I
was beside myself, what to do with Melissa. All I could imagine was her
disappearing. And me grasping at the space where she had been. She’d
been a little quiet lately. What was up? I made mental lists of things
to say to her. Little jokes to make. As though to appease some
insatiable beast.
Still,
our relationship persisted. I shuffled fearfully to her apartment every
couple of days, convinced she’d send me right back home. Instead, we’d
order out. Watch some old movie. Fuck. Wake up and brush our teeth and
that was that.
I
began to make a tally of the good days and the bad. I took her out to
dinner for her birthday. That was good. I got her drunk enough so she
forgot my apprehension.
We
planned a vacation. A trip out west. A visit to a friend of mine and to
a friend of hers. Hotels, wineries, a drive up the coast. Carmel and
Monterey. Some camping. I hated camping. I would have done anything she
said.
There
appeared a warning light on the dashboard of our rental car and I
called the 800 number that was provided in our pamphlet of materials.
Ignore it, they said. There’s no problem with the car. There’s a problem
with the warning.
The
first few days were fine. She liked to get high. As long as we were
smoking pot together, everything was all right. That’s what I thought.
We sat on the windowsill of a motel room in Santa Monica, blowing smoke
into the shaft. Little sparks flew up into the darkness.
The
night before it was all over we were staying at an extremely expensive
inn overlooking the rocky Pacific shore in Big Sur. We got high on our
patio. I sucked each papery hit deeply and held it in as long as I
could, drawing every last bit of intoxicating smoke into my lungs in
little bursts, trying not to cough. Then we walked the path to the
restaurant perched over the foggy cliffs.
We
were offered a table facing an angry orange fire; for a moment it
seemed lovely and then my hands and knees and face heated intolerably
and in my hazy state I felt the thing was ruined and the whole world was
sure to end.
"Ask
the Maitre d' for another table," said Melissa quite reasonably, so I
did, and we were promptly seated at a table by the picture window
looking out to sea.
We
ordered white wine and oysters and California caviar and when it came
we set the oysters between us and slipped them off the shells into our
mouths, and everything was fine as gray turned to black outside, and far
below us the foamy surf that beat upon the shore receded into darkness
too.
Suddenly
there was a man standing behind her, his nose to the window. He had
wound his way around nearby tables and chairs and appeared to be
examining the glass with intense curiosity. His fingers walked upon the
surface and its ghostly, gold reflections of faces and hunched bodies,
chairs, tables, plates and softly glowing candles. He probed it timidly,
hesitantly, like an explorer who has discovered a new world far more
mysterious and wonderful and terrifying than he could ever have
imagined.
"Sir?" said Melissa.
After a beat more puzzled fumbling he broke out of his trance.
"Oh! I… I thought that was another room!" he said, and pivoted back among the real things from whence he came.
As
we watched the lost man and debated the meaning of his behavior—was it
some kind of joke? Was he very drunk? Senile?—I became convinced I
wasn’t me.
We
drank more in the restaurant, got the check, wandered through the
parking lot and smoked some more. We tried to break in to the swimming
pool, the fancy one that’s in the pictures in the travel magazines.
Someone with a flashlight saw us and yelled something. So we went back
to our room, drank some more. Fucked in the tub. When I awoke in the
morning she was not beside me and I knew right then it was over. It
wasn’t my own thoughts that told me. It wasn’t my own voice. It came
from outside of me. It had the authority of the other. It’s over. I knew there was nothing I could do. And like an idiot I still tried.
Friday, June 08, 2012
Thursday, June 07, 2012
The Crossing Guard on Eighth
The
crossing guard on Eighth is a nice woman about my age, an old maid
already, maybe. Always says g’mornin’ in her Brooklyn accent. She chats
with the moms and their kids, catching up on gossip. flattering the
girls: Don’t you look beautiful today! With her coffee in her hand and her back to the traffic, the cars and trucks are an afterthought. She knows they’ll stop.
