walk right in, sit right down

On Saturday evening, Mrs. Pincus and I went to Philadelphia's beautiful World Cafe Live to see the first of two performances by British popster Nick Lowe and those masked men of instrumental rock Los Straitjackets. But that's not what this story is about.

World Cafe Live is currently celebrating its 20th anniversary as one of the best concert venues in the City of Brotherly Love. The venue boasts two stages — a smaller, more intimate space known as "The Lounge" on the street level and the main stage, named "The Music Hall," located two flights down. The Music Hall accommodates approximately 650 people. Depending on each particular evening's performance, the room is sometimes a wide open space dotted with tall bistro tables at which patrons can stand, lean and rest their drinks. Other times, tables are set up in various configurations based on ticket sales. A more popular act will feature more open space and fewer tables. Often, when reserved tickets at a table are sold, a dinner menu is offered to those who arrive early for a show. On this night, the floor was open with six tables set up along the back wall of the lower level — three on each side of the area housing the audio mixing equipment and the folks operating said equipment. Each table was set to seat eight people and each of these tables sported a very noticeable "RESERVED" sign at the end that was not butted up against the rear wall. On the upper level, just in front of the bar that runs the length of the back wall, were eight smaller tables — each one displaying a similar "RESERVED" sign on its surface. Upon closer inspection, one table — 304 — was the only one not designated as "RESERVED." We were one of the first people through the doors and we looked around to confirm that the seats at Table 304 was indeed free for the taking. Mrs. P and I grabbed two chairs at the back of the table while a few other folks with General Admission tickets (like the ones we had) joined us. Each one asking "Are these seats reserved?" or "Is it okay to sit here?" or some other variation of the same inquiry. As though we were some kind of Welcoming Committee, Mrs. P and I gestured toward the six available chairs until they were all filled. It was still nearly 45 minutes before showtime. The place was filling up. Hosts and hostesses were leading people with reserved seat tickets to the tables surrounding us.

(The two red dots are where Mrs. Pincus and I sat. The other dots were taken by our fellow concert-goers holding General Admission tickets)

The man from the couple sitting at the front of Table 304 was visibly nervous and jumpy. The man and woman seated opposite us reconfirmed that this table was not reserved. Mrs. Pincus laughed and said, "If anyone asks, I will pretend I don't speak English." I bolstered my wife's assertion with a joke about a man in a car asking a police officer if it was okay to park in an empty space behind a long line of cars. The policeman said, "No! This is a No Parking Zone. If you park here, you'll get a ticket." The man pointed and said, "What about all these other cars?" The cop replied, "They didn't ask." The other couple chuckled (I don't think they got my joke) and we all sat firm and defiant on our seats.

With thirty minutes until showtime, the jumpy guy at our table scurried off for a few minutes. He returned, loudly commenting to his partner that he asked about the "reserved status" of our table. He was told that all the seats were reserved and we may — may — be asked to leave Table 304. I instantly thought of that kid in elementary school who would anxiously raise his hand two minutes before the dismissal bell would ring to remind the teacher that she forgot to give a homework assignment to the class. As showtime grew nearer, several more of our table mates had to relinquish their claims when the rightful owners presented their reserved tickets. As the minutes ticked off, we sat like Charles Whitman's targets innocently making our way across the University of Texas campus. The jumpy guy and his mate were the next to go, followed by the couple across from us. The final seats (except for ours) were taken by a man with a prominent gray pompadour and a woman wearing waaaaay too much perfume. Way, way too much perfume. (Years ago, Mrs. P and I had boarded a very crowded plane. With the plane filling up, there was still an empty seat next to me. We watched a woman board the plane and begin to make her way down the aisle, Mrs. P pointed out that she saw this woman in the ladies room just prior to the boarding announcement. She noted that this woman may have knocked over a cosmetic display because she positively reeked of perfume. Just as my wife finished pronouncing the word "perfume," the woman sat down in the empty seat next to me. And she did indeed reek of overpowering perfume.)

Finally the house lights dimmed and Nick Lowe and Los Straitjackets took to the stage. Mrs. P and I still sat firm in our seats, still not asked to move. Two or three songs in, we were still there. I thought of the times I have attended baseball games and watched people holding tickets to seats adjacent to ours show up in the third or fourth inning. Lowe and the band tore through song after song. By the time the show reached the midway point, I figured we were safe. As a matter of fact, we sat undisturbed through the entire second set.

