We went to adventure land yesterday. It is a small amusement park where we all had a good time. I took some Dramamine and was able to ride the rides, though after my first spinning one I was dizzy and tired for an hour or so.
At the end, when I was tired and grumpy, and we were giving the kids money to gamble with (Linda won at Whack-A-Mole), Chlöe melted down and I ascribed the meltdown on staying for too long. Needless to say I was tired and blaming, which got the other adults riled up. Otherwise it was a wonderful day.
Here’s the latest installment of Kiko’s Tale, and he’s back. Today in my writing I had Kiko start to make some observations about the bikes of a delivery guy compared to others . 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.
Realistically he knew that he was going to cut off the limo driver about a block before if he went at the same speed, and that if he sped up he’d have made it through, though the people on the street were a wild card he wasn’t willing to bet on. Part of why Kiko was so fast was that he could judge the traffic so well. When he looked up an avenue, without thinking, he knew what types of cars and trucks were there and judging by the make, model and block what hey would probably do. Trucks deliver to businesses that make sense (newspaper to newsstands). Cabs without fares stay straight unless they’re hailed. Cabs with fares turn in the direction that the passengers in the back seat look. Limos and Black cars are more unpredictable not only because you can’t see if they have passengers, but also because they’re more inexperienced in Manhattan and they try and find eccentric ways around the city, not knowing like the Yellow Cab drivers that the best way is often to show the momentary patience and then leap for the hole in traffic before a truck with its lousy acceleration.
Kiko wasn’t quite aware of what a natural he was in judging the space and time of traffic. He did a thousand thousand calculations as he looked up a flowing avenue each precise. These estimates ranged from sociological (make, model and condition of the vehicle) to economic (the need of a particular block or district) to demographic (the likelihood of a driver’s affinity for or connection to a block) to physics (the rate, mass, direction and acceleration of a 1980s model panel truck). Kiko was an immigrant savant of New York City traffic: knowing how, why and where vehicles were most likely to go before the drivers themselves had decided.
Later that day, a slow day where he had to spend too much time cutting vegetables and frying French Fries under the eyes of Santiago and Mrs. Choi, he had a delivery all the way up to Canal Street. This gave him about a straight half a mile up and back on Greenwich and Hudson, straight avenues, where he could really let go. The speed felt good and the escape from the Wall Street area laberintos was like an escape from un cárcel. He charged north with a sense of purpose, rebelling against the eyes of his boss and co-worker with the power and speed his legs gave him. Passing cars, a bit recklessly, he made it there in about three minutes, though he was winded and sweating like he was in an Aztec Jungle.