Labels:
Brooklyn
Wednesday, June 06, 2012
Food Day in Brooklyn - 3
The
Thai food—sausages in buns with cilantro and a trace of sriracha
sauce—was very good. But they took a minute and a half to eat. We went
back up the hill, toward the entrance, hoping to find some stands with
shorter lines. We circled a log cabin-like structure that had vendor
windows on all four sides. Bagel halves were on display under cheese
bells, each draped with a limp and pallid blade of lox. Around the
corner two women stood at a bakery counter. All they had left for sale
were sticks of salty bread. I was so surprised that a vendor with
something in stock had no line before it that I bought some. The women
seemed more surprised than me.
We got some sweets in the dessert sector—those were not hard to obtain. After a wait in two lines—one line earned you permission to stand in the other, essentially—we got duck hot dogs created by a particularly famous restaurant. The cabbage topping seemed, weirdly, to be mixed with orange zest. I popped a piece of Orbit gum.
Frustrated, defeated, we walked to a little hill beside some trees and lay down for awhile. The cool grass felt good against my neck. On my palms. I gazed serenely at the sky through the gaps of the branches looming over us. It was still a beautiful day. I began to feel good.
Suddenly something fearsome and raw violated the idyll. KRANGG!! It was a ferocious chord from an extremely loud, distorted guitar. CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA KCHANG KANG CHUGGA-CHUGGA it went, again and again and again. A jolting expression of id to cast a damning pall on the gentle afternoon.
We arose blearily, as though hung over.
“It’s a Van Halen cover band,” observed Sara.
It did not seem possible to me—they sounded more like death metal. But sure enough, they were playing “Panama.”
We gravitated toward one of the exits, at the south end of the park. To get there we walked past rows and rows of portable toilets. Something seemed strange about them—an incongruous, dreamy quality. I’d never seen these objects in quite this way before. Then it occurred to me what it was: there were no lines.
We got some sweets in the dessert sector—those were not hard to obtain. After a wait in two lines—one line earned you permission to stand in the other, essentially—we got duck hot dogs created by a particularly famous restaurant. The cabbage topping seemed, weirdly, to be mixed with orange zest. I popped a piece of Orbit gum.
Frustrated, defeated, we walked to a little hill beside some trees and lay down for awhile. The cool grass felt good against my neck. On my palms. I gazed serenely at the sky through the gaps of the branches looming over us. It was still a beautiful day. I began to feel good.
Suddenly something fearsome and raw violated the idyll. KRANGG!! It was a ferocious chord from an extremely loud, distorted guitar. CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA KCHANG KANG CHUGGA-CHUGGA it went, again and again and again. A jolting expression of id to cast a damning pall on the gentle afternoon.
We arose blearily, as though hung over.
“It’s a Van Halen cover band,” observed Sara.
It did not seem possible to me—they sounded more like death metal. But sure enough, they were playing “Panama.”
We gravitated toward one of the exits, at the south end of the park. To get there we walked past rows and rows of portable toilets. Something seemed strange about them—an incongruous, dreamy quality. I’d never seen these objects in quite this way before. Then it occurred to me what it was: there were no lines.
Tuesday, June 05, 2012
Observed Through the Drugstore Window
A
man stood in the window of the Rite Aid on 42nd Street, having just
passed through the checkout. His white plastic bag lay open on the sill,
and in it sat a torn little box from which he’d withdrawn a Styrofoam
and metal finger splint, which he now placed gingerly over his index
finger and wound around with gauze.
Labels:
New York City,
Nothing
Friday, June 01, 2012
Food Day in Brooklyn - 2
The
scene seemed idyllic at first. Pavilions, stands and stages across a
hilly expanse. But then we looked a little closer: you couldn’t buy beer
with real money. You needed special money. You were supposed to trade your real money for the special money first.
We traveled a little further and found a beer stand that took cash. But you needed a bracelet. I gazed back up the hill. I saw neat rows of food stands with extravagantly painted signs. People. Trees. No indication as to where one might obtain a bracelet.
We toured the natural amphitheatre. Around its rim, vendors fed lines of people extending from the amorphous pit like a hundred hungry tongues. Employees stood at vague points on the hill with signs that read, “15 minutes to go!”
Down on the lawn some people had food. Some people had beer. Some had food and beer. It was difficult to imagine what they’d endured to obtain it; or perhaps into what privilege they had somehow been born.
