Well that was fun for a couple of days. I found a 30-day Metrocard with over 3 weeks time left on it. I rode everywhere. I took the bus for one or two stops. I went to the Met Museum. I entered subway stations with no intention of riding a train. I owned this town.

The free rides lasted a couple of days. Today I saw the dreaded “SEE AGENT” message when I attempted to enter at 39th Avenue. Oh well. It makes me realize, though, that people who lose these 30 day passes tend not to cancel them, as appears to have happened with this card. I found at least three 30-day passes over the years and none of them ever got cancelled. One of those cards had something like 28 days left on it. I figure people just don’t know they can get a refund or replacement for a lost card, or they don’t care, or they can just get a new one from their place of work. I actually missed the exercise, and find that on as perfect a day as today I might have walked over the Queensboro Bridge anyway even if the card still worked.

I am at the Trump Tower, with the Pulic Garden space virtually all to myself again. Two people at a table off in the corner look like they are engaged in a power lunch. Lots of gesticulating. A fat tourist just waddled in to take a picture. Then she left.

On the bridge walking over here I remembered, as I so often do, a couple of small but happy memories which surface in my mind for no damn reason, prompted by nothing. One memory involves listening to The Fan, 660 AM, the sports radio station, while they still broadcast from Astoria. Their studios used to be across the street from Sunswick. Now they are at the World Trade Center. The location has no connection to the memory, though, and the only reason I leave that bit of information here is because erasing it would make the effort of ommunicating it feel like a waste. Certainly somebody must care to know that The Fan formerly aired from 35th Avenue and 35th Street in Astoria.

The memory is this: It as late night, maybe 2am, when someone called the show and asked “Can we talk about golf?” The announcer wasn’t going to hang up on the guy but he cheerfully made it clear that he knew squat about golf. “It’s definitely not my forte but, sure, we can talk about golf.” The caller asked a very specific question about a particular golfer, something like “Do you think Greg Norman will do well at Augusta next year?” The announcer paused, took a deep breath, I think he might have leaned back in his chair, then replied “Why not? I mean hey, why not? Right?” He clearly had no idea what he was talking about, but he quickly had a thought. He asked twhoever else was in the studio with him “Is Greg still here? He knows this stuff.” Another voice came through the radio, answering in a near-affirmative “I think Greg is still here. Hold on.” In what seemed like mere seconds the golfmeister Greg was at the mic, engaging the caller in extremely knowledgeable conversation about the sport which probably gets the least coverage of them all at The Fan. I just remember being touched by the impromptu joy of the moment, as Greg and the person who called the show talked about golf for what seemed like a half an hour. It was cool to think of Greg as half way out the door when someone grabbed him by the shirt collar and described the on-air emergency content situation that only he could address. “This stuff’s right in your wheelhouse! Don’t go home yet.” And he turned right back around and gladly did it. It’s a tiny memory but the spontaneous moment of joy and Greg’s love for his job and the particular subject matter of the moment is indelibly etched in my mind.

The other memory is from college, early freshman year. I was at the conservatory in a practice room, practicing, when a friend named Bob walked in to the room. I stopped playing piano and said “Hi, Matt.” Bob was clearly chagrinned that I got his name wrong. But I remember this incident for my exculpatory way out of the embarrassment of the moment, and how triumphant was its resolution. After I made this little mistake Bob proceded to tell me whatever it was he came to tell me. After he stopped talking and I responded appropriately I explained what happened moments earlier. “I called you Matt because Matt was just in here a few minutes ago asking if I knew where you were.” At this Bob lit up. He didn’t say it but he exuded the question “Someone was looking for me?” He assumed a posture of relevance. He asked if I knew which way Matt had gone or where he was. I said I did not know but the information I did provide was more than enough to erase that crestfallen look of existential resignation from his face and set him on his way to finding what he could do for Matt. Suddenly Bob mattered, and I actually think that my way of explaining it to him made him feel all the more important. It was cool.

I don’t mean to say Bob was devestated by me calling him Matt. He did not fall to the floor in pain, clutching his stomach in a futile gesture of attempting to quell the attack of an inner demon. He was, however, just enough taken aback by my mistakenly addressing him as Matt that I had no choice but to explain why that happened, and I remain proud of how satisfying that conversational exchange was in remedying the situation. I remember the moments between my mistakenly calling him Matt and waiting for him to stop saying whatever he had come in to the room to say. I don’t remember now what he said but I waited through his comments with patience, with a glimmer of confidence that once my words got out the slight twinge of sadness he felt earlier would be replaced with confidence after my unassailable explanation.

So many tiny memories surface for no damn reason.

…

I made some powerful revelations in therapt this week. I have no feelings for the therapist nor do I intend to cross the line of professionalism but i feel I can say this anyway. She is such a lovable, loving, caring human being. It’s amazing to me for its genuiness and near transparency.

More importantly, though, is the other matter that has come clearer than ever, its obviousness perhaps contributing to it going without mention. I loved my mother so much. I loved her more than I think should be possible. I am remembering specific incidents and manifestations of her character that illustrated so clearly how vulnerable she was, and that she was just a little girl inside.

I say that now not with any particular melancholy or sadness over the fact that she is gone. There is nothing I can do about that. But I say this realizing how powerful that love was, and still is.

I loved both my parents. The sadness comes when I think about them. They hardly knew each other. It has taken me a long time to realize how frequent it is that couples, even married ones, just do not know each other very well. There is an emotional security to being in a relationship, whether you are happy with it or not. There are social rewards and subconscious badges of honor granted to people in relationships which are not bestowed on singletons. 

I forgot where I was going with this.

…

I need a cheeseburger.

Oh, so apparently the IRS actually had my back with regard to stalling on my federal return. Or that’s how it appears. Accountant took a look at it and said I’ll be getting a LOT more back. I don’t understand why, and I don’t know how much more I’ll get back (I did not ask because I want to be surprised) but I’ll take it, even if it means waiting 2 months. Maybe I’ll splurge and buy myself an unlimited Metrocard. Hah. Was thinking of doing that anyway after experiencing the luxury of having one again for a couple of days.