Yehudini the Magic Mover, THE LIE, and a Whole Lot Else

If you really want to see a slice of life in New York, skip the village, bypass the meatpacking district and head straight for…the Brooklyn home depot parking lot. Its truly amazing. I go there every weekend. Which may be a little more frequent than necessary but nonetheless, it makes for some incredible sights. For instance, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen Hasids at home depot. Today, Sunday, at 4:30 EST Daylight Savings, Home Depot was approximately 59 per cent orthodox. While I sat in mahdis' car intermittently driving around the lot when the Jamaican van drivers realized I was stationary and therefore would certainly like to be smiled and winked at, and possibly approached and/or propositioned, I saw four young orthodox couples, young like my age, with two kids each under five and the woman at least six months pregnant…SLOW YOUR ROLL FOLKS! The meshiach may not have room for that many and I want a spot!! The real meat of this anecdote, though is that in my vehicular pacing, I saw a sight that now, in the sanity of my domicile, seems like it may never have happened. I saw a Hasidic man, driving a Cadillac Escalade, with the license plate (drumroll please...) SHEM TOV 9. Shem Tov 9!!! Each one of those elements is more staggering than the last. Not the least mindboggling of which is the implicit fact that at LEAST nine other people have honored the founder of modern Hasidism, the Baal Shem Tov, with their vanity plates. On a later round, I saw the man out of the Escalade (!) he had the traditional beard and pe’ahs (sp?) but was wearing workmans jeans, gloves, timberlands and a baseball hat. Ive never seen anything like it. Perhaps he, like myself, questions the legitimacy of a God that would make his chosen people wear a ridiculous, weather insensitive, defamation inviting outfit like a huge wide brimmed hat and monster black furlined coat 365 days a year. Whatever the reason, he cut a hell of a sillhouette. Especialy with the escalade.

So I bought a couch. It wasn’t easy. And it was a good illustration of how we make our lives more difficult than they need to be. The first way in which I created difficulty was to schedule the move for 11 30 on a Friday morning. Now, as an adult, when was the last time you were free to help someone move furniature on a Friday morning at 11:30? Well, if you cant think of it, youre in good company because not one of the crowd of Seattleite NY transplants was able to assist me in the move, with one important exeption. Monica Frisell, who glory be to God, has yet to really begin her adult life since shes still an undergrad, had no classes and was able to come to 23rd and park with me to meet the moving guy with me on Fri am. Which leads us to the second way in which I made my life harder than it needed to be. I asked a Senegalese acquaintace who has a van and has at least considered using it in the service of other people’s moves enough to make a card which advertises said service, to come and help me move the couch. Now, as my friend Talib so succinctly put it, “have you ever heard a West African person say no to anything?” And no, I haven’t. Ive seen them not do things, but I’ve never heard them say no when asked. And that’s just what happened. He just simply didn’t show up. Which put me, Mahdis and Monica at 23 and park at 11, with half an hour until I told the guy from craigslist that id be there to pick up the couch and no van. They man I was buying the couch from supplied me with the name and number of a man that he had previously used and was reliable. And Israeli. So I called the guy. He was available at four. That left, oh five hours to dink around and get tired and hungry before going to move furniature. That’s just what we did. As my really pretty stellar luck would have it, my very attractive single Sri Lankan friend from Seattle whose number is 206. 697.9557 was coming in to the city to visit and he happened to get in at about three. So, we will leave Me, monica and Pradeep eating lunch in Café Havana on Prince and Elizabeth (great corn) while I tell you the story of the actual couch purchase transaction.