Onstage someone bellowed a perfunctory welcome: How you all doin’ today? Soon a dixieland band struck up, its jaunty counterpoint bleating incongruously over the proceedings. I thought about the woman on her hands and knees.
We found the shortest line—Thai food—and so there we stood, and stood, and stood. I took a break to try to find the bracelet place. I reached the side of a beer tent where a worker was chatting with a customer. I asked the worker where to get a bracelet. He shrugged. Like he didn’t know what I meant. Certainly he didn’t care. I asked the customer.
“How do you get a bracelet?” I ventured. “How do I get a bracelet? Like the one you have.” I pointed to his. “There.”
“Over there, by the entrance,” he replied, pointing at a shroud of trees. Then he swiveled uncertainly. “Or over there. I dunno. There’s two entrances,” he said.
“Over there?” I asked, pointing where he had pointed first.
“I think so. Yeah. I think.”
I found the ID booth. There was a line snaking away from it, around a tree, and back out of view. Hundreds of people all shifting foot to foot. I turned away and walked back to find that Sara had made a little progress up the hill.
We traveled a little further and found a beer stand that took cash. But you needed a bracelet. I gazed back up the hill. I saw neat rows of food stands with extravagantly painted signs. People. Trees. No indication as to where one might obtain a bracelet.
We toured the natural amphitheatre. Around its rim, vendors fed lines of people extending from the amorphous pit like a hundred hungry tongues. Employees stood at vague points on the hill with signs that read, “15 minutes to go!”
Down on the lawn some people had food. Some people had beer. Some had food and beer. It was difficult to imagine what they’d endured to obtain it; or perhaps into what privilege they had somehow been born.
Onstage someone bellowed a perfunctory welcome: How you all doin’ today? Soon a dixieland band struck up, its jaunty counterpoint bleating incongruously over the proceedings. I thought about the woman on her hands and knees.
We found the shortest line—Thai food—and so there we stood, and stood, and stood. I took a break to try to find the bracelet place. I reached the side of a beer tent where a worker was chatting with a customer. I asked the worker where to get a bracelet. He shrugged. Like he didn’t know what I meant. Certainly he didn’t care. I asked the customer.
“How do you get a bracelet?” I ventured. “How do I get a bracelet? Like the one you have.” I pointed to his. “There.”
“Over there, by the entrance,” he replied, pointing at a shroud of trees. Then he swiveled uncertainly. “Or over there. I dunno. There’s two entrances,” he said.
“Over there?” I asked, pointing where he had pointed first.
“I think so. Yeah. I think.”
I found the ID booth. There was a line snaking away from it, around a tree, and back out of view. Hundreds of people all shifting foot to foot. I turned away and walked back to find that Sara had made a little progress up the hill.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Food Day in Brooklyn - 1
We
went with the others across the park, through the fields and the woods,
against an equal current of those returning. It was a bright-blue day,
hot. The sort of day when nothing can possibly go wrong.
I scrutinized the faces of those passing us. Some bore wry expressions. Others seemed perfectly content. But it was hard to tell the former from the latter. We continued.
I thought I heard fragments of dejected speech. Almost mocking in tone.
When we arrived the line was hundreds long and wound along the semis parked on the service road. Over the fence and beyond a wall of trees were assembled the multitudes. You couldn’t see them yet. No music was audible at the moment. But you could tell they were there.
The line was moving, but not so fast that you could see it move. It moved like a minute hand. Like the burn of a cigarette.
We commented on the youthfulness of the crowd.
I spotted Joe and Maya walking our way down the line.
“It’s a complete disaster,” proclaimed Joe, smiling faintly. Maya concurred.
They were just describing the scene—long lines for everything, no way to get a drink—when we came upon a woman on her hands and knees, vomiting spasmodically onto the pavement. A man—her man?—stood a few paces away, discussing the matter with a cop. We were struck by his lack of regard for her immediate needs—don’t you hold her hair back when she’s puking? Tell her it’ll be all right?
We parted ways with Joe and Maya, telling them we wanted to go in just to see.
Upon entry we were each handed two packs of Orbit chewing gum. Spearmint and peppermint. The gum lady’s emphatic gestures, her vendor’s tray packed with rows of cellophaned packs, her saccharine little getup—these all belied the scene we were to witness.
