Defective

I'm not nearly as obnoxious about my birthday as I used to be. In fact, this past January 29th marked a special kind of birthday-bashfulness on my part. Friends and family were not used to it; they thought something was wrong. I was out-of-character reasonable. I reminded friends a mere two or three times that it was my birthday month, my birthday week, my birth day. Nothing's wrong, except that I want to get back to Italy. My mind is fixed on this goal. Nothing can deter me; even my birthday. Funny thing is that New York also was rather blase about it. My birthday that is. No surprise there. It hates me, remember? Anyway, plans fell through, lunch at an expensive restaurant was unforgettably disappointing, and the pear tart (I don't like cake) that my mom ordered in commemoration of my birth did not make an appearance. The bakery forgot to make it. It seems that the gradual forward-motion in my life is not allowable in this city; and that's why I choose to continue the rest of my life in Italy. But what really got my inner goat, and at the same time tickled my funny bone is what I saw in the depths of the subway. Not a rat. But something much more literal which has stayed with me nearly two weeks later. The story is small, but it speaks large. In an effort to refill her MetroCard, my mom tried four of those darling MetroCard vending machines, whose sole purpose is to refill. None of them worked. The MTA attendant who happened to be standing there jotting some never-ending note on her pad, observed my mother's frustration, but did nothing to alleviate it. My mom asked her repeatedly if she could help us. We didn't even get a nod of recognition. But I noticed that the MTA worker had some sort of name tag on her lapel, and instead of a name, it just read "Defective." My mom whispered to me and asked me if it said "Detective?" No, I said, just "Defective." "Defective" like the help we were not getting, "Defective" in the way you can spend a fortune in NY and still receive mediocre, or even bad food, "Defective" in the way people just ram into each other on any given sidewalk, and don't say sorry, "Defective" as in imperfect in form and function, faulty. This city is faulty. And it's also funny because it pokes fun at itself, like the woman proudly and defiantly wearing the word "Defective" as her namesake. She finally looked up, as if she heard me call her name. "What can I do for you?" she just barely inquired, one eye stuck on her God-forsaken pad. My mom explained she just wanted to refill. "Defective" replied, if you can call it a reply. "What aspect of your refilling is not working." My mom glanced at me, and said namely the refilling. Darling "D" then repeated her question. Gee, "aspect" was the word of the evening alongside "D" for "Defective." Nothing was resolved, and my mom left refill-less. My birthday turned out to be somewhat defective, but I could care less. I just want to defect.