stealth version of Jerry Springer

Yesterday a fellow pedicaber said he would call me, “corporation”.  “That’s your name in the business”, he said.  The need to have a name for me that distinguishes me from the rest of the pedicabers is some strange phantom-like membership code that gets people to conform.  Not only does this conformance pressure bother me in my routine work, but it saddens me that forces to get people to conform are so active in a group that gives people reason to believe it is open and free spirited.  “NYC pedicabers are fashionistas” is the phrase I have used again and again in this blog to describe the unwelcomed and unsolicited fashion advice I get from fellow pedicabers.  My first court appearance is next week for a pedicab traffic citation.  Today should be a big day for pedicabing, and I plan to work from Noon to Midnight, so I can do Central Park tours, Friday rush hour, and the MSG, Madison Square Garden, Manhattan, New York crowd after the game.  I left Leslie with hope she would be my favorite passenger, and my words to this young woman were sincere, but there was no hope of topping the Canadian sisters, who were two decades Leslie’s senior, and to having such a cozy relationship with a sister after these years has more value than anything I could say to credit it.  After saying, “ciao”, an Asian woman asked me for directions to Lucky Cheng’s, which is the drag club where my Canadian passengers were.  The Australian amateur photographer was going to Empire State Building.  My final passenger of the night?  A prosititue going home near Times Square to which Adam responded, “You’re the only man I know who has been paid by a whore.”  To the best of my ability to calculate my sister, Ellen, and my mother were in New York to visit Laura two and a half or one and a half years ago.  I remember writing a letter to Ellen after my mother slipped, and indicated she would be staying near Times Square.  My letter indicated how it would create some sort of emotional wound to find my mother was in New York, and I was excluded.  I also made it clear that if she chose to visit New York, and exclude me, then I was powerless.  I could only absorb and process the event in a way that would let me move on.  Tonight my mother slipped for the second time, and told me about a pedicab ride with Laura.  Since I know how new the NYC pedicab industry is, and I know how long Laura has been in New York, I concluded this must have been the trip that triggered my letter to Ellen two and a half or one and a half years ago.  Tonight I sit feeling good that I averted a more serious emotional wound over this covert mother NYC trip.  As I did before, and I am doing now, I wrote my way through the trauma years ago, and tonight I blog my way through the trauma, and I think this will pass without anything other than me grinding through this as an internal issue.  Other than my wife who is at my side now, I don’t expect to involve anyone to help me settle these feelings.  Only time can confirm.  The pattern in Ellen visiting New York with our mother is a family pattern to exclude people as a way of . . . as a way of . . . showing disapproval (right words?, yo no se).  This exclusion fits the same genre as the Amy exile I blogged about on my New Years post:  Dear kind readers:  This is family trouble that is a stealth version of the Jerry Springer Show.  In my case Ellen visited her daughter in New York, and did not include me.  In Amy’s case her brother, and two sisters, and their families visited her state for Christmas, and excluded her.  Amy processed in part with an emotional call to Brian, and I processed through writing.  Either way this exclusion is a family MO, and I make no effort to stop it.  Instead, I propose now what I proposed on my New Years post, which is a connection to multiple people in the family.  As I learned during the recovery of the loss of my late son, David, I needed family, and resources beyond my siblings were abundant.  Sincerely,  Tom Doody.  My favorite passengers tonight were Mica and her mother.  The mother did most of the talking, but I forgot her name.  They are from an Arctic Canadian island with 7000 people, and no seasonal shift in population.  It is a three-hour flight North of Ottowa, and google gives me no reference.  They spoke English indistinguishable from multi-generation urban-dwelling Americans, and they could not understand my excitement to meet them.  Dear kind Canadians:  Please understand when I meet people from London it is a common occurance.  The population/wealth combination has people on planes between New York and London in large numbers, but meeting you was not a common occurrence.  There are 7000 – 2 people in your Canada town I have not met, and I could pedicab to traditional retirement age with no reasonable expectations of meeting another person form your town.  Thank you for visiting New York, and thank you for getting in my cab.  Sincerely,  Tom Doody  Happy President’s Day.

About Tom Doody

middle-age American living in New Jersey near the Lincoln Tunnel
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