Saints Preserve Us!


As the sun rose over Manhattan it was greeted by a band of surprisingly warm air that had crept over the Mason-Dixon Line
in the dark of night. The two caressed, and whipped up one of those suddenly out-of-nowhere spring days, when the
temperature cuddles the mid-seventies, and spring fever spreads faster than a cheap hooker's thighs.

Not only was this the dawn of April Fools' Day, which traditionally gives the population license to become tricksters and
perform this holiday's unique brand of barbs and tasteless high jinks. It also signaled the long-awaited break from the
wretched winter weather.

It was finally time for the crocuses and daffodils to break ground, show their little faces, and smile.

My name is Chuck -- Chuck Camper. I'm a fifty-something, bald, gay guy who carries his beer belly with pride because he got
it the old fashioned way -- I earned it. For years, during happy hour, I've been a fixture at McHale's, the corner bar that
serves the coldest and highest-headed mug of Guinness in town.

My beer belly's not only my trademark -- it's my calling card. While visiting some friends in California a few years ago,
something tickled my funny bone and produced a belly laugh, which according to the authorities was a threat to San
Francisco and its population. On a number of occasions during my stay, seismologists tracked me down, and much to my
delight, declared that I was the epicenter of a 4.6'er. Nowadays, no matter where I am, I carry an iPhone, courtesy of the U.
S. Geological Survey; it's an agreement that satisfies both our needs. All they have to do, if things begin to shake, rattle,
and roll, is give me a call and see where (or if) I'm laughing in order to cut their search for the epicenter by half. I suppose
that some people might find being labeled "The Great Chelsea Fault" by the scientific community offensive. Not me. I carry my
title with pride and dignity because I believe that my hard-earned paunch is finally getting the adoration and respect it
deserves.

Other than that there's not that much left to say about my person other than I'm 5'5" and weigh around 220 pounds. It
should come as no surprise that my friends call me "Chunk."

Tired of the old 9-to-5, writing copy for an advertising agency with digs in Times Square, I went back to school a few years
ago, and now I have a stay-at-home computer job, which I call "aiding and abetting." During my job interview, which was
conducted on the phone, a woman from human resources said, "You have a rich masculine voice. Just the thing we're looking
for." The truth is that I had a terrible cold, and was speaking at least an octave lower than I normally do. At any rate, I'm
now selling -- by way of computerized telemarketing -- pantyhose and thongs to elitist fashionistas and housewives on the
prowl. Granted it's a strange occupation for a gay guy, but it allows me to live a simple and contented life as I pursue my real
passion: plain old-fashioned people watching.

As a transplant from Whatyamacallit, Missouri, I have learned to accept New York's high taxes, absurd real-estate prices, and
congestion of the lungs, traffic, and (more often than not) the brain. On the other hand, I have learned to enjoy New York's
greatest perk: the best people watching on the planet. It has been said that the denizens of this great metropolis can stand
on any corner and sample every flavor of humanity in under an hour's time. I worship at the altar of New York's diversity and
unending exuberance. I pray for its citizens, who, by their very presence, offer themselves up to an endless stream of mind-
blowing haps and mishaps. It infuses my zest for life by expanding the notion of unending possibility. It therefore keeps me
young.

It's my belief that everybody's a people watcher. I also believe that silent relationships develop between the watcher and the
watched. Every person I know who admittedly plays this spectator sport has created long scenarios about their elusive
favorites. It could be the couple who live in an alcoholic haze down the hall, or a person you pass on the street (rather it be
day or night) every time you leave or return to your apartment. I have one of those, and I call him "Boomerang."

These profiles are filled with speculation and preposterous details that could fill a book -- and often have.

Now let me ask you something. Have you ever considered the fact that someone is watching you? If you haven't, you
should, because someone is watching. No one is bland enough to escape this quirk of human nature. Just for fun, consider
what kind of story that someone has cooked up about you. If you're honest enough to consider the possibilities, you might
discover that you're laughing at yourself -- an act that cleanses the soul and reduces your weekly tab at the shrink.

When an April Fools' Day trumpets the arrival of spring after a grizzly winter, as it did that day, I always turn off the
computer, turn on the TV, and catch every bit of nonsense I expect New Yorkers to inflict upon each other. It always makes
me snap my fingers and tap my toes. Besides, there's nothing as good as seeing it all happen live -- before editors cut out
the real juicy stuff for family consumption on the five o'clock news.