I scrutinized the faces of those passing us. Some bore wry expressions. Others seemed perfectly content. But it was hard to tell the former from the latter. We continued.
I thought I heard fragments of dejected speech. Almost mocking in tone.
When we arrived the line was hundreds long and wound along the semis parked on the service road. Over the fence and beyond a wall of trees were assembled the multitudes. You couldn’t see them yet. No music was audible at the moment. But you could tell they were there.
The line was moving, but not so fast that you could see it move. It moved like a minute hand. Like the burn of a cigarette.
We commented on the youthfulness of the crowd.
I spotted Joe and Maya walking our way down the line.
“It’s a complete disaster,” proclaimed Joe, smiling faintly. Maya concurred.
They were just describing the scene—long lines for everything, no way to get a drink—when we came upon a woman on her hands and knees, vomiting spasmodically onto the pavement. A man—her man?—stood a few paces away, discussing the matter with a cop. We were struck by his lack of regard for her immediate needs—don’t you hold her hair back when she’s puking? Tell her it’ll be all right?
We parted ways with Joe and Maya, telling them we wanted to go in just to see.
Upon entry we were each handed two packs of Orbit chewing gum. Spearmint and peppermint. The gum lady’s emphatic gestures, her vendor’s tray packed with rows of cellophaned packs, her saccharine little getup—these all belied the scene we were to witness.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Buzz the Buzzer and They'll Buzz You In
In
the rush-hour crowd at the 14th Street station this morning I wheeled
Sophia to the emergency door and found it locked. Usually it gives way
like a magnet separating. Sounds the alarm.
“Buzz the buzzer,” a portly black woman beside me said. “And they’ll buzz you in.”
I pressed the button and peered through the bars at the woman in the booth. She gave a little glare and I felt the door release.
“Buzz the buzzer,” a portly black woman beside me said. “And they’ll buzz you in.”
I pressed the button and peered through the bars at the woman in the booth. She gave a little glare and I felt the door release.
Labels:
Jackie,
The Subway
Monday, May 14, 2012
Tuesday, May 01, 2012
Sugar in the Raw: A Very Short Play About Something I Saw Today
CHARACTERS
Man: A man in his late thirties.
Woman: A woman in her late thirties.
TIME
The present.
SCENE
The kitchen of a corporate office. The Woman is stirring a cup of tea on the counter, by a rack displaying a colorful variety of sweetener packets. A cup of coffee and a gallon of milk sit on the counter a few feet away. A few feet farther still, the Man stands holding a second gallon of milk which he has just removed from the refrigerator.
Man (holding the milk and staring at the other milk on the counter): I already took out milk.
Woman: Hmm?
Man: What am I doing? I already have milk. I am losing my mind. (Opens the fridge and puts the second milk back on its shelf.) Donna, can you get me one of those Sugars in the Raw?
Woman: Sugar in the Raw?
Man (closing the refrigerator door): Um-hmm.
Woman (as she hands the Man a packet of Sugar in the Raw): My cousin’s husband designed the logo for this.
Man: Sugar in the—?
Woman: Raw. Yup.
Man: Raw. Wow.
Man: A man in his late thirties.
Woman: A woman in her late thirties.
TIME
The present.
SCENE
The kitchen of a corporate office. The Woman is stirring a cup of tea on the counter, by a rack displaying a colorful variety of sweetener packets. A cup of coffee and a gallon of milk sit on the counter a few feet away. A few feet farther still, the Man stands holding a second gallon of milk which he has just removed from the refrigerator.
Man (holding the milk and staring at the other milk on the counter): I already took out milk.
Woman: Hmm?
Man: What am I doing? I already have milk. I am losing my mind. (Opens the fridge and puts the second milk back on its shelf.) Donna, can you get me one of those Sugars in the Raw?
Woman: Sugar in the Raw?
Man (closing the refrigerator door): Um-hmm.
Woman (as she hands the Man a packet of Sugar in the Raw): My cousin’s husband designed the logo for this.
Man: Sugar in the—?
Woman: Raw. Yup.
Man: Raw. Wow.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Monday, April 16, 2012
Friday, April 13, 2012
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Q&A: Where You Can Find Me
Q: Where can I find you?
