Marrying George Clooney

It wasn’t supposed to happen. Ken and I had our usual fight/argument: he said, fuck we’re never gonna find a space, and I said, hon, you’re always so negative, you gotta think half full. Fuck you he says I can’t even see the fucking glass and you can see it half full. Okay. We realize we’re both a bit testy. He because he worked a long day on a TV show and I because I had a bad manicure. Wrong color. I asked for sold out show, I got hampton ice. Trust me, they are not the same, I don’t care what LuLu says. LuLu barely speaks english and when I say sold out show she smiles and nods and then giggles. She hasn’t a clue. Ken and I hook up, have a nice dinner, then go to a movie – CLOOOOOOOOOONEY!!!!!! up in the air.  We drive uptown, park the car and go home. It felt bad. Like a bad spot. It felt illegal. It just did. But, like so many things, you’re hoping it’s just left over negativity, residue.
“Worse case scenario” is what I wake up to. Ken is standing, bundled up like an eskimo, and says, “worse case scenario.” I say, “Oh my god, stolen?” He says no, towed. I tell him that’s not really the worse case scenario, worse case would be … he stops me dead in my tracks, give it up amy, let me win, let me be miserable, okay. I need misery today I need coffee and misery and I need to believe that having the car towed is as bad as it gets. Fine i say. Live like that. I’ll go to the car pound, the car jail. 38th & 12th avenue. The cab driver drops me off 4 blocks from the terminal. It’s bitter cold, my ears are freezing, I’m going deaf. I walk into this…this…holding place. A few scattered people sitting, holding, cradling styrofoam coffee cups as if they were filled with chivas or cristal, not cold stale coffee. looking rather disconnected, glazed over. I am standing on line. In front of me, a guy with very long hair and attitude, “fuck ’em,” he says, “the whole piece of shit lot of ’em. you know they had me traipsing downtown to the DMV, and then back up here and now I gotta wait for my car which they’re thinkin’ it’s probably in another tow joint.” Hmmm, I say. “What are you doing here?” he asks me. “I was towed, we parked illegally. Illegal parking.” he leans in, like he’s in a Brian diPalma film and says: “They get you by the balls here.” Okay. Thanks. Is there anyone else I can chit chat with? The fellow who looks like he’s about to have a coronary, and the young girl sobbing (my guess, it was her new boyfriend’s car that got towed, and this is the “no blow-job” punishment.) Finally I walk up to the window, hand over my license and registration and am told to sit, make myself comfortable, it might take a while all systems are down due to an over jam. I have no idea what anyone is saying. Ken keeps calling me asking how it’s going. I tell him it’s going. But how’s it going? I give him a blow by blow, although refrain from using that terminology too loosely in front of the young girl who is still in the shock and awe phase. Finally I am called to the window. My car — my bad, bad car — is being held in car jail on 203rd and 10th Avenue. Huh. 203rd and 10th Ave. That’s like 200 blocks up north. Do I need to go to pay any tickets or such I ask the very unpleasant but well accessorized city worker. Nah, you just go up there and if you owe any more money they send you back down to the DMV where you pay for the tickets. This is where the logical Amy kicks in. Excuse me, I say, wouldn’t it be so much easier and more convenient for everyone involved if there was one place where say you can pay for your car, and pay for the towing fee, and also all those tickets you racked up and then get your car? Wouldn’t that be easier and more contained, perhaps even a bit more logical, I say… with my voice trailing off because no one, not one single city worker is listening to me while on my soap box. “Yo, your vehicle is uptown, 203rd and 10th Avenue,that’s where your vehicle is. You go there, you done here. Next.” I clear my throat, excuse me, can you tell me where exactly I am going uptown since that area is way outta my envisioning board scheme of things… she hands me, no shit, a piece of paper with directions in frickin’ spanish. I call Ken, I figure when he asks me how it’s going, this time around, i’m gonna have a bundle of crap to say.

Long story short. I get on the express A train, feeling weary & tired and a bit sorry for myself, when two women enter the train, both look worse for the wear, They sit on either side of me. One takes out a sandwich from what appears to be a little hot pink rollaway suitcase from god knows what era, the Barbie & Ken do Boca era; the other woman takes out a bag of peanuts. They are both hungry. Really truly hungry. And just as the train was about to lock it’s doors and pull out of the station, an old, old, old man enters — sits down across from me. He face was filled with lines and memories, some very sad, some joyous… he fiddled with some paperwork that he kept tucked away in his pocket, and it was then i saw it. His name tag: ANGEL. I began to cry. I couldn’t help myself. Angel was sitting across from me and he smiled at me, and I could feel that smile. I could. And the two women got up and off the train at 59th street, Both less hungry when they had originally sat down. And I felt lucky and filled with abundance and promised mysef right there on the A train that life was not about having more, but giving more, and fuck it that my car was towed. It was towed so i could meet a genuine angel who smiled at me and blessed me and made me believe that Christmas was right around the corner.

And you see, if Ken were with me, he would’ve said, what the fuck you talking about, the guy probably got the jacket outta a flea shop, and his name is probably Manuel.

And Ken can believe that. He can.
And I can believe that an angel touched my life, and therefore I will never go hungry, and my glass will always be half full and my books will fly off the shelves and my creative juices will flow until my last breath.

there is such good in the world. its right smack in front of you. it is.