So, clad only in my boxer briefs and furry slippers, I threw open the windows, mugged Mr. Coffee for another cup of
McNulty's special blend, and sat down in a comfortable recliner that I had swiped from the curb on collection day the week
before. With a click of my remote, I settled in to watch it all on "New York One, New York's Only All-News Station."

Within seconds, it became perfectly clear that the whole city had taken on a riotous air. Rod Stanley, a hunky talking head
and former Yankee batboy, made the announcement. "From all points, north and south on the island of Manhattan, it is
being reported that workers of all sorts are pouring into the streets determined to stretch their morning breaks to the end
of the business day."

Lucky for us television viewers, the picture cut to my favorite bon vivant, man about town, Norman Knitwitz. What I find
most appealing about Norman is his hair. If the gossip is boring there is always Norman's coiffure to entertain you. His blond
hair suffers from what I suppose polite society might refer to as a lack of fullness. To me, however, the fucker is just plain
bald.

When not worked up into his trademark 'do, the hair on the right side of his head has got to be shoulder length or longer,
and bleached. No, I take that back. "Bleached" is not even close to its color. The poor stuff has been highlighted, lowlighted,
twilighted, veined, and chunked until it included a sample of every shade bearing a resemblance to blonde in the color
spectrum.

Every time I see Norman, whether it is on the air or in press photos, I just can't help envisioning this guy getting up at the
crack of dawn and ratting, teasing, and spraying the whole shebang, and then flipping it on to the top of his head. Granted
this is not a revolutionary method of covering a bald man's head. However, what makes Norman's 'do so special is that it
literally looks as if a hefty serving of greasy hash browns have been dumped on his head, with the front fashioned, as if by a
fork, into a row of bangs.

The tension his hash browns bring to his reports is amazing. Most people agree that, at least in part, his popularity is based
on the possibility that one day, in a hurricane or something, those hash browns will be blown backward, crash into the right
side of his head with the force of a flying manhole cover, and knock the shit out of him right there on live TV.

Another thing must be mentioned in order to get the full scoop on Norman: his sense of style. His tastes rest firmly in the
1960s and 70s. His velvet suit and dark, wide-collared shirts set the background for jacquard ties with colors that attack the
eye like an electrified psychedelic painting. In addition, Norman has the audacity to add a flounced pocket square of a bold,
contrasting color to his ensemble.

Nevertheless, my favorite of Norman's accessories are the scarves he wears during the cooler months. What sailors can do
with rope, Norman can do with a yard of fringed silk. Fascinated by the wild configurations he comes up with, I Googled
"knots" one day and came away from my computer convinced that Norman is sending naughty coded messages over the air
to members of the armed forces. The names of the knots he uses speak for themselves: There's the True Lovers, The
Constriction Hitch, The Monkey Fist, The Dutch Marine hitch, The Sailors knot, and last but not least, The Butterfly.

If you think that I'm implying that Norman is gay, you'd be right. Nevertheless, I don't like the word gay when referring to
this particular correspondent. It seems crass. I much prefer "light of foot and bent of wrist."

Norman was stationed on Seventh Avenue between Fifty-Sixth and Fifty-Seventh Streets where a story of international
consequence was unfolding.

"The starch in the stuffed shirts at Carnegie Hall must have began to wilt with the sudden rise in temperature," Norman
began with his usual gossipy brand of reporting, "and henceforth these authorities on all things musical inexplicably stunned
the populous with a potentially fun idea. In an act of pure folly they decided to set up a karaoke of operatic arias and art
songs, and invited the public in to test their cords on it's venerable stage."

"Once word concerning this most unusual treat spread, the streets filled with huge crowds, and so the guardians of this
famous venue threw open the exit doors that run along Seventh Avenue so that everyone could enjoy the music. A huge
mistake."

"In the course of things, full-figured would-be divas and questionable tenors let loose high notes that were, let's say, unique
to this hallowed hall. In mere moments the paint on the ceiling began to peel and chip. This ancient lead-based paint drifted
downward like flower petals on to the crowd who jumped out of their seats and fled for their lives. Fearing that the entire
ceiling might come down next, the plug on the karaoke was pulled, and the management politely removed diehard stragglers
as the doors were quickly closed and bolted behind them."

"Meanwhile, unnoticed, were the pigeons that had been perching on Carnegie Hall's intricate brick façade and fire escape.
Shocked and stunned by the unearthly sounds that had escaped through the open doors, the pigeons stood motionless and
pooped. And pooped again. And then pooped some more."

