The little red box was tacky—heart-shaped and candy red and coated in the bristly quasi-softness of imitation velvet. It was too tacky to be the box for a ring, the ring. And even if the thought of such contents motivated its acquisition, I had no pretensions of this box serving that purpose. But it did serve a purpose. Like trying on a new pair of shoes before purchase, getting used to the feel of them on your feet, accounting for their unfamiliarity and stiffness yet projecting into the possibility of their inconspicuousness, their naturalness, I would finger the little red box alone in my room trying on the idea of its use. Holding it under a lamp in the palm of my hand, I would open it with my thumb, straining slightly against the stiff springs of its hinge and imagine an inhabitant half buried in the pursed lips of the cushion within. It would not be a diamond; that had been specified. Yet if that were the case, what would it be—jade, sapphire, amber, pearl? Would it be faceted—round, princess, oval, marquis—or rough? Would it be set traditionally, or something as unorthodox as the stone, and in what material—in gold, platinum, hemp? Into the white underside of the lid, I asked these questions of the little red box. And into the fabric of its silent response I would weave the daydream of the scene of exchange—the context, the question. Before the response, however, I would close the lid with a snap, stopping short of uncertainty.
I played this game with myself for months. And each time I was always sure to hide the box afterwards where only I could reach or would care to look—that is until the day I moved out of my apartment and the subject of my contemplation helped me pack. Carelessly I left it out, meaning to take it with me like everything else. We entered my room, her on my heels, and in the few seconds it took for me to notice my oversight and snatch the little red box from the surface of my dresser—perhaps had I removed it more casually it may have gone unnoticed—the tranquility of ignorance with regard to my secret that previously characterized her expression was replaced by the fire of curiosity.
When I refused to show her what I was hiding, she unsuccessfully tried to wrestle it from my pocket. Over the next three weeks the secret contents of the little red box became the preferred currency for the most trivial of exchanges—recipes of well-made dinners, the responsibility of washing the dishes, the privilege of choosing the rented movie—each of which I opted to do without. After each proposal I changed the hiding place, assuming her curiosity, if tested, would outweigh my caution.
But finally, one warm summer night, she asked me more tenderly than ever before to tell her what was in the little red box. It occurred to me that I could show her its interior while still keeping my secret. The contents that I guarded were simply a series of intentions, which like the air, though tangible is invisible.
So I reached over her shoulder to extract the box from it most recent hiding place and offered it to her to open. My sudden acquiescence and the proximity of the hiding place made her suspicious, and she said as much, simultaneously suggesting that the pursuit of a secret is more enjoyable than its discovery; but she opened the box nonetheless. Obviously disappointed by its emptiness, but perhaps relieved that her persistence hadn’t ruined a romantic moment, she accused me of having removed the contents and orchestrating this scene to derail her curiosity.
Am I so transparent?
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Changing
The change was like noticing that you have grown, so subtle that it went unnoticed but dramatic when brought to your attention.
As we spoke on the phone late one night, she casually made reference to our distant future. Consoling me over the recent sale of my car, she said, “Don’t worry. We’ll have another car one day.”
Perhaps it was my sleepiness that lowered my guard. But instead of hearing the plural pronoun—embroidered into the fabric of the future tense—instead of hearing it like a bad cell phone connection, I registered it but responded as if it were as innocuous as an apostrophe collapsing two words into an efficient contraction. This sleepy concession, however, surprised me. When had I stopped fighting? When had I stopped being afraid of the echoes of a simple consolation such as this? How long before I could easily concede references to our home, or to our children, and their implications?
Merely weeks ago I would have teased her over such unguarded word choice, parroting the phrase with the inflexion of a question, emphasis on the conspicuous pronoun. And she might have done the same, both of us, in this way, guarding our independence and vulnerability. In fact, it had become some kind of game that we’d play, speaking circuitously to maintain an ambiguity about the possibility of our futures together. We’d both diligently serve as both player and referee, despite all the signs suggesting that our long term intentions were the same.
