Bambi, Scarlett, Stanley and I sat around a table, diplomatically discussing people, the day's events, our life-challenges and philosophies. We tipped back beers and Tin House Martinis (which should be called "TinTinis"); we reveled in the afternoon sun and first of several conveniently scheduled happy hours. Not one of us--four intellectual poets at the Tin House Writers' Workshop--spoke a word about feminine hygiene and maintenance. It was Jimmy, intrepid vagabond, who introduced such issues to our discourse.
"Can I clear off this table?" He asked, gesturing toward the recklessly abandoned round table beside ours.
Where did he come from? was the look on each of our faces.
"Sure, go ahead." I called out. I wondered if he intended to collect the bottles to create interesting art projects. Perhaps he wanted to deposit them and use the money for his new cape.
Did I mention he wore a cape? It was actually a lightweight blanket with carefully sewn arm holes, fashioned as a summer shawl of sorts. It was a tailor's feat well-executed. I was impressed.
Arms full of bottles, he wandered toward the garbage area. "His name is Jimmy," I declared as he hobbled off. Bambi, Stanley, and Scarlett unquestioningly nodded.
"Hey, you know, they don't take their time with Pap smears." Suddenly, Jimmy sidled up to our table with gynecological tidbits to share.
The other three women looked at each other. Always sangfroid when faced with such situations, Stanley calmly replied, eyebrow slightly raised, "Well, that's ... true."
"It is true. It's absolutely true. They don't take their time. They don't look carefully at them." Jimmy had his facts.
"And they should take their time. That HPV is killing women." I thought we should broaden the conversation rather than harp on the same point.
"Yeah, that Gardasil vaccine. I've heard mixed things about it," said Bambi. Jimmy walked away again, distracted by a writer at a neighboring table who wore a poncho. Jimmy would not be outdone.
"Well, I got the first two shots, and I can't wait to get the third one. It's a big deal." Now I was serious about this Pap smear issue.
Scarlett nodded her head, threw it back, and laughed at our somber tone in light of the ambiguously homeless stranger with the cape. Bambi and I locked into a discussion about side effects/deaths linked to the Gardasil.
"I'm scared, I don't know. I've heard that people die from it." Bambi brought interesting ideas to the table.
"I knew someone. She died. She died because they didn't look carefully enough." Suddenly, Jimmy had a lot to say about death and dying, and the vaginal experience. Again, where did he come from? Scarlett glanced between the other two women and I, began laughing.
There was silence. "She had that cervical cancer. By the time they figured it out, she had to decide whether she wanted to live or if she wanted her baby to live. She died. She died because they didn't look carefully enough."
Okay.
Scarlett looked at me and I almost broke down, laughing. Luckily I didn't. Not before Jimmy wandered off again.
Once he left, we wondered what just happened. Two minutes later, I looked toward the bar building.
"Hey, what are those security guards doing talking to Jimmy?" I was concerned for his welfare. Would they take his cape?
Stanley noticed something we hadn't seen when he hovered over our table. "Does he have a crossbow? And is he carrying a yoga mat?"
Yes. Yes he was and yes he did. Jimmy sported a lovely stole with a yoga mat slung over his right shoulder and a crossbow facing front. A man must accessorize.
Another security guard joined their small meeting. Jimmy looked as though he had everything under control.
Fellow poet, Young'N (she's a rapper from MO), observed, "I heard him [she meant Jimmy] say to the security guard that he was wondering where he could get a resume."
That settled it. Job-hunting Jimmy graced us with his presence (and infinite gynecological wisdom) in pursuit of a job. Perhaps he hopes to become a community organizer. Or peer educator.
I've always had this philosophy: If you're trying to get someone to believe in what you're talking about, a crossbow never hurt.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
No Rest for the Devil
Today's my birthday. Minor detail in the scheme of things, but relevant to this story nonetheless.
One of my great friends, Grandma Sitay, offered to take me for a slice of pizza at the ever-popular Artichoke on 14th St. Lucky us, August 18th fell on a Monday this year so we grabbed the opportunity to stake out the pizzeria known for avenue-wide lines.
She works in the Rockefeller Center area, one of my least favorite parts of Manhattan due to its disturbing tourist-to-native ratio. We met on 50th Street and 6th Avenue, site of a famous Rosemary's Baby scene, where we discussed our transportation options.
"How should we get there?" Grandma Sitay asked, glancing around our environs, the numerous Europeans posing for pictures in front of Radio City Music Hall.
"I know! I have a brilliant idea. Let's take the NRW to get us farther east on 14th." I always have brilliant ideas about subway travel. You'll see why.
"Sure, that's fine." Grandma Sitay trusted my instincts. Something she'll never ever do again.
We wandered over to 49th and 7th to pick up the NRW. As we stood safely between the two white parallel lines, waiting to cross 7th Avenue, a woman stumbled past Grandma Sitay, slightly knocking into her. She called out, "Oops, I'm sorry, sweetie." So appreciative of this kind gesture, G. Sitay double-taked, asking, "Did she just call me 'sweetie'?" We both reveled in the moment of rare human connection and crossed the street, Times Square's flashing lights twinkling in our peