Went to Scott’s and had a cook out. I had made Tabouleh and we had turkey and veggie burgers as well as some hot links that ‘Neene brought over. The kids were in the little pool all afternoon. In the evening we went to the Citi-Stage at Harmony Playground and saw a concert. It was, and I still haven’t really read the program, a tribute to Doc Pomus with Laurie Anderson, Joel Dorn, Ben E. King and Lou Reed. There were other notable singers and Steve Bernstein was the band leader. It was great to watch Steve, the post-modern bandleader jumping around and directing the loose playlist with elan. The kids ran around and played, Deneene hooked up with her friend Chris, Papa-Jatzik and Xela, Tulsie and Dustin came by. It was really nice. Scott reminded me that I used to get the Village Voice as soon as it came out and look for concerts to go to when I was younger. That was when you had to buy the Village Voice!
Here’s the latest installment of Kiko’s Tale, and he’s back. Today in my writing I had Kiko finish with his new friend and make a few deliveries and some observations about the life of a delivery guy and New York City. But those are in the pipeline, and you’ll have to wait a week or so. And of course, if you want to start from the beginning, go here.
“¡Pinche Guay!” Kiko shouted impotently at the black Lincoln Continental that vied with him for the hole between the pedestrians and the double parked truck on Vesey Street. Kiko reluctantly stopped rather than mow down the bleary eyed people on their way to work. He had been up since four and working in the kitchen and was glad to get out on the first delivery of the day. He was pumped up, warmed up and fast. Truthfully, he could have made it in front of the Black Car, but if the car sped up or slowed down at all, he’d be dead meat. Getting cut off by “un pinche Peruano,” as the car-service sticker advertised, pissed him off.
The pedestrians saw only a raving Spanish guy, an illegal, a crazy delivery guy. “Fuckin’ Spick” the executive secretary from Hoboken blurted out in his face as he avoided running her down in the middle of the street that he had the green light on. The fitness buff bond trader who had eaten the Cobb Salad Kiko had delivered three times a week through secretaries ($5.50 and a fifty cent tip, cheap) cursed him out, “go back to Mexico ya fuckin’ wetback,” he shouted, losing his studied Harvard accent in the heat of the moment. Kiko expertly skidded up the street keeping the food in the basket while his rear wheel caught up with his front. Someday, years later, the bond trader would do that himself in a triathlon avoiding a health-club-jock who couldn’t handle descents in a pack: he remembered, and noted that “delivery boy’s” (now that he wasn’t angry) skill.
“¡Peligro! ¡Peligro! ¡Peligro!” This damned job is dangerous thought Kiko as he rode back with an empty basket. He was enjoying the lack of pressure to return before 7 because there was no chance that there’d be another delivery at hour. Kiko just flowed through the traffic thinking about the angry mob that appeared out of nowhere when he got cut off. I guess I shouldn’t always be riding so dammed fast all of the time, knowing that it was his speed that got him cut off by the Coche Pio Peruano. The driver couldn’t have expected the delivery guy on the bike to be able to get to the narrows by the Daily News delivery truck so fast, and Kiko knew that his speed had broken up the driver’s rhythm and timing as far as judging the flow of traffic.