A conversation

So today it rained. It rained in New York. What a load of balls.
Actually, although I was a bit miffed at first, it turned out to be for the best for a number of reasons. For the first time since I've been here, I felt superior to those around me in terms of dealing with the weather. Whilst horrified Americans around me shouted things to each other in blind panic like 'I think I'm dying', 'My clothes are falling off!', 'Will it melt me?' I strode confidently forward, the rain (recognising its natural master) bouncing of my brolly (I kept using the word 'brolly' all day, so that when the sodden New York stared at it in wonder and breathed 'a what?' I could toss my remarkably dry hair and reply, 'sorry, you american, I mean an umbrella. I'm from England you see. England. Where rain is born.' And stride off unfazed into the nearest puddle.
The second reason I was happy about this is that it meant I could spend most of an afternoon watching 'Project Runway Canada-once you ran out of Heidi Klum you had nowhere else to turn'.
And the FINAL reason was that yesterday I had literally the most amazing conversation I have ever had. Ever. But it was also the Guggenheim day, and after complaining unfairly about that for so long, I just didn't have the energy to whop it in too. So I thought I'd save it for a day that was pretty eventless. And here is that day. Thank you rain. Thank you lazyness of self, and thank you to the good people at Project Runway Canada, your camera work may be a little shaky but hey, who's gonna notice that over all the funny accents eh?

So. Yesterday I sat in Central Park (As an aside, i really want to get to the stage where I can refer to Central Park as just 'the park'... 'hey Cindy, I'm just going to the park, ok?' You know. Anyway.) I was sat enjoying the sunshine, reading my de-bunking book-there are very few things in life I enjoy more than books that debunk things. anything. Give me a theory, and then give me someone who points at it and laughs smugly in book format, and I'll fork over the cash, seriously- So there I am, when a standard New Yorker; white, male, overweight, looking remarkably like Uncle Fester, but very slightly Spanish, Uncle Festre, walks up to me and sits down, smiles and says 'aint it a beautiful day? huh?'
I smile back, this observation wasn't out of the ordinary and therefore my freak radar (generally limited to those who offer me tuna wraps,) was dozing casually. 'yes, yes its gorgeous today.' I agree,
His eyes widen, 'hey, where are you from?'
I laugh politely and put my debunking book down, even though it was getting to a really really brilliant smug bit, and I kind of wanted to be left alone to smug away. 'Erm, I'm from England. The north of England.'
He nods, knowingly 'Oh Ok, so are you from Glasgow?'
This may seem a bit of a ridiculous response, but seriously. It's not. We just have to accept that no one has ever mentioned the rest of the world to them. So I glide on past without a flicker,
'No, no.. actually Glasgow is in Scotland.'
His brow furrows,
'Yeah but Scotland is IN England, right?'
I pause.
'No. No its not. Different countries, I'm afraid...ahhaha.'
He grins
'Different COUNTRIES?? Shoot! YOu guys are crazy!
By this point I think he's just a standard New York type, wish he'd move on and let me get back to my book. Oh how wrong. how wrong I was.
'yes, yes we are..' I smile, nod, and begin slowly lift my hand containing my book, as if hoping to do it so smoothly he might forget we were actually ever talking. However, then things start to get a bit more interesting
'Oh yeah. But you know, England, Scotland, America, it don't really matter. Its all run by the rich and the white, right? Its just up to God to set things right. I mean, do you really think that Obama got voted in?'
Now you have to admit, this is quite a turn in conversation. And one perhaps that is worth probing. I pause for a second, and then ask carefully,
'So, Obama didn't get voted in?'
He laughs. 'By this country?Hell no. They hate the blacks here. Hate them. Oh no.'
I lean in, wondering if there was going to be a seriously amazing government consiprarcy theory here- screw my book, this is debunking, debunking an entire country! Brilliant!
'Obama was not voted in.' He looks at me with a knowing eye, 'God placed him in Government.' Oh. How disappointing. I'm about to lean out again, when he says
'You know, all these religions, the Catholics, and the Jews, and the Christians..'
I mentally debate interrupting him then realise its not worth it,
'All these religions. Its ridiculous. Everyone knows. Everyone knows the truth in all of the these religions with the muslims and the Catholics and the Christians- everyone knows,'
'yes?'
Everyone knows that there's only one God!' He shakes his head in disbelief.
I decide to try, for better or worse, to get to the bottom of this
'So what religion are you?'
He stopped, then says 'I don't even know anymore.'