A: You can find me down the hall. Past the Pre-Action Valve Room. Pre-Action Valve. Past Rocco’s office. Past Rico’s.
Q: Past Rico’s office? Past Rocco’s office?
A: Rocco’s, then Rico’s. Go past Rocco’s. Go past Rico’s.
Q: And then the Pre-Action Valve Room?
A: Pre-Action Valve comes first. Pre-Action, Rocco, Rico.
Q: And then where are you?
A: I’m at the end of the hall.
A: You can find me down the hall. Past the Pre-Action Valve Room. Pre-Action Valve. Past Rocco’s office. Past Rico’s.
Q: Past Rico’s office? Past Rocco’s office?
A: Rocco’s, then Rico’s. Go past Rocco’s. Go past Rico’s.
Q: And then the Pre-Action Valve Room?
A: Pre-Action Valve comes first. Pre-Action, Rocco, Rico.
Q: And then where are you?
A: I’m at the end of the hall.
Labels:
Work
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
What Do You Remember?
I
remember the old College Restaurant, or the Campus Restaurant. Whatever
it was called. Downstairs and full of smoke. A crowded forest of
corduroyed legs.
I remember going to her German class. The teacher scary. Jet-black hair tied back. Wire frames and bright red lipstick. I might be making this up. We watched a slide show. Rolling Bavarian countryside.
And then what happened?
I don't know. We went home. I can only imagine we went home.
I remember going to her German class. The teacher scary. Jet-black hair tied back. Wire frames and bright red lipstick. I might be making this up. We watched a slide show. Rolling Bavarian countryside.
And then what happened?
I don't know. We went home. I can only imagine we went home.
Friday, April 06, 2012
Jesus, Like I'm Gonna Do That
It
was one of those stations where you still get reception, if you’re not
too far from the stairs. Late, late at night. A woman paced near me,
her phone clutched to her ear. This is what I overheard her say:
I still want to see you and I'm so pissed right now.
I'm an honest person!
Wait a minute wait a minute wait a minute wait a minute wait a minute wait wait wait wait wait wait wait—
Jesus, like I'm gonna do that.
I still want to see you and I'm so pissed right now.
I'm an honest person!
Wait a minute wait a minute wait a minute wait a minute wait a minute wait wait wait wait wait wait wait—
Jesus, like I'm gonna do that.
Labels:
Overheard,
The Subway
Tuesday, April 03, 2012
Drugs I've Worked On So Far
Aciphex
Activase
Aranesp
Arestin
Arixtra
Asmanex
Avastin
BeneFix
Boost
Botox
Brilinta
Celebrex
Copaxone
Dificid
Elaprase
Fanapt
Flector Patch
Flumist
Gardasil
Geodon
Gilenya
Humira
Isentress
Juvéderm
Levemir
Lucentis
Lyrica
Multaq
NovoLog
NuvaRing
ParaGard
PegIntron
Picato
Pneumovax 23
Pradaxa
Procrit
Rituxan
Saflutan/Zioptan
Saphris
Seroquel
Silenor
Sutent
Tamiflu
Tobi
Torisel
Tresiba
Victoza
Viramune
Xolair
Xyntha
Zelboraf
Zoely
Zostavax
Zyvox
Activase
Aranesp
Arestin
Arixtra
Asmanex
Avastin
BeneFix
Boost
Botox
Brilinta
Celebrex
Copaxone
Dificid
Elaprase
Fanapt
Flector Patch
Flumist
Gardasil
Geodon
Gilenya
Humira
Isentress
Juvéderm
Levemir
Lucentis
Lyrica
Multaq
NovoLog
NuvaRing
ParaGard
PegIntron
Picato
Pneumovax 23
Pradaxa
Procrit
Rituxan
Saflutan/Zioptan
Saphris
Seroquel
Silenor
Sutent
Tamiflu
Tobi
Torisel
Tresiba
Victoza
Viramune
Xolair
Xyntha
Zelboraf
Zoely
Zostavax
Zyvox
Monday, April 02, 2012
TROOPS
The effect of hegemonic masculinities on health decisions is
People are signing on in droves
Back to the lake
3 ways to spring into fun
People are signing on in droves
Back to the lake
3 ways to spring into fun
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