The nearby air stunk like a French whorehouse, but at least we had seats. And we beat the system.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I'm tense and nervous and I can't relax

I got on the train yesterday, much like I do every morning. My morning train has been fairly crowded this week, ever since Mother Nature dumped nearly two feet of snow on Philadelphia (and its surrounding area) last weekend.  SEPTA, the entity behind public mass transit in Southeastern Pennsylvania, regularly struggles with equipment problems regardless of the weather, but the aftermath of the brutal storm wreaked extra havoc on their regional rail machinery and service. Most trains were short their standard amount of cars. Trains that typically run with four or five cars were now reduced to two or three. If you are the math wizards that I think you are, you understand that this situation greatly cuts down on the amount of available seats. With less seats available, obviously more passengers will be standing for their morning commute. (Not happily, I might add.)

My train eventually pulled up into the station (late, as usual - no matter what kind of weather we are having) and I boarded along with fifty or so of my fellow passengers I see nearly every morning. I walked the narrow aisle as the few available seats were filled in by those who boarded ahead of me. Proceeding to the last train car, I spotted an empty seat near the end close to the rear door. As I got closer, I saw the seat was occupied, on one side, by a gentleman in his forties. He looked like the kind of guy who reclines at the table in a corporate conference room with his index finger poised above the screen of his external-keyboard-equipped iPad, ready to make his presence at the meeting known by interjecting terms like "organic," "synergy," "thought leader" and "let's not reinvent the wheel" and then commencing with an attempt to reinvent the wheel. The other half of the seat, while expected to be unoccupied, was covered by a multitude of items belonging to Corporate Guy. These items — a folded train schedule, a yellow legal pad and various groupings of business cards — were strewn across the empty seat while he busily pored over the assemblage, arranging and rearranging the mess.

I stood alongside the seat, looking down. I was trying to glare his collection of paper products off the seat. When my telepathic powers failed, I cleared my throat and said, "Excuse me, please.," in the most polite voice I could muster at five minutes to eight in the morning. Corporate Guy looked up, loudly, almost theatrically, exhaled and   s   l   o   w   l   y   gathered up his paper belongings. I sat down and, as per my usual ritual, situated myself within the confines of the space allotted for one passenger on a seat on a train. I removed my current book from my bag and fumbled in my pocket for the small vinyl case that houses and secures my monthly train pass. I began to read, holding my pass out for the arrival of and inspection by the conductor. Corporate Guy, however, had transferred his activity to the workspace created by his right leg crossed over his left and laying flat, the knee creeping obnoxiously into my personal space. In my peripheral vision, I could see him furiously shuffling the cards, stacking and re-stacking them into assorted sized piles. He did this through two full station stops. Once he was satisfied with the classification into which he had determined for each card, he wrapped them securely with one of a handful of rubber bands he produced from a supply concealed within his heavy coat. Each bound pile was then flexed for a considerable amount of time between his fingers, as though he was about to use them to deal a hand of poker. He finally dispensed the cards into a backpack he had placed at his feet (but not before testing each and every one for its full flexing ability). He fidgeted more. He crossed and uncrossed his legs. He reached and groped inside his coat. The first few times his hand came out empty. The fifth or sixth time he did it, he removed a large greeting card and envelope. From the opposite side of his coat, he extracted a pen. Again, he crossed his legs to create a flat surface, presumably on which to inscribe the card. (And, again, that fucking knee was encroaching into my territory.)

As he fiercely scribbled ink across the blank surface of the card, his whole body rocked and jiggled, not just the executing arm and hand. I casually looked around at the other passengers in my general area. Each was sitting quietly. Each was still. Some fiddled with a cellphone. Others silently, almost motionlessly, pored over Kindles. Others read physical books or newspapers. All were barely moving, save for the occasional, nearly undetectable, page turn or finger flick. Lucky me, I found the seat next to the proverbial "whirling dervish*." I was tempted to turn to him and shout, "Sit still, for Christ's sake! What are you — four years old?" But, alas, I did not. I remained quiet and I continued to read, finding that I read the same sentence six times while I soundlessly berated this guy in my head.

Finally, the train rambled into my station. I stuffed my book back into my bag and I stood to exit. Behind me, I could sense that Corporate Guy was also readying himself to leave the train. The door opened and I stepped onto the platform, making my way thorough the crowd and towards the stairs.

I saw Corporate Guy heading in the opposite direction. Off to fidget and squirm next to someone else today.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com


*Although I have heard the term for many years, I'm not quite sure what a "dervish" is but, apparently, they whirl — and this guy was a-whirling.