I try and process this. He continues- 'But'
I'm determined to follow at least a small thread of logic here, 'Ok,' I interrupt, 'but what religion were you born into?'
There is a pause of about 7 seconds. Then he says, 'I was born... with a foot up my ying yang.'
I give up. Let the man roam.
'My mother..' His face breaks into a thousand tiny Uncle festre-y lines 'My mother was a beautiful woman. She was beautiful.'
I nod. Ok. Perhaps we're back on safe ground, I think
'She was so beautiful, that her father was in love with her! My grandfather was obsessed with my mother! Obsessed!'
Perhaps not.
'My grandfather was so jelous of me spending time with my mother, he sent me to live in a dungeon in Algeria until I was 4 years old.'
'Oh dear' I say. 'that.. that must have been rubbish.'
He nods solumly.
'But the thing about my mother is... my mother.. was born on the first day of passover' He looks at me with big eyes. 'Do you have any idea what that makes her?'
'Taurus?' I guess weakly.
He waves me away.
'No, No. That makes her-' he lowers he voice- 'the Queen of the Jews.'
I swear to God, every word of this is true. A sunny day in Central Park, A Sunday Times' Best Seller, and this.
I arrange my face into a what I hope is a realistic 'wow your mum is the queen of the jews,' type expression. Its rather tricky. I advise you to try it.
'Oh right. Well. Wow'.
'I know!' He raises his hands as if he couldn't believe it himself, (just to clarify, he definately could believe it himself. Thats not the issue here.)
'And-' 'his eyebrows go higher, do you know what day I was born on?'
I shake my head, entranced'
He makes a noise that could very well be a Jewish holiday, one of those words that mainly sounds like you're trying to release some rather nasty phlem.
'And do you know what THAT means?' His voice is nearly a whisper now
'No.' I breathe
'It means', he pauses and never in my life have I wanted to know the answer to a question more than this moment, 'it means that I, am the King of the Jews.'
He sits back. I bite back 'well thats damn lucky isn't it!' and instead make a sort of 'ooowwhhaaa' noise.
'I know,' he says, sighing. This is obviously quite a burden. I try for one, just one, more last semblance of normality.
'So, what date actually is that?' I ask.
'What?'
'On a calendar, like, what date actually is that?'
He looks at me thoughtfully. 'Have you ever read the first page of the bible?'
I haven't. But for the sake of this conversation, I most certainly had.
'you know that first day. The day that he made the heaven and the earth?' He smiles, and dusts off his hands. I wait. He continues to smile. I had my answer.
I have a think. Ok, I think its fair to say my bible knowledge isn't great, but I'm almost positive that the creation story didn't include the line 'And God saw that it was good, and added that it had been the most cracking 14th Feb he'd ever had!' Maybe I'm wrong.
'That's.. that's amazing'. I say. What more was there to say?
His face darkens. 'Yeah. But the leader of the Jews,' He shakes his head, 'he hates me. He's jealous you know? Someone like me, someone poor, he can't believe that I am who I am, you know? He follows me around'. I was confused, by the leader of the Jews, did he mean... God?
'I mean, A priest took my son away from me.'
'Oh dear, thats terrible.' I'm sure by now you've realised that my role in this conversation was mainly made up with saying either 'oh thats terrible' or 'oh thats brilliant'. I was way out of my league, conversation wise, all I could do was watch and learn.
'But anyway,' He suddenly seems to tire of this topic, I probably would too if the leader of the Jews (whoever he may be), was constantly getting on my nerves. He sighs. 'I gotta go to court soon.'
Of course he does.
'I gotta get back the stuff they took from me. The Rich men, you know? All of em. All of em white, and blonde hair, blue eyes (I wonder uncomfortably if his next line is going to be 'and called Tarsh') 'But all the eternies you know, all the white men, they're all in it together. Ahh... when I was young...'
I feel like I can't take much more of this, my brain is hurting from all of the information I'm struggling to remember. I'm just about to ask timidly about 'the stuff they took away' when he breaks in with, 'Do you want to see a picture of me when I was your age?'
I'm pretty sure at this stage that 'no' isn't really an option.
He proudly hands me a picture of a young black man. With the word Randell written on the back. I stare at it thoughtfully. It was definately time to go.
I stand up and wish him well, with his court case, his son, his Algerian past, his hot mother and of course, his burden of being the one to lead his people out of persecution. He said it had been nice meeting me. He had no idea how nice it had been meeting him. Debunking book? Whatever mate. I'd just glimpses the answers to the mysteries of the Universe, with no Sunday Times review required. Brilliant.