Norman stepped aside to begin an interview with the eccentric and infamously high-strung Chairwoman of New York's
Historical Preservation Society, Ms. Cornelia Artifact. In spite of the heat, this distinguished blue hair was swaddled in a floor-
length mink and a matching fur hat with a deep crown that rested low on her forehead.  The moment I laid eyes on her I was
convinced that this woman's face was beyond lifted, and assumed that she had to be speaking through her navel... or worse.

Ms. Artifact was already hyperventilating. "It's a conglomeration of catastrophes," she shrieked. "An incalculable calamity! A
colossus of cascading crap!"

Norman's eyes popped as Ms. Artifact continued with her mystifying brand of rhetoric. He quickly changing gears, became a
study in decorum, and graciously thanked her for her comments. He then turned to a tall, lean gentleman of late middle age
with a long, thin, pointed nose that looked like a beak. He wore a white jumpsuit and a baseball hat with a ridiculously long
brim. His accent was drenched with a Louisiana drawl.

"We will now hear from Doctor Alexander Phewbedu," said Norman, as he flinched and tried to appear oblivious to Ms.
Artifact's continuous string of exclamations nearby. "He is known the world over for his work with Pale Male and Lola, the
Fifth Avenue love hawks.  Doctor Phewbedu... "

"When a flock of 'Zenaida macroura,' or pigeons, such as this one here, hears an unusual or different kind of sound -- you
know, somethin' other than the usual sirens and screams when someone is run over by a cab during rush hour -- it can be
disturbing to these delicate little critters. In rare cases, it can cause a phenomenon known as 'White Niagara,' and that's
exactly what we have here. Just look at all that bird feces running down the side of that there buildin'!"

In spite of the doctor's suggestion, Norman continued to face the camera, and ignore the scene behind him. Doctor
Phewbedu, however, took hold of Norman's shoulders, and turned him toward the wall across the street.

"Now isn't that something? I told ya, ya gotta see it to believe it! This case of 'White Niagara' is the most astonishing
example I've ever laid eyes on. It's one for the record books. Within an hour Carnegie Hall is gonna look like a whitewashed
barn."

Nearby, but out of sight, Ms. Artifact howled with anguish, "What's this? Carnegie Hall a whitewashed cowshow?" And then
she fainted sideways behind Norman and Doctor Phewbedu as they turned once again toward the camera. In the few
moments that Norman had been looking at the dripping bird feces, his complexion had taken on a sickly, greenish hue. He
was also flustered as hell.

"Urinalysis Doctor?" Norman asked.

Doctor Phewbedu's face knotted into a quizzical expression that seemed to question rather or not it was Norman, rather
than the birds, that needed medical -- if not psychological -- attention.

"Isn't there something that can be done before, 'Carnegie Hall looks like a whitewashed barn,' as you so quaintly put it?"
Norman was becoming woozy, but gallantly trudged onward.

"Calm down there, son," Doctor Phewbedu said. "We'll have everything shipshape in just a minute or two. Back at the ASPCA
laboratories we've concocted small harmless pellets made from a combination of Imodium, Valium, breadcrumbs, and honey
to bind it all together. Then they're flash frozen and packed into shotgun shells like this one here."

Norman took a cautionary step backward as Doctor Phewbedu raised a shotgun into view.

"With the size of that building, and the large number of birds, we'll have to get off about fifty rounds before we see anything
happen. The bait here is the breadcrumbs.  They can't resist 'em, even in a stupor. The Valium calms 'em down, but they'll
keep doing their business until the Imodium kicks in. A moment or two after that we'll fire a few blank rounds into the air to
scare 'em off toward Central Park. About ninety percent of these critters will be just fine."

"What about the other ten percent Doctor?" Norman asked as his complexion continued to pale.

"We just take pistols and knock 'em off as if they're in a shooting gallery out on Coney."

"But isn't that against the ASPCA charter?" Norman asked, in another gallant attempt to override his ailing state.

Before Doctor Phewbedu could answer Ms. Artifact grabbed both men's arms to steady herself as she struggled to rise
between them. She was all the worse for wear. Her fur hat was tilted backward showing a retreating hairline, her makeup was
smeared, and, if I'm not mistaken, her nose was slightly to the right of center. Nevertheless, she was determined to express
her feelings on the matter.

"A contingent of carbines pointing pellets at the filigreed façade of this hallowed hall? How Hellacious!"

The two men exchanged quizzical glances, as Ms. Artifact fainted once again. Much to my delight, the camera followed her
down. With her enormous fur hat and coat laid out over her, she looked like day-old roadkill with trendy high heels dangling
from its toes. Unfortunately, this visual did nothing tot help Norman regain his composure. His retinas threatened to take a
spin toward the back of his head.

As the camera rose again, the doctor was seen holding the butt of his shotgun against his shoulder. He was ready to start
shooting.

"Thank you Doctor Phewbedu. That's all the time we have. We'll keep you posted as this story develops." For a moment,
Norman was speaking at a rapped clip, but he then slowed down and continued in the open-throated manner of someone
who was about to toss it. "Nooow baaaaaak tooo ourrrr stuuuudios."

In an instant we were back in the studio, but the sound was still coming from Norman's body mike back at Carnegie Hall.
Norman was barfing his brains out to the accompaniment of shotgun blasts in the distance as Cornelia Artifact continued to
sound like a Looney Tune.

At first the anchors were stone faced until a voice from off-camera shouted, "April Fools!" Instantly they collapsed into
hysterics and pounded on their desks with glee.

Back at my Chelsea digs, I was sitting sideways in my chair. My back rested against one arm, my legs were up and over the
other kicking and flailing in the air as I howled like a coyote at the moon. In the midst of this crazy outburst of pure
uninhibited joy, I somehow managed to grab the remote and click off the TV.

I was going shopping. Shopping? Yes, shopping! This potbelly cannot live on beer alone. Besides, I had to get out and be a
part of all this madness, experience it for myself, and watch the people.

I jumped into a pair of lightweight chinos. I wouldn't be caught dead wearing shorts for at least a month after the weather
changes. Wearing flannel-lined jeans all winter rubs the hair off my legs in some places off, while in others it remains the
same -- hairy. In short, I look like I'm molting, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let anyone see my legs.

I pulled on a tee shirt and sneakers and skipped the socks. Grabbing my keys and wallet, I slapped on a baseball cap to
protect my delicate dome. I was out the door in five minutes.

I tingled with excitement as I hit the street -- and with good reason. I was going shopping at that temple of the gourmand
known as The Chelsea Market. It's four short blocks from my apartment.

The market is a hub for bakeries, fishmongers, skilled butchers, and a limitless assortment of culinary resources that
distribute to the best restaurants and hotels in town. As if that weren't enough, some genius came up with the idea of
selling the same merchandise at discounted prices to pedestrians such as myself to take home, or enjoy right there in small
but inviting cafés.

In fact, the food is so tempting and delicious that The Food Network, along with Emeril and The Iron Chefs, moved into the
studios above the market that were once occupied by the kitchens of The National Biscuit Company, where the Oreo Cookie
first came to light and shacked up with a tall glass of cold milk.

A temple for foodies, indeed!

In an hour I was on my way back home. This short trip to the market should have been a feast for my wondering eyes.
Unfortunately, the market was sparsely populated, and those who were there were disappointedly glum and uninteresting.
They wanted to be outside -- and justifiably so.

Gone were the hulking, 'roid men from Major League Baseball that keep offices upstairs. They had gone to the Chelsea Piers
to exercise their testosterone. The day's tapings at the Food Network had been cancelled. The Iron Chefs were sumo
wrestling on the High-Line.

In spite of my disappointment when I left the building laden with a weeks worth of groceries, I discovered that for some
inexplicable reason I was swathed in a joyful mood. I was even whistling -- which I'm lousy at -- but I didn't care... and I
didn't care who cared.
        
As I approached the corner of Twentieth Street and Ninth Avenue, however, I stopped dead in my tracks. As a matter of
fact, I was so taken aback that for a moment I found myself ensconced in January of the previous year.

On the sidewalk, next to a cluster of periodical dispensers, litter baskets, and a line up of broken pay phones covered with
graffiti, stood two women caught up in a notably intense -- but quiet -- conversation. There was lots of finger wagging and
pointing. Their body language spoke volumes filled with disgust and distain. That one of these ladies was a nun was the
cherry on top of the sundae.

As an aficionado of this sort of street entertainment, I quickly realized that this squabble had the potential of escalating into
a fistfight. Right then and there I decided that nothing less than a torn shopping bag -- capable of sending my precious
persimmons and comely kumquats into the gutter -- could possibly pull me away. I, however, in order to savor every tidbit
of action and relish in the gruesome but delicious details, knew that I would have to get closer. I quickly laid claim to a block
of cracked concrete closer to the ladies, but still at a distance to remain unobtrusive. I didn't want to put the kibosh on their
smoldering emotions.

I have learned through experience that in cases such as this a ruse is not only prudent but necessary. I came up with two
options: First, I'd study the high-carb offerings in the window of a French patisserie conveniently situated next to where I
stood and act as if I were expecting a friend or acquaintance to join me for a cappuccino and a nosh, or, secondly, I would
cruise the light foot traffic on the avenue. I felt confident that I had enough ammo to squelch any accusation.

The nun was facing me. She was dressed in a full black-and-white habit, which is something of a novelty in itself these days.
Nevertheless, there was something foreboding in this creature's demeanor. I cringed at her anger and what appeared to be
an ornery stubborn streak. Her dark-skinned face was gnarled up into a fierce and decidedly sour expression that was
framed by a circular, pleated white wimple.

"Where's Halloween when you need it?" I asked myself. If she could be cajoled into marching in the Village Parade come
October, I felt sure she would win first prize as a dried-up prune confection in a white-pleated candy cup. Inspired by this
nonsense I named her Prune Cup. But then again, as I continued to examine this specimen, I began to question my sense of
fair play. Was I being crass toward a woman I didn't understand? I immediately decided it was much too early to pass
judgment or dismiss this diminutive creature. After all, I still had no idea what the ruckus was all about. I felt a sense of
shame, but I kept the name.

The woman with her back to me was nearly impossible to assess. However, it was obvious that she was tall and thin with the
exception of a small tire around her midsection. She was dressed in a tan, two-piece linen number that seemed of little
consequence -- except for the fact that it was too tight. It looked as if it were about to explode, which was odd, I thought,
for someone so thin. She also sported a straw hat the size of a manhole cover. Next to her, on the pavement, sat an
oversized alligator bag. Any New Yorker worth his Gucci would quickly recognize that it was real -- and worth a fortune.

That hat was literally driving me nuts; it was, I thought, hiding innumerable details that I needed to assess the situation.
After all, I lacked a preamble, a prologue, or an exposition that would reveal the elusive why, what, or therefore that brought
this battle into fruition. Yes, I was frustrated, but I was also determined to maintain my spirited mood. Therefore, I named
her "Hattie" in honor of that hateful topper.

The argument suddenly escalated. Their shouting revealed that the ladies were suffering from a linguistic impasse. Prune Cup
was using expletives in a frustrated and clipped high-speed Spanish, while Hattie was doing her best to inflict irreparable
damage on both Spanish and English.

I decided it was time to test my rudimentary knowledge of the Spanish tongue, which consists of little more than "Si," "No,"
and the ability to count from 'uno" to "diez," and see if it would allow me a hint as to what this affair was all about. After a
few moments of grunting concentration, I was able to decipher that Prune Cup was trying to give Hattie directions. To where,
I couldn't guess.

Suddenly, they cut the shouting and performed a series of gyrations that are usually attributed to practitioners of Tai Chi --
on speed. They looked fabulous with their body parts flying in all directions. Anyone new to the scene would believe that they
were members of an avant-garde dance troop honing some new interpretive piece while waiting for the light. Next, they
added some sort of nonsensical sign language that blended the erotic choreography of Fosse with the staccato gestures of
Alvin Ailey. If I hadn't forgotten my iPhone, I'd have called an agent and inquired as to rather or not Cirque Du Soleil was
booking new acts.

Suddenly the argument peaked.

"Oh, forget it!" Hattie snapped. She whipped off her hat, shook her head, and revealed a profile of classic beauty. With a
swan like neck and a delicately orchestrated face -- a concerto of high cheekbones, a classically composed nose, and full lips
mounted on impeccable skin that was tinged with a blush from all the excitement. She took my breath away.

With a continuing sense of drama, she threw up her hands in disgust, turned, bent down, and grabbed the alligator bag. It
was then that I got my first full-frontal body shot, and discovered that Miss Hattie was precariously pregnant!

That revelation solved many mysteries, but on the other hand, it presented me with a raft of new questions: What was the
argument about? If, in fact, Hattie were in the early stages of labor, why would Prune Cup block her way to transportation
and Saint Vincent's Hospital, which was only a few blocks away? And, for that matter, why didn't Hattie deck her with a left
hook and grab a cab? She could easily have gotten one on Ninth Avenue -- even though most of the population was
elsewhere getting creamed, shit on, and God knows what else. Or was I completely off base, and reading this raft of new
information all wrong?

I gave Hattie another once over, and while doing so I felt my survival instincts spring to life; something was terribly wrong,
something awful was about to happen, something... then suddenly, it skipped out from behind a periodical dispenser. I was
startled. For a moment I couldn't breathe. It came in the form of a trinket, a cherry bomb with the wick already lit. It was a
red headed, freckle-faced munchkin wearing a sundress and scuffed-up Mary Janes.

