank, so me and Stoner ate some cheese doodles while they went upstairs.

When the two cops returned to my apartment they looked a little confused. They asked me questions about what Frank had sounded like on the phone. I told them he had a heavy NY accent, and he was loud. The guy who lived above me was a gay, Frenchman, and they believed he had no idea what they were talking about when they questioned him

about the call. Luckily for Frenchie’s sake he wasn’t involved because if Psycho Cop had thought he was the one, it would’ve been ugly.

The cops left and told me to call if anything else happened. I finished packing my bag and went on with my weekend plans. I came home late Sunday night and thought it was all behind me. It was late, and I was exhausted. It was

almost midnight and the lights in my apartment were on. I have to admit that I was dreading shutting them off. One of my brothers called me to tell me something, but then said he had to call me back because he had to watch some stupid baseball instant replay. I hung up the phone and then it rang two seconds later. Thinking it was my brother, I answered it. Heavy breathing. “I see you.” More heavy breathing.

You know how when you watch a scary movie and something like this happens, the heroine just sits there and doesn’t move and you wonder what you’d do in the same

situation. Secretly, you think you might also be a dumb ass and react the same way. I don’t wonder about that anymore. Within seconds, I jumped out of bed, called the police, put clothes on, and was getting my sneakers when the cops showed up.

This time it was two other guys. I was crying. I couldn’t believe I didn’t feel safe in my own home. I started to tell them what had happened on Friday and now on Sunday, but they could’ve cared less. Total douche bags, they didn’t even wait for me to finish getting my stuff together to leave. They told me to get caller ID, and they wanted me to stop calling the police. The least they could’ve done was walk me out of the building.

Standing on my beloved Lexington Avenue, at midnight, holding my arm up to hail a cab, Psycho Cop and Gender Reassignment Cop pulled up. They said they heard my address over the car radio, and they came right over to see if I was alright.

I sat in the back of their patrol car. Psycho Cop had a screaming fit after I told him what happened and Gender Reassignment really empathized with my situation. They said this was now a stalking case, and they were taking it seriously. They were putting a tap and a trace on my phone, and all I had to do was answer the phone, and they’d have him. I told Psycho Cop about the Douche Bag Cops and what they said, and he told me not to worry, he’d take care of them. I was happy Psycho Cop would be able to take his anger out on someone.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Main Street Manhattan (Part 3)

The next day was Monday. Day One of having a trace and tap on my phone. I was dying for Frank the Stalker to call. I couldn’t wait. I sat by the phone willing it to ring. Most people would hope the stalker would have stopped calling by now but not me. I wanted to know who it was. I wanted to see Psycho Cop go Rodney King on his ass. I wanted some peace of mind.

He didn’t call all day. I called out sick from work and everything. I guess most stalkers like to stalk at night. Cowards. Since I had the day off from work, I went out and bought a book about stalkers. If I had one, I should try to learn all about them. The one thing I took away from the book is that overly-friendly nice people get stalked. If you’re a total cranky bitch even stalkers aren’t interested. Cranky bitches really get all the advantages. If you’re not famous, then you know who your stalker is. It suggested to make a list of all the people who give you the creeps, or who you think might be “a little off.”

In NYC, with my overly-friendly ways, it was a pretty long list. I studied the list. Some of the guys seemed weird, but too lazy. You have to be motivated to stalk. Lazy guys don’t have enough enthusiasm to get the job done. You also need a guy that's committed. Let’s face it, in NYC that cut the list to only a few. One was actually one of the black belts who taught in the karate school below me. I made a mental note to be more of a bitch to him. The other was this limo driver who took me back and forth to the airport a few times. I thought he was strange, he kept asking me out even though he was a 100 years older than me, and it was weird I kept getting him. Then there was this guy in the deli, but I wasn’t sure if he was stalker material. My best guest was the karate guy, but how would I know for sure?

I became really good at locking my door the minute I walked into my apartment and waiting by my phone. Instead of waiting for a hottie to call I was waiting for someone mentally deranged. Where did it all go wrong? If anyone called I told them I couldn’t talk because I didn’t know if the trace or the tap would work with call waiting. I had friends on rotation staying over every night because that’s when I knew Frank the Stalker would call.

Everything was in place, but suddenly Frank the Stalker had given up on stalking. I wondered if his real life had conflicted with his secret, stalking life. It was all very confusing, and I was totally on edge. I was waiting for a friend to come over when my buzzer rang. Thinking it was my friend, I talked into the intercom to confirm it was him.

Nobody answered, but I heard someone come into the building. I ran and got my bat (I was sleeping with one under my bed) and waited at my door. I was staring out the peep hole, thinking thiswas it, when a short, skinny, little man started pounding on my door. Who the hell was this?

“I am Antoine! You called the police on me! You are a stupid, stupid, woman! Open up your door!”

It was Frenchie who lived above me. Was this guy on crack?

“&^%^&* you Antoine! I will not open the door and you have no idea why I called the police! And if you don’t stop pounding on my door I’m going to call the police again!”

He was knocking on my door so hard I thought it was going to break. It was so bad that the 55 black belts that I always hoped would help me in time of a crisis came flying up the stairs to see what was going on. Except for one. The creepy one conveniently was missing. When the black belts came up, Frenchie ran, and he proceeded to jump up and down on my ceiling like a lunatic. The owner of the karate school was concerned, but I didn’t even want to open my door for him. This was nuts, something had to give. I needed Frank the Stalker to stalk me again and end all of this madness.

Then HE called. The next night. I was being babysat, by this guy Ralphie who was driving me nuts. One of my friends couldn’t come, so she sent her cousin. He’d lost like 100 pounds doing The Zone Diet, and I had to listen to him give me a blow by blow of what he ate all day every day. I was sitting there eating a vat of Tasti-Delight frozen yogurt covered with peanut butter chips while listening to this guy tell me about the fat/protein/carbohydrate ratio of the 25 meals that he ate per day. Then I had to listen to his workout routine. When the phone rang I wasn’t even thinking about Frank the Stalker because I was trying to figure out how to get Ralphie out of my apartment. I picked up the phone...

“Hello.”

“Yeah, you know we’re still having a problem with our apartments...”

It was Frank the Stalker. Finally! If you can't even count on a stalker stalking what was this city coming to?

I said, “We're still having a problem? Good. Go fuck yourself.”

I hung up the phone and called the police, but he was stalking me from a cell phone that was untraceable. Psycho Cop and Gender Reassignment

Cop said if he always called from that phone there wasn’t much they could do.

Friends urged me to move, but there was no way I was going to leave Main Street. Nobody was pushing me out of my apartment. I changed my number, had it unlisted, and stopped being friendly to anyone I thought was a little off. I wasn’t going to totally change but there needed to be some adjustment. I knew I could take care of myself no matter what happened, so I stopped having someone with me all the time, and I put my faith back into Main Street Manhattan. The 55 black belts had helped when they thought I was in trouble. All of my friends had rallied. I had done everything I could. I knew I’d be fine.

Oh yeah, and I started dating Psycho Cop, and he practically lived in my building for awhile, so guess that helped too.

***I'd like to thank everyone who expressed concern for my safety after reading this story. I'm out of that building now, and I'm fine. Thanks for all the love!