It was a dark and stormy night, really it was. But this time I had an umbrella! So while my feet and ankles were soaked my head and undergarments stayed mercifully dry. I digress. I had an appointment to meet a young (Jewish) man from Craigslist with the confident voice of someone who has been considered attractive their entire life, about a couch. He sounded very cute, and I was actually kind of psyched to meet him cause we got along really well on the phone. Heres the TOTALLY HUMILIATING story of how I convinced him through bizzare Seinfeldian deception that I am a complete psycho. Usually I don’t get off until eight, so I had plans to meet him at 8 15, but I ended up leaving work early cause I wasn’t feeling so hot and I thought maybe we could meet earlier. No dice, he had already planned on meeting me then. Fine. That gave me three hours of downpour to kill. I ate, I shopped around finding 100 places to buy the same cheap unwearable Chinese import clothes. And I decided to get an early start to our meeting place, so I would be sure to be on time even if I got lost. Which I of course didn’t. So I took the 23rd ave bus across town to 23rd and first, and got there about eight. When I got off the bus, the guy calls me. I didn’t want to seem like I was overeager, or that I was going to try and rush him by getting there early, so when he asked me if Id gotten off the bus yet, I LIED and said no. I said I was still on 23rd and Park, where the 6 let me off. "Good" he said, "cause I want to change our meeting place a little. Don’t get off the bus until the last stop, youll know because the driver will announce it and everyone will get off." Crap, of course I had already gotten off the bus and would have to wait for the next one. Which I did. It came quickly, and I quickly realized that he, having grown up in the neighborhood, would know that if I had really been where I said I was by the six stop, It would have taken me quite a bit longer to get to 22nd and FDR on the bus and I would never have been there so soon. So, again, I LIED, and when he said with surprise, and sounding as attractive as ever “You’re here already??” I said “Oh,” nonchalance, “I took a cab, I was freezing.” Now that would have sufficed, except that he asked where I was, and I said 20th and ave C. Apparantly that’s not where the bus’ last stop usually is, but the driver had said "everybody off, last stop." So when Cutie Jewstein said, "Wait, 20th and Ave C or 22nd?" I, not used to having to preserve the integrity of a lie, said “Well, the street sign says 20th and that’s where the driver kicked us all off so it must be the last stop.” I immediately realized that I had JUST told him I took a cab. I'm sure he did too. He said he'd be right down and I busied myself thinking of further lies to try to cover up my slip, i had taken a cab but we pulled up behind the bus and I saw everyone get off etc etc, eventually realizing Id be better off cutting my losses and just never mentioning it again. He was ADORABLE, worked in film advertising, kind of looked like Jason Patric but cuter and with green eyes. Which Jason Patric may have as well, haven’t seen him act since Lost Boys. His mother had on a whim bought a new couch and coffee table and had been neurotically regretting it for six weeks deliberating about either putting this one in storage in case she didn’t like the new one as much, which she doesn’t think she will, or maybe just sacrificing the deposit she put on the new one and telling the store she made a mistake and doesn’t want it. She said she felt better now that she knew I was going to get it, that she felt like she already knew me. It felt very familial, sort of upper middle class, brainy neurotic loving Jewish parent way. I wanted to invite myself into their lives immediately; “want to have brunch sometime? Maybe go see a dance performance?" But I couldn’t, buying their couch and coffee table was the closest I was going to get. Anyway, his parents are fabulous, the couch is fabulous and If I hadn’t LIED like an IDIOT our life together might have been fabulous but instead as he walked me back out of the complex and prepared to brave the rain and walk home he said “ So you have my dad’s number you should be able to just deal directly with him from hereon out, right?” Or somesuch translation of “get away from me you weird, damp, orphan craigslist liar and don’t come back.”