Suddenly aware that the little tyke had escaped, Hattie clamped her hand around its wrist. After a few tugs to see if she
could free herself again -- which I'm happy to say, were unsuccessful -- the kid shrugged her shoulders and busied herself
by flashing her pink panties at everything from lampposts to shrubbery.

As I turned my eyes away from this lewd display, I found myself afraid -- no, terrorized -- that beneath that cutie-pie
exterior lurked a monster hell-bent on demonstrating, before the end of the day, the entire repertoire of hellacious behaviors
associated with the "terrible twos."

Meanwhile, Hattie and Prune Cup had changed tactics. All the screams and spastic gyrations were dismissed in favor of a
nose-to-nose confrontation of sizzling low-volume intensity.

At that moment I should have been in people-watching heaven, but the brat had divided my attention. I needed to make a
decision -- and make it fast. Undoubtedly, I reasoned, I'd get more entertainment for my buck if I stuck with the adults and
their continuing battle and ignored the child completely. And that's exactly what I tried to do. Besides, she was becoming as
annoying as poison ivy on a honeymoon. But as luck would have it, my one great flaw as a people watcher reared its ugly
head. Whenever I try to ignore something my peripheral vision picks it up, magnifies it, and refuses to let it go. No matter
were I turned my head --  the window of the patisserie or up and down the avenue -- there was the monster, bigger and
more ferocious than Godzilla. I was furious, frustrated, and considered homicide.

First up, for my personal mortification, and no doubt to wring herself free from Hattie's grip, she attempted a cartwheel.
Fortunately, before she managed to get her hands on the ground, she collapsed into a heap of misplaced body parts. This
maneuver, of course, bent Hattie's torso into an awkward, and apparently painful, twist. Hattie quickly yanked the kid into a
standing position and gave her a slap on the wrist. Infuriated by the indignity of such a reprimand, the brat channeled her
anger and frustration into a piercing high E flat that she had, no doubt, stolen from a coloratura soprano with a cluster of
nodes on her vocal cords. The sound was so hateful that I feared it might shatter the window of the patisserie, or worse,
propel me right through it. I quickly stepped to the side and braced myself against a brick wall.

She had an immediate effect on the neighborhood. A couple taking a stroll on the opposite side of Ninth Avenue covered
their ears, turned the corner, and fled down Twentieth Street. Apartment dwellers shouted obscenities at the child and
slammed their windows shut. Even a group of cars traveling down Ninth Avenue cleared the center lane as their drivers
rubbernecked in all directions looking for a nonexistent emergency vehicle. The brat was magnificent, one of nature's great
abominations.

Strangely enough, this racket didn't bother Prune Cup or Hattie in the least. Well, at least nothing in their body language
indicated that it did. Amazingly, I thought, both of them, through constant exposure, were immune to that disease known
as "childhood." I, on the other hand, have a completely different take on the matter. As the fifth of ten children I now have a
horde of nieces and nephews who attack me at family gathering like ants at a picnic. They annoy me with their high-pitched
squeals and constant shouting. I've often wished that the producers of Bug-Be-Gone would expand their line of products to
include Kid-Be-Gone, a simple repellent that would make them go away, and nag someone else until they've reached the age
of reason.

I suppose it's no surprise that I felt an urge to name this lethal time bomb. After all, I had already coined Prune Cup and
Hattie. My intention, nonetheless, was to find something special for the brat. I hymned and hawed until the phrase, "It's just
this particular model" inexplicably crossed my mind. It was the word "model" -- as in car model -- that caused the perfect
name, and a picture of the greatest aesthetic disaster in American history to come to mind. I pulled the trigger, and let the
bullet fly. I named her "Edsel."

Without warning, Prune Cup made her move. She grabbed the alligator bag, ripped it out of Hattie's hand, and headed
toward the curb. Hattie, who was still clutching Edsel's wrist, ran -- or should I say, waddled -- as fast as she could toward
Prune Cup and the corner, and grabbed the bag with her one free hand. A struggle ensued.

The situation was becoming physical -- and potentially dangerous. Nonetheless, Prune Cup's motivation became perfectly
clear. She was determined to do God's work, even if that meant becoming a felon. But the question remained: What in her
mind constituted "God's work?"  

Out of nowhere, but definitely through a red light, a white van traveling at an alarming rate of speed appeared. The van was
out of control. All three ladies bolted from their spot near the curb to the front of the patisserie -- and not a moment too
soon. A fraction of a second later the van jumped the curb, ran over the section of sidewalk where they had just been
standing, and came to abrupt halt just as it was about to crash into the lamppost. Instantly, I realized that the space
between the van and the lamppost was so narrow that not even a MetroCard would have been able to pass through it, and
that the incident should have been fatal for all three ladies.

