|
John G. Gorman |
|
CITIZEN'S ARREST Squatting on the hot stone seat, contemplating, the way Siddhartha Gautama might've, I found it utterly offensive that the Shirts and Ties mocked an Indian frolicking through Citicorp's man-made waterfall. Sure it was their lunch break and it's a free country if you own a Fortune 500 Company, but do Armani-wearing, Lexus-driving stock jocks have to be covered by freedom of expression? The Shirts and Ties stopped jeering only when a sexy mamasita, sucking a blue ice pop passed by, instantly puttying them, the whole pongid lot, hooting and hollering while they fumbled with crotches. I thought I'd scream. Till someone beat me to it. "Monsoon, Mon-SOOON," the Indian shouted. An Indian, as in smell of camphor, taste of curry, not to be confused with the Pakistani newsstand mogul a stone's throw away, thumbing through a nudie mag. Bawdy laughter turned raucous when the Indian cuffed his pants up to his knees. Some tinfoil Scuds even flew in his general direction. It nearly got ugly till Mamasita unsuccessfully removed the popsicle from her bluish mouth, allowing it to spiral bungie all the way down to her naked leg. Two of the Shirts and Ties jumped from their seats. One undid his pink and white Burberry striped tie. The other produced a monogrammed hanky from his pants pocket. They raced to Mamasita, until they both arrived by her side simultaneously. It was a push and shove match. Had everyone gone mad or horny? Back and forth, the Indian ran, pumping his knees high above his waist football tire-running style, leaving behind tiny whirlpool tracks. "Monsoon, Mon-SOOON," he bellowed. A cop stuffing an overly-sauerkrauted hotdog down his yap watched in amusement. Then an Old Bag, hobbling along in her brand-spanking-new walker, jabbed the metal tip on the cop's toe. He squealed like a banshee. "What the hell was that for?" he said, then wiped a gob of mustard, onion and sauerkraut onto his sleeve. "Petey you're a slob." "Aunt Rose it's lunchtime." "Shouldn't you cuff that colored hoodlum?" "He's a dot head." "Cuff'im." What happened next, was hard to imagine, let alone watch before your bloodshot eyeballs. It unfolded as a freakshow of discombobulated slides, probably because my Bourbon and Amoxicilin were just kicking in. Nonetheless, the Old Bag shuffled with her walker over to Citicorp's man-made waterfall, smashing into the stony edges. She hoisted up her leg, revealing a very varicose calf. Defying the laws of gravity and sanity she impersonated a shriveled flamenco till the Indian leap-frogged near her. A two-foot tidal wave swallowed her ninety-pound frame. She shook a scrawny fist. The next thing you know she leaped into the air and flying-body-pressed the Indian. Submerged for a few seconds, they resurfaced. "I'm making a citizen's arrest," she pronounced, as water and snot dribbled out of her nose. Rafting atop him, she looked him over, then eyed her nephew, the cop, who was on his third hot dog by that time. A giant crowd had formed by this time. Men in uniform. Divas in fishnets. A Marist Brother speeding through Hail Marys. It was a feast of sore eyes. The Shirts and Ties even held hands with the Lilith Fare sound crew. And then a flock of pigeons swooped down, perching alongside the black-marbled fall. Without an ounce of shame the Old Bag kissed the Indian square on the mouth and said, "You're cute for a colored guy." |