But this night, I didn’t play, and neither did she. I simply let the reference and its implications pass over me like the sleepiness to which I was slowly succumbing. And though this indicated a definite change, that night at least, it went unacknowledged, both of us still guarding our vulnerability.
As we spoke on the phone late one night, she casually made reference to our distant future. Consoling me over the recent sale of my car, she said, “Don’t worry. We’ll have another car one day.”
Perhaps it was my sleepiness that lowered my guard. But instead of hearing the plural pronoun—embroidered into the fabric of the future tense—instead of hearing it like a bad cell phone connection, I registered it but responded as if it were as innocuous as an apostrophe collapsing two words into an efficient contraction. This sleepy concession, however, surprised me. When had I stopped fighting? When had I stopped being afraid of the echoes of a simple consolation such as this? How long before I could easily concede references to our home, or to our children, and their implications?
Merely weeks ago I would have teased her over such unguarded word choice, parroting the phrase with the inflexion of a question, emphasis on the conspicuous pronoun. And she might have done the same, both of us, in this way, guarding our independence and vulnerability. In fact, it had become some kind of game that we’d play, speaking circuitously to maintain an ambiguity about the possibility of our futures together. We’d both diligently serve as both player and referee, despite all the signs suggesting that our long term intentions were the same.
But this night, I didn’t play, and neither did she. I simply let the reference and its implications pass over me like the sleepiness to which I was slowly succumbing. And though this indicated a definite change, that night at least, it went unacknowledged, both of us still guarding our vulnerability.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
DayDream:One
Driving Maxine always makes me impatient. Perhaps it’s her—the six cylinders, the 275 horsepower, or the sound system whose clarity takes me away from the road. Or perhaps it’s me—a reckless young man, reinforcing the insurance company’s claims to atrocious rates. Either way, just as I’m approaching the bridge, I whip out from behind the tan corolla that has been doing the speed limit in front of me and triumphantly speed into the gradual incline of the open road of the bridge. Everyone is behind me. I turn up the music. The crosswinds are strong without the other cars to dampen them, but Maxine holds the road and I push her harder. When I reach the crest of the bridge, Maxine becomes airborne. Once we have severed our connection with the ground, the world becomes…strange. We’re not coming down. What happened to gravity? I frantically buckle my seatbelt. But then quickly calm down when I realize that I am dreaming. Though I know my life isn’t in danger, I still can’t reconcile the strangeness of these events with sense of mundanity. I sit upright and take in the view. The sun is setting to my right—the cerulean autumn sky is melting into oranges and reds, and a few clouds that are turning gray in silhouette stripe the horizon. In the air, however, the steering wheel no longer determines my direction. My head does, and Maxine is drifting off the bridge. Surprisingly, I know this. I straighten my head and Maxine resumes her trajectory above a lane. I keep peaking, however, at the slowly fading spectacle out of the corner of my eye, afraid to miss a moment. And due to my divided attention, Maxine finally does drift over the edge of the bridge. Before arriving at the other bank, I lose altitude and plunge into the river. In my rearview mirror I notice the rest of the traffic also raining into the river—a white Hummer, a long black limo, many SUVs, one red convertible with a woman’s equally red hair trailing toward the sky like a crashing meteor. Is it common to fall off this bridge? I swim out through the sunroof and guide Maxine slowly to the shore. She’s buoyant enough to lead with one hand, or am I’m just stronger in dreams. Should I be concerned about the engine? Everyone else does the same, so I dismiss my concerns. No one appears to be hurt. Once the wheels hit the sand, I drive Maxine onto the dry land. A tall, spindly, white woman with glasses that look too heavy for her nose greets us at the shore and directs us to a toll booth on the road. The mundanity of our situation is conveyed in the boredom of her tone. I follow the narrow dirt footpath to what looks like a lemonade-stand and present my soggy ticket. What ever happened to E-Z-pass?
“Five dollars!” demands a little boy with a surprisingly deep voice. This is a state employee? He couldn’t have been more than 12 years old.
“Huh!” I thought the toll was $4, I think to myself.
“Five dollars mister!” he repeats more insistently.