It was then that everything became still and silent; no one dared to take a breath. The earth seemed to have stopped
rotating as though we were thrust into a state of suspended animation. I had felt this sensation on other occasions, and it
always involved a close call, a near miss, or a simple quick change of events that prevented a disaster. As each of us came
around, we were able to take a deep breath, and gave our heads a quick shake to clear the cobwebs.

During that moment of terror I had unknowingly crushed my shopping bags against my chest. When I looked into the bags,
I discovered that my box of chocolate éclairs was as thin as a tortilla. Everything seemed to culminate at that moment. I
began to shake, I was close to tears; I was totally spent.

This wasn't like me. I may be short, fat, bald, and gay, but I still consider myself a tough little guy. I never get overly
emotional about anything. What the hell was going on?

A balmy breeze waved over me, and with it came a warm comforting sensation. I suddenly felt completely calm. My eyes were
drawn into the bags once more, and as I studied the box of crushed éclairs, I felt childlike and silly -- and I liked it.

Like a naughty kid sneakin' a cookie, I reached into the bag and stole a scoop of the sweet custard that was flowing out of
the pastry box with two fingers and popped it into my mouth. It was delicious. In fact, it was the best I'd ever tasted. When
I started giggling like a schoolgirl I realized that things were getting out of hand, that things were getting a bit too weird, but
I couldn't help myself.

Things got even more bizarre the moment the van's front passenger door slid open. In the driver and front passenger seats
sat two nuns in habits that were identical to Prune Cup's. They were laughing and carrying on as if they were driving nothing
more dangerous than a bumper car on Coney Island.

Suddenly they changed gears, and a whirl of Spanish ricocheted between the three nuns. Prune Cup then signaled for Hattie
and Edsel to hop up and get in the van.

Hattie protested as Edsel justifiably burst into tears. Prune Cup remained adamant and resorted to physical aggression. She
grabbed the alligator bag out of Hattie's hand and tossed it to the far side of the center row of seats.

I was momentarily sorry that the alligator couldn't bite back.

The expression on Hattie's face was not just one of anger -- it declared that she was in a serious amount of pain. She
quickly acquiesced to the nun's orders, and tried to pull herself up and into the van. Unfortunately, her center of gravity did
an alarming shift and she teetered on the edge of the door track. Thankfully, before she could fall backwards, Prune Cup
jumped in behind her and pushed as if she were trying to get a racehorse into the starting gate. Hattie yelped.

Well, who wouldn't? It's a rude awakening when you discover that a nun's got her hands on your butt.

Prune Cup picked up Edsel and plopped her next to her mother in the van. She forced her forward with a swat on the rump.
Edsel screamed in protest, but gingerly slid over her mother's legs, and sat down in the far seat. Prune Cup shook her finger
at the kid. The kid got the message, and instantly shut up.

Next, Prune Cup pulled herself up into the van, and turned toward me. I had no idea that I had been noticed; nevertheless,
she gave me a victorious smile, and punctuated it with a sturdy thumbs-up. She blew me away. I liked this woman-- white-
pleated paper cup and all -- a lot.

Because of her girth, and the small space between Hattie's seat and the van's sidewall, it was a struggle for her to squeeze
through to the back. But after a number of bumps and grinds that would have taken a hula-hoop for a spin, she made it.
She disappeared into one of the empty seats in the back row.

Hattie twisted, or should I say, tried to twist her torso to the side in order to grab the handle and close the sliding door.
This gallant effort was greeted by a riveting band of "no nos" from the nun in the driver's seat.

Women have a certain tone of voice when they take the veil; it defies the language barrier. I believe that they hone this
commanding tone as they learn to control small children who are placed under their wing. Be it "no," "non," or "nein," the
point is perfectly clear: Stop that -- or else. Hattie reared back, flushed a ripe tomato color, and bowed her head in shame.

The face on the nun in the driver's seat bloomed into a gleeful smile as she giggled. "It does self. It does self," she
announced proudly as she ceremoniously pressed a button on the dashboard and turned backward to watch the door, slide,
click, and lock.

The van's engine roared as it shot back off the sidewalk. A moment later, with the wheels spinning so fast that they seemed
to disappear, the van shot forward, defying the speed limit on the next twenty feet of asphalt. A fraction of a second later
the wheels stopped turning, but the chassis lurched forward as it were going to continue down the avenue all by itself.

The van narrowly escaped a head-on collision with a bicycle messenger who saluted sister's reflexes with a crass hand signal
that prompted a loud raspberry from somewhere inside the van. I howled with delight.

After a short pause the van was off again. This time, however, it was crossing four lanes of afternoon traffic against the
light. This was impossible; this was suicide. This was enough to make me scream "Holy Shit!" turn away, and brace myself
for the inevitable crash.  But it never came.

When I turned back my jaw dropped. The van was doing a wheelie. Yes, the van was straight up in the air, traveling on its
two back wheels, and cars were maneuvering right under it. Once the van got into the far lane, its front wheels slowly came
down onto the asphalt without so much as a bump, and continued to tootle along.

It was then that I saw the vanity plate on the back of the van: "Saints Preserve Us!" Instantly another warm, comforting
feeling ran through me. Somehow, after that it didn't matter that the van did a sharp ninety-degree turn on its two left
wheels. It also didn't matter that they had turned into a narrow one-way street that flowed in the opposite direction. What
mattered was that Hattie and Edsel were in good hands, and that they were gone. I felt the sting of regret. I missed them.

Saints Preserve Us? Now, I'm far from being a good Catholic, or very spiritual for that matter, but I suddenly found myself
repeatedly crossing myself—and fast. Saints? There was no other plausible explanation other than that one saint or
another was sitting in the backseat of that van with Prune Cup. There must have been a few of them riding on the hood, and
easily a half-dozen angels copping a ride on the luggage rack.

After a few moments that soothing warmth began to fade, and with a sudden jolt I felt as if I had been dropped out of some
mystical high, back down into the harsh reality of New York City.

"What the hell was that?' I asked myself. I quickly got busy checking out my groceries as I frantically continued to cross
myself. Sure enough, all my bags had broken, and my precious persimmons and comely kumquats were sitting in the gutter.
I picked them up, balanced them on top of the smashed éclair box, and dumped the whole shebang into the trashcan near
the corner.

Surprisingly, I found that I was smiling and happy once again. I spun around and skipped back to the Chelsea Market to
start my shopping all over again.

~

When I got home an hour later, I was surprised to discover that I had left the TV on. I was in the kitchen putting my
groceries away when I heard the introduction to a special news bulletin. I ran into the living room. It appeared that Mother
Nature had saved the punch line of her April Fools' meteorological joke for rush hour. The talking head on NY1 sheepishly
announced that by midnight the temperature would plummet back down into the low 20s, where it had been for months. By
2 am, a nor'easter would swoop down and chase away this exuberant high, replacing it with a loathsome low. Thick clouds
would fill the sky, and a dash of snow flurries would announce the coming blizzard (all 2 feet of it).

I shrugged my shoulders, went back into the kitchen, and giggled. I knew that people from DC, and all the way up the
Eastern seacoast to Maine, were cussing up a storm more dangerous than the one on its way.

I suddenly felt the urge to do something, but I didn't know what it was. A moment later I was stunned to find myself
running toward the closet. Surviving an avalanche of junk as I opened the door, I rummaged around and finally found what I
didn't know I had been looking for: my ice skates. They were at least thirty-five years old, but for some unknown reason
they looked sparkling and new. Once I laid eyes on them I decided that nothing -- and I mean nothing -- was going to keep
me from the escapade that had sprung to mind.

I rose the following morning before dawn and looked out the window. There was a white out; I couldn't see across the
street. Nevertheless, I was determined to get to Rockefeller Center even if I had to walk -- which I did. Despite the two-hour
trek I was still charged when I arrived.
When the Zamboni had finished making its first trip around the rink I was ready and waiting. I looked down at my skates and
was surprised to discover that they looked even shinier then they had when I found them in the closet the day before. I
figured that it was just ice that had accumulated during my long trek from Chelsea. I shrugged my shoulders and went about
my business.

It had been thirty years since I had taken to the ice, but it came back to me much the same way riding a bicycle does. In an
hour I decided that I was ready to take a chance at fulfilling my lifelong dream -- a dream my height, weight, and particularly
fat thighs, had kept from me since my childhood.

I checked out the position, and calculated my track. As I was about to make my move, the warmth I had felt the day before
returned. The license plate "Saints Preserve Us!" flashed across my mind's eye. Feeling oddly confident and sure, a smile
spread across my face.

Finally I was off, intent on gaining as much speed as I could muster. Then suddenly I was aloft and spinning in midair. My
landing was clean. As I skated to the edge of the rink tears ran down my face. I gave myself a big bear hug.

The short, fat, bald, gay guy with thunder thighs had done the impossible: a perfect double axel. Go figure.

Mark Burchard