Cut to me and Monica and Pradeep, racing up to the weird complex which is divided into two identical halves, called Stuyvesant Town and Peter Cooper Village. Who the fuck is Peter Cooper? We tried the rosters in three identical buildings and called the poor guy about five times before finally finding his and going up to start moving the couch down. I was sure he hated me, but he managed to put his animosity aside and help us put all the pillows into hefty bags for ease of transportation. A little after four, the moving guy showed up. Not Israeli as I had been told, but a Moroccan Jew who came with his 17 year old son. The kid looks like Harold from Harold and Maude, with big overgrown curls, and has the kind of Queens accent that seems inappropriate on anyone younger than 40. I had my doubts at first, he didn’t have a van and his truck looked like it would fit about a quarter of the couch in it and I suddenly saw myself having to make several trips on following days, my heart sank. But, he assured me that he was Houdini, and that he would be able to fit the whole couch, the coffee table and all five of us into the truck. I was sure he was out of his mind. But as more and more of the monstrous sectional disappeared into the bed, I relaxed. I was in good hands. Mon, P and I chatted up his darling son as he helped us carry stuff down to his dad. A sweeter teenager could not be found. And as Yehudini artistically rope tied the couch and table to the boat hitch under the open tailgate of his truck, I felt like the stupid cycle of karma attached to this purchase was lifted. We took the long way back to my house, along flatbush cause I cant give driving directions to save my life, and visited the whole time. He has been in NY 20 years, his son helps him move whenever hes not in school and he loves it. Hes the kind of kid I imagine existed a lot more frequently in past generations, who look forward to spending time with their parents and see helping them out with their work as an honor and a responsibility. Plus he's ADORABLE and asked me about skin care products when he found out I was a cosmetologist. So they helped me get everything in the house, and stayed for tea and haircuts. They looked sharp as hell going, they really did. Im hoping we can somehow be friends. I may buy a dresser soon…

We filmed a reality TV show in my work on Thursday. It was long and boring. The host had a small white dog that cohosts with her. The human host, and the dog too actually, were totally charmless and unremarkable. I couldnt imagine looking forward to the next episode. It was called something inane like relationship rehab and focused around a dry looking white girl who had been dating a guy for two months and was devastated when he “dumped her.” Ive got stories that would put that chick in a padded cell, but enough about me, lets talk about reality TV. They were in the salon from 9:30 to almost four and will probably use about 40 seconds of footage from the shoot. They filmed her getting new hairdo from a very nervous Judah, whose charisma and strength of character was overwhelmed by shyness on camera. Very cute. Then they did her clothes (ugly, glasses sponsored by lens crafters) and makeup. I gave a couple of the sound guys and production assistants haircuts.
Then Chaim and Judah took all 18 of us out to dinner at a nice upper east side Italian restraunt. That was really fun. We were so loud. Everyone was toasting and doing impressions of each other and how they each do hair. That group is insane, I was looking around at everyone thinking about how different everyone’s growing up was and how we all ended up around the same table doing the same work. Italy, Romania, Slovakia, Dominican Republic, Columbia, Israel, Cuba, Uzbekistan, Puerto Rico, Seattle, all five boroughs, Kentucky. Incredible.
Judah said he was impressed with my haircuts on the crew and that he could see we could start booking me with men’s haircuts! Exciting. Hope that happens. I know this installment is a bit long. It’s been a dense week. My neck is out, Ive been icing and taking advil, and simultaneously my throat is killing me. Halloween is tomorrow. Mahdis and I went to a costume party last night that sucked and felt like a frat party, the DJ played a John Cougar Mellencamp song, but our costumes were good. I went as one of the small Incan, Peruvian Indian guys that plays pan flute music in every major city in the world. I knew as I bronzed my face, that it had the potential to be somewhat offensive. But since Ive never heard anyone speak ill of those with incan ancestry, nor have I ever met a Peruvian, well, that’s not quite true but one in 29 years is pretty good odds, that I was safe. Naturally, since I showed up to the party with a long black wig in one long braid down the back, a Guatemalan pullover, white jeans and sneakers with my skin bronzed to that reddish shade that they are blessed to have all year, and Mahdis friend Laleh’s pan flute that gave me the idea in the first place, the first person I met was of Peruvian ancestry. Though not from the mountains he assured me, so I now know those guys are from the mountains. GOD I’m a jerk. The next partygoer I met approached me speaking pig latin backwards and touching my panflute (the lowland Peruvian told me what it was called but I forgot immediately.) Of course he wasn’t Peruvian, a Caucasian with a dark and heavy beard, but he had lived extensively in Ecuador and Peru and had taken it apon himself to learn QUECHUA. Apparently that’s the indigenous language of the panflautists and he informed me that next time I come wearing such an instrument I should be prepared to speak quechua or not wear it at all. He was dressed like a surgeon and it occurred to me to ask him if he knew how to do a quadruple bypass and if not why he was frontin’ , but decided that he probably had a point and vowed to be a fucking jellyfish or bambi for Halloween next year. Unbeleiveable.