Before I can protest, a tall round-bellied man in a backwards Yankees cap returns behind the counter. He’s panting. Without missing a beat, “Four dollars sir!” he says in a voice almost identical to the boy’s.
I fix the little boy with a menacing look and fish four dollar bills, crumpled and wet, from my pocket.
“Oh!” the man begins puzzled. “You came outta the river?”
“Yes.”
“Five dollars sir!”
“Why!?!”
“River animal preservation, River pollution prevention, Car washing, River bank maintenance—take your pick. But it’s five dollars.” The little boy sticks his tongue out at me. One would think I chose to fly off the bridge.
I find another crumpled, wet bill in my pocket, leave it on the counter, and step out of line, which by now winds all the way down to the riverbank. A little girl standing a few feet from the line shuffles to my side. She looks Native American, with almond skin, a cherubic round face, and straight, jet-black hair. I guess that she’s 6 years old. She is twirling her foot in ground, following her footwork with her eyes. I take one step back from her, finding the proximity uncomfortable.
“Can I help you?”
She faces me but doesn’t answer.
“Where are your parents?”
She shrugs her shoulders.
“Where do you live, where are you going?”
She meets my eyes and points vaguely over my shoulder. For a second I think she’s pointing at me rather than somewhere. I dismiss the thought and turn around to follow her finger in the direction of the continuing road.
I pause for a moment. “Are you stuck here?” I finally ask.
She nods.
“You should talk to the police at the toll booth.”
She shakes her head vigorously and grabs my hand imploringly.
“Ok, Ok. I’ll take you home.” Do I mean to my home or hers? She seems satisfied, but it’s not clear to me what she thinks I mean. “What’s your name?”
She relaxes and resumes her footwork. Then she mumbles into her chest, “Amber.”
“Amber, that’s a pretty name. My name is Amir. My car is this way.”
Standing next to my car is an attractive, ebony-black woman, with short hair. I make no attempt to hide my undressing glance. It’s my dream after all right? She has two bright-eyed children in tow, a boy and a girl, one white and blonde, one east Indian respectively, both about Amber’s age.
“D’you need a ride somewhere?” I offer.
“No. Do you?” She retorts.
Only then do I realize the car we’re standing beside isn’t Maxine. In fact, she’s nowhere in sight. Has she been stolen? My face must say it all, for I am speechless.
“Hop in. Tell me the story while we drive.”
Amber jumps in the back seat and begins playing with the other kids happily. As I walk around to the passenger side, I realize that she doesn’t know my name. Nor do I know hers. She hasn’t even asked me where I’m going. Does she care? Nor has she asked about Amber. Does she think she’s my daughter? And these other two children are clearly not ‘hers.’ Is this even her car? Was this Maxine’s fate, to be casually appropriated by a stranger? But as I watch Amber play, and settle into the passenger seat, the anesthetizing breath of mundanity fills my lungs and I exhale my fears.
I tell her what has happened to me since becoming airborne on the bridge. She listens in silence, eyes focused on the winding road. It’s dark now. I have no idea where we’re going. The kids have fallen asleep in a pile on the back seat.
“Well, I need to go home first,” speaking for the first time since we started driving. “But afterwards, I’ll help you any way you need except bear your children.”
I turn to her in surprise.
She glances away from the road and winks. “Just kidding,” she adds.
But I’m not sure what she is recanting—the obviously flirtatious proposition implied in helping me in any way, or the qualifier that she would not bear my children? I smile and decide not to ask for clarification.
“Five dollars!” demands a little boy with a surprisingly deep voice. This is a state employee? He couldn’t have been more than 12 years old.
“Huh!” I thought the toll was $4, I think to myself.
“Five dollars mister!” he repeats more insistently.
Before I can protest, a tall round-bellied man in a backwards Yankees cap returns behind the counter. He’s panting. Without missing a beat, “Four dollars sir!” he says in a voice almost identical to the boy’s.
I fix the little boy with a menacing look and fish four dollar bills, crumpled and wet, from my pocket.
“Oh!” the man begins puzzled. “You came outta the river?”
“Yes.”
“Five dollars sir!”
“Why!?!”
“River animal preservation, River pollution prevention, Car washing, River bank maintenance—take your pick. But it’s five dollars.” The little boy sticks his tongue out at me. One would think I chose to fly off the bridge.
I find another crumpled, wet bill in my pocket, leave it on the counter, and step out of line, which by now winds all the way down to the riverbank. A little girl standing a few feet from the line shuffles to my side. She looks Native American, with almond skin, a cherubic round face, and straight, jet-black hair. I guess that she’s 6 years old. She is twirling her foot in ground, following her footwork with her eyes. I take one step back from her, finding the proximity uncomfortable.
“Can I help you?”
She faces me but doesn’t answer.
“Where are your parents?”
She shrugs her shoulders.
“Where do you live, where are you going?”
She meets my eyes and points vaguely over my shoulder. For a second I think she’s pointing at me rather than somewhere. I dismiss the thought and turn around to follow her finger in the direction of the continuing road.
I pause for a moment. “Are you stuck here?” I finally ask.
She nods.
“You should talk to the police at the toll booth.”
She shakes her head vigorously and grabs my hand imploringly.
“Ok, Ok. I’ll take you home.” Do I mean to my home or hers? She seems satisfied, but it’s not clear to me what she thinks I mean. “What’s your name?”
She relaxes and resumes her footwork. Then she mumbles into her chest, “Amber.”
“Amber, that’s a pretty name. My name is Amir. My car is this way.”
Standing next to my car is an attractive, ebony-black woman, with short hair. I make no attempt to hide my undressing glance. It’s my dream after all right? She has two bright-eyed children in tow, a boy and a girl, one white and blonde, one east Indian respectively, both about Amber’s age.
“D’you need a ride somewhere?” I offer.
“No. Do you?” She retorts.
Only then do I realize the car we’re standing beside isn’t Maxine. In fact, she’s nowhere in sight. Has she been stolen? My face must say it all, for I am speechless.
“Hop in. Tell me the story while we drive.”
Amber jumps in the back seat and begins playing with the other kids happily. As I walk around to the passenger side, I realize that she doesn’t know my name. Nor do I know hers. She hasn’t even asked me where I’m going. Does she care? Nor has she asked about Amber. Does she think she’s my daughter? And these other two children are clearly not ‘hers.’ Is this even her car? Was this Maxine’s fate, to be casually appropriated by a stranger? But as I watch Amber play, and settle into the passenger seat, the anesthetizing breath of mundanity fills my lungs and I exhale my fears.
I tell her what has happened to me since becoming airborne on the bridge. She listens in silence, eyes focused on the winding road. It’s dark now. I have no idea where we’re going. The kids have fallen asleep in a pile on the back seat.
“Well, I need to go home first,” speaking for the first time since we started driving. “But afterwards, I’ll help you any way you need except bear your children.”
I turn to her in surprise.
She glances away from the road and winks. “Just kidding,” she adds.
But I’m not sure what she is recanting—the obviously flirtatious proposition implied in helping me in any way, or the qualifier that she would not bear my children? I smile and decide not to ask for clarification.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Keepsakes
“Please enter your password. Then press pound,” says the mechanical voice, timbre pitch programmed to connote gender. Can a machine or a recording be, or even sound, female?
The phone beeps with each number I type—*****.
“You have 7 saved voice messages,” the voice continues. “To listen to you messages press 1. To send a message, press 2. To change your personal options, press 4. To disconnect press star.”
I don’t have any new messages, but this call is simply to indulge in nostalgia. I press 1.
“First saved voice message.”
“Hi babe it’s me. I just got your message I figured you were on the bus and maybe you could chat for a bit. Umm, I’m in the talks now but we have a little break. But I figure that you’re probably sleeping. In fact I can picture right now, with your head against the window and your mouth is open and your sleeping on your hand and your fingers are all curled up, on your cheek, and your probably drooling a little, and your eyes are all sleepy and squinty. But umm, yeah, (laugh, laugh) if you’re on the bus later, umm, we should be done like after 11. Umm, gimme a call then, or I’ll try to call you when I’m finished. Okay? Byyee.”
“End of message. To erase this message, press 7. To send a reply message, press 8. To save it, press 9. To hear more options, press 0.”
Beep.
“This message will be saved for—40 days. Next message.”
“Hi A***, it’s mommy. Gimme a call sometime. Okee doke. Byye.”
“End of message. To erase this message, press 7. To send a re—”
Beep.
“This message will be saved for—40 days. Next message.”
Singing into the phone he says “When you cry, I do a dance for—wait, that’s not very nice. When you cry, I dry your tears with the back of my wrist. And when you sneeze, I cover your nose with the front of my wrist. And when you fart, I fan your fart with the front of my wrist. And when—(Laugh, Laugh) And when you laugh, I have to laugh with all my…twist. (laugh) And when you sleep, I hold your head with the inside of my wrist. (laugh, laugh) Yo man I was listening to one of your old messages, and wondering what kinda poems you have on love these days. It may need a little addition to the progromme. So gimme a call back mon. And uh, you know uh, let’s touch base. Alright. Peace.”
“End of message. To erase—”
Beep.
“This message will be saved for—40 days. Next message.”
“Hello this is R*** and F*** calling to wish A*** a happy birthday. I imagine that you’re either having the preparty, the party, the dinner, the afterparty, or making love. And we expect that there will be lots of love in all stages. (laugh) Umm, A***’s birthday on our end has been marked by the first night of Boric Acid. We hope it works. Talk to you later. Bye bye.”
“End of message—”
Beep.
“This message will be saved for—40 days. Next message.”
“Hi babe, it’s me. I’m just calling to say that I’m going to sleep and to see how your studying is going, ummm. I guess your still engrossed in your books that you didn’t hear your phone, which is ok. I’m just getting to bed now so if you get this give me a call back, ummm. Otherwise have a good night and I love you very much. Bye.”
“End of message. To erase this message, press 7—”
Beep.
“This message will be saved for—40 days. Next message.
Singing loudly into the phone, “Cousin A***. What’s up big boyy. This is R**, callin’ from the west coast. Tryin’ to see where you at. How ya livin’. What’s goin’ on in your world. Get back at me, whenever you got the time. Drop a dime. Call me at ###-###-####. Alright little brotha. Stay blessed. And keep on doin’ what ya do. Yeah! Much love, to you.”
“End of message. To erase this message, press 7—”
Beep.
“This message will be saved for—40 days. Next message.
“Hi A*** this is M********* calling to find out if you got there ok. And I was beginning to wonder that I gave you the wrong address or the, or was steering you the wrong way on the wrong side of the street or something. Oh I don’t know, umm, cuz I know there are galleries on the opposite side of the street too. So, I hope you found it. And you’ll tell me all about it when I see you on Monday night I guess. Bye now.”
“End of message—”
Beep.
“This message will be saved for—40 days. End of messages. To listen to your messages press 1.”
The phone beeps with each number I type—*****.
“You have 7 saved voice messages,” the voice continues. “To listen to you messages press 1. To send a message, press 2. To change your personal options, press 4. To disconnect press star.”
I don’t have any new messages, but this call is simply to indulge in nostalgia. I press 1.
“First saved voice message.”
“Hi babe it’s me. I just got your message I figured you were on the bus and maybe you could chat for a bit. Umm, I’m in the talks now but we have a little break. But I figure that you’re probably sleeping. In fact I can picture right now, with your head against the window and your mouth is open and your sleeping on your hand and your fingers are all curled up, on your cheek, and your probably drooling a little, and your eyes are all sleepy and squinty. But umm, yeah, (laugh, laugh) if you’re on the bus later, umm, we should be done like after 11. Umm, gimme a call then, or I’ll try to call you when I’m finished. Okay? Byyee.”
“End of message. To erase this message, press 7. To send a reply message, press 8. To save it, press 9. To hear more options, press 0.”
Beep.
“This message will be saved for—40 days. Next message.”
“Hi A***, it’s mommy. Gimme a call sometime. Okee doke. Byye.”
“End of message. To erase this message, press 7. To send a re—”
Beep.
“This message will be saved for—40 days. Next message.”
Singing into the phone he says “When you cry, I do a dance for—wait, that’s not very nice. When you cry, I dry your tears with the back of my wrist. And when you sneeze, I cover your nose with the front of my wrist. And when you fart, I fan your fart with the front of my wrist. And when—(Laugh, Laugh) And when you laugh, I have to laugh with all my…twist. (laugh) And when you sleep, I hold your head with the inside of my wrist. (laugh, laugh) Yo man I was listening to one of your old messages, and wondering what kinda poems you have on love these days. It may need a little addition to the progromme. So gimme a call back mon. And uh, you know uh, let’s touch base. Alright. Peace.”
“End of message. To erase—”
Beep.
“This message will be saved for—40 days. Next message.”
“Hello this is R*** and F*** calling to wish A*** a happy birthday. I imagine that you’re either having the preparty, the party, the dinner, the afterparty, or making love. And we expect that there will be lots of love in all stages. (laugh) Umm, A***’s birthday on our end has been marked by the first night of Boric Acid. We hope it works. Talk to you later. Bye bye.”
“End of message—”
Beep.
“This message will be saved for—40 days. Next message.”
“Hi babe, it’s me. I’m just calling to say that I’m going to sleep and to see how your studying is going, ummm. I guess your still engrossed in your books that you didn’t hear your phone, which is ok. I’m just getting to bed now so if you get this give me a call back, ummm. Otherwise have a good night and I love you very much. Bye.”
“End of message. To erase this message, press 7—”
Beep.
“This message will be saved for—40 days. Next message.
Singing loudly into the phone, “Cousin A***. What’s up big boyy. This is R**, callin’ from the west coast. Tryin’ to see where you at. How ya livin’. What’s goin’ on in your world. Get back at me, whenever you got the time. Drop a dime. Call me at ###-###-####. Alright little brotha. Stay blessed. And keep on doin’ what ya do. Yeah! Much love, to you.”
“End of message. To erase this message, press 7—”
Beep.
“This message will be saved for—40 days. Next message.
“Hi A*** this is M********* calling to find out if you got there ok. And I was beginning to wonder that I gave you the wrong address or the, or was steering you the wrong way on the wrong side of the street or something. Oh I don’t know, umm, cuz I know there are galleries on the opposite side of the street too. So, I hope you found it. And you’ll tell me all about it when I see you on Monday night I guess. Bye now.”
“End of message—”
Beep.
“This message will be saved for—40 days. End of messages. To listen to your messages press 1.”
Friday, September 28, 2007
On the 1
For 10:15pm on a Thursday, it is crowded on the uptown 1, but we all have a seat. I force myself to read to overcome the occasionally embarrassing urge to people watch. But will only gets you so far. Somebody bumps your foot. A Hispanic woman boards the train speaking loudly in Spanish to a fussing toddler in tow. An older woman gets on at 34th street and I relinquish my seat by the door. Half the train leaves at Time Square to catch the 2 or 3 express and I sit back down. Though it would save me time to do the same, I stay on. In this insomniac city, I can relax in the illusion that I don’t need to move till I’m there. I try to read again, but then a young woman’s shadow casts on my page as she leans over to read the map behind me. I try not to glance at her cleavage. An a capela group enters from another car to sing for what change we can spare. They’re talented, but all I have is a 20. A teenage boy next to me listens to his music through headphones loudly enough for me to discern lyrics. I like the song. A homeless man tries to pluck our heartstrings with an honest appeal to our humanity. I’m moved, but not $20 worth. And it continues like that, one distraction after another, until by 96th street, where everyone going local before 168th boards. I’m amused to recognize two passengers who got off at 42nd.
Finally, I close my book and permit myself a good look around, deciding that even if enlightenment comes in the next paragraph, I’ll need to reread it. There are the usual furtive glances, seeing without seeing, contrasted by the unwavering stare of the man in sunglasses. There are the elder riders who watch with the confidence of their age. And then there are always the few sleeping souls probably going all the way to the Bronx. This week, I’ve been drawn to parents, or rather parenting. I watch curiously as mothers, fathers, entertain and contain their charges. But the whole time, they maintain an alertness equal to their children’s obliviousness, meeting the eyes of all observers in turn. When they get to me I smile and look away. Yesterday I saw a little boy, no older than 4, slap his mother full out across the face—straight arm, long back swing, open palm—only to be met by a firm stare. When I felt her eyes about to meet mine, I looked away, afraid to acknowledge what I’d seen. But tonight, except for the toddler of the Hispanic woman, now sleeping in his mother’s lap, there are no children on the 1. Directly across from me an attractive middle-aged, brown-skinned Dominican woman appears to sleep on the muscular shoulder of a tall, black man. A gold wedding band glistens on her fist, tucked under her chin. With his opposite hand, the man fingers lazily through a thin paper back, The Art of Loving by Erich Fromm. Sometimes I feel as though I recognize passengers, strangers who regularly ride the 1 like I do. But amidst 8 million people, I dismiss the thought as improbable. Aside from the ethnic tendencies of the subways going to different boroughs, are all the trains like this? It was a pretty typical ride for me anyway, at least until 125th street.
The subway car came to a slow stop at the elevated station at 125th. About a dozen cell phones emerge to take advantage of our stint above ground, Chocolats, Razrs, Sidekicks, Blackberry’s. My pocket vibrates with a message, but I ignore it. The buzz of one-sided conversations fills the car. But as the doors open, a crying woman stumbles into the train. No, not crying, bawling. She looks up long enough to find the nearest seat, right corner, where those sitting nearby scatter as if her pain is contagious. Silence follows in her wake as we stare. She is an attractive Latina, casually dressed—jeans and a pink tank top, white tapered coat, matching Nike's and modest make up. She bends over her knees and weeps. I look around at the other passengers. What can one do? The sleeping Dominican starts to approach her, but is pulled back by the tall black man. I look at him, surprised. My glance catches his attention, but her averts his eyes. Shouldn’t someone do something? As the train pulls out of 137th, her tears continue to hypnotize us, demanding our silence. Suddenly, as we approach 145th, she sits up, struggles to remove a ring from her finger and throws it the length of the subway car, only to chase it immediately. She retrieves it just as the doors open, and runs out.
Monday, June 18, 2007
The Truth?
The story I tell my family is that we met salsa dancing. I tell them we emailed all summer before our first date, during which I cooked for her—coconut rice and peas with fried plantain and steamed broccoli. But then I envision my grandmother’s knowing grin as she recognizes the romantic qualities of a man cooking for a woman. So I quickly direct their attention to her beauty, “She is a poet, a biologist, Ghanaian.” And they smile. Everyone, on some level, can appreciate a conservative front, even if it is only skin deep.
But it’s not entirely false either, just a rose-hue to color the grays of the pessimistic eye. You see the truth is I met her in Soma, a hip-hop club, while hunting with my wingman and unnamed player extraordinaire. Nor do I tell them that even in the darkness, her hips in her short skirt were as smooth as wheel-thrown pottery. Nor do I mention the fact that she wouldn’t give me her number and that that was the real reason for our email correspondence. But they do know that I care for her, maybe they even know that I love her, despite the fact that that information I most certainly omit. What’s curious though is that more than likely they wouldn’t care where or how I met her. Sure they enjoy hearing of our fairy tale encounter, the romantic dates, the charming courtship, and the innocent intentions. But what is probably most accurate is that I am afraid that the possibility of their judgment would bruise me.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Call me 'Old Man'
As I sit at the edge of the U Penn pool, earning my free membership, I try to keep my mind alert, despite a still body and fixed gaze. I find more creative ways to combat the monotony of watching the scantily clad do laps. I recount the swimmers, unnecessarily dividing them into number of men and women, and devising overcomplicated systems of remembering the steadily growing amounts. I text a beloved friend, and receive a reply. I plan the rest of my day, my week, month, year...in each case setting incremental goals to make the insurmountable seem manageable.
But today, amidst the meditative supervision, a rather unexpected event occurs. A stranger swimming in lane one summons me, pronouncing my name with an arresting familiarity.
"Yes sir?"
"Could you please support me as I exit the pool?" he respectfully requests in accented English. I can't place it though. Southeastern Europe? Middle Eastern?
I meet him at the steps and hold his large, wrinkled hand for the duration of his climb. When he is securely on the deck, he smooths his white wiry hair, dramatic against his tanned skin. He is short, maybe 5'5". And as I look down at him, I notice the square ends of his claw-like toenails, and worry that this old man lives alone. I stand near to him as he hobbles down the pool.
"Thank you Amir. I'm going to use the sauna for five minutes."
"Oh ok."
"So please help me again then. When I sit it is difficult to get up."
"Oh ok," I repeat. The inflection in my voice conveys my understanding. "So in five minutes then."
"Yes please. Don't forget. If you forget..." He finishes the sentence by cutting the air before him horizontally with his hand. The sauna warning springs to mind, recommending at 160 degrees to take a break every 10 minutes, and use no longer than 30 minutes.
It is 12:54 when I return to my guarding post. By 12:59 I have checked my watch 15 times. I find the old man on his back, eyes closed.
"Hello?" I whisper.
"Yes, support my back please," he says while extending his hand, which I take quickly.
With great effort, he sits upright and then rests. I am beginning to sweat, but dare not leave. Finally, outside in the refreshingly humid 84 degrees, I escort him to the exit.
"I used to do everything you know," he says matter-of-factly. "Soccer, basketball, tennis, track, but now all I can do is swim."
"Oh yeah? I play those sports."
"Yes, well thank you again Amir."
"Your welcome. What is your name?"
"You can call me 'Old Man', but my name is Rauf."
"Really? my middle name is Rauf. Rauf meaning the Compassionate?"
"Indeed!" And he hobbles away, smiling.
But today, amidst the meditative supervision, a rather unexpected event occurs. A stranger swimming in lane one summons me, pronouncing my name with an arresting familiarity.
"Yes sir?"
"Could you please support me as I exit the pool?" he respectfully requests in accented English. I can't place it though. Southeastern Europe? Middle Eastern?
I meet him at the steps and hold his large, wrinkled hand for the duration of his climb. When he is securely on the deck, he smooths his white wiry hair, dramatic against his tanned skin. He is short, maybe 5'5". And as I look down at him, I notice the square ends of his claw-like toenails, and worry that this old man lives alone. I stand near to him as he hobbles down the pool.
"Thank you Amir. I'm going to use the sauna for five minutes."
"Oh ok."
"So please help me again then. When I sit it is difficult to get up."
"Oh ok," I repeat. The inflection in my voice conveys my understanding. "So in five minutes then."
"Yes please. Don't forget. If you forget..." He finishes the sentence by cutting the air before him horizontally with his hand. The sauna warning springs to mind, recommending at 160 degrees to take a break every 10 minutes, and use no longer than 30 minutes.
It is 12:54 when I return to my guarding post. By 12:59 I have checked my watch 15 times. I find the old man on his back, eyes closed.
"Hello?" I whisper.
"Yes, support my back please," he says while extending his hand, which I take quickly.
With great effort, he sits upright and then rests. I am beginning to sweat, but dare not leave. Finally, outside in the refreshingly humid 84 degrees, I escort him to the exit.
"I used to do everything you know," he says matter-of-factly. "Soccer, basketball, tennis, track, but now all I can do is swim."
"Oh yeah? I play those sports."
"Yes, well thank you again Amir."
"Your welcome. What is your name?"
"You can call me 'Old Man', but my name is Rauf."
"Really? my middle name is Rauf. Rauf meaning the Compassionate?"
"Indeed!" And he hobbles away, smiling.
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