New York - I

NEW YORK - PART UN.

Mr. BB:
Let's start at the very beginning. Before an ungodly 5:15 am pick up ride to the airport, I was off to a bad start. Sleep had eluded me because my landlord's cat [no longer a kitten] decided this was the night of a marathon hump-a-thon. Baptized Petruccio by his Italian family [my landlord], he has since been re-christened Mr. Bulgy Balls, by yours truly for obvious reasons. Before we indulge in this sordid tale, I wasn't able to shut him out, for I could not win over his tactics - crying and scratching the door and our internet and phone cables-both of which are more essential than my own arteries.

I managed to make it home that night, around midnight [it was work-related, with little or no booze involved, so this is not a figment of my imagination], which left me with 5 hours to pack, proof read pages for production, shower, and maybe get some sleep. Ok, strike sleep off agenda. There he was, Mr. BB - curled up sweetly on my bed, a happy yawn or two as I furtively worked away, proofing and what not. After a shower and some Visine for the eyes and still afraid to disturb him, I set to spread all NY essentials on the bed. I woke him. He humped my passport. I kicked him out. He cried and scratched, I let him in, scratched his ears till he fell asleep again [on my bed] and tiptoed around my own fucking room like I was breaking curfew, reviewing notes/questions and packing. He woke up, horny as shit and decided the North West corner of my blanket was worthy of a little lovin'. I was in no mood for laundry so the same kicking-out routine followed till he angrily and aggressively attacked my now packed bags. I did not want to travel to NY accompanied by cat semen so I locked myself and my bags out of my room and took refuge on the couch for about 15 minutes till the car came.

Sex, eyes and rides:
Finally, a human being to interact with - the limo driver. "You Indian?" he asked. Relived of horny cat company, I said brightly [and honestly] " A 100%". "So which part of India you come from?" Before I could reply, he spoke for me, "Bengal?"
"Yes," I said simply and curiously added, " How did you know?"
"Your eyes. If you don't mind me saying, Bengali women have sex eyes".
Oh shit, so much for relief from horny company.
"You mean sexy" I said, hoping that's what he meant.
"No, no, sex eyes" he insisted. "When a Bengali woman open her eyes to see you, it is sex. When she close, no sex. "
"Oh"
"I have Bengali professor in college. All students, we come to class everyday because we all crazy of her. Her eyes, her talk. Bengali women also open-minded."
Open-minded, sex: So New York, and I weren’t even in the vicinity of said city yet. Change of topic, NOW.
"Ya, well, I don't know about that. I am a tomboy and so I really don't think it applies to me. Besides, this is the first time I've ever heard this about Bengali women"
"You see 70s Indian movies?" he asks.
Aha! Change of topic.
"Yes, yes." I say [again brightly and honestly...lack of sleep already showing]
"You know all sexy heroines in that day, all Bengali"
FUCK.
"I guess so. Umm, ya"
"If you don't mind me saying, I see you at door and I cannot believe my eyes. 36 years gone by for me to see beautiful Bengali woman again. Your eyes and smile, total Bengali"
[FYI: Bengali women are known for a good rack and booty. Both of which I do not measure up to-my relatives have been quite explicit about pointing that out, all the time]
Grappling,, I use my standard "when complimented, embarrassed" answer.
"Well, I have a small face, so my eyes just look big. Otherwise, out of context they are pretty ordinary"
If this didn't work, I had my other standard response ready: Radio please.
"You go NY on Biore thing, yes?"
Relieved but cautious [and fighting sleep deprivation already] "Yes"
"NY so lucky to have you"
"Thanks"
"You go with other editors I pick up?"
"Yup"
"You lucky you come from open-minded good family. Good for getting good job. Punjabi women pretty but not social, they talk only to each other, not men. They no progress"
"Thanks"
"You have white boyfriend"
"What???" [I did not see that one coming]
Shocked and still honest, "I don't have a boyfriend" [god damn, wrong answer]
"But you date white boys?"
"Umm, could you please turn on the radio?"
"Sure, no miss, don't get wrong impression. I only say because I see white boys go crazy for brown girls. Indian boys no like dark girls but white boys love, especially if you look with those eyes"
"Ha, ha...ha, ha" [nervous laughter followed by my emergency 'shut the trap' standard fare]
"Ya well, I wouldn't know. I like girls. Could you please tune the radio to 91.1 please"

...This is member supported Jazz fm in Toronto, Coming up...on this late hour...

Setting off alarm bells:
This tale is no longer sordid, just embarrassing. Walking through security, I went off. Completely, entirely and it seemed everyone stopped to hold their breath to spot the next terrorist. In full public view, my shoes came off [ did you know stilettos are held together with a pin at the bottom? Neither did I till I saw an X-ray of my own shoe]. My soles were tickled to detect whatever it is that they look for, and then my belt came off. They requested me to unzip and unbutton my jeans [ still in full public view] and requested I put my hands behind my head.
6 am in the morning and my hip hugger jeans have slid below all dangerous thong levels, revealing to delighted viewers [voyeurs?], vital stats of the unmentionables. I am bare feet and cannot pull up my jeans, what with hands clutching my hair and not my pants. Then my chest goes off. No really, I was wearing a locket but it fell in behind the tee-shirt. I didn't take my shirt off but had to wait 5 minutes while the lady put on her special gloves and in full public view, again, stuck it down my non-existent cleavage to pull out the chain and locket. I was only kidding when I said I liked girls.

Coming soon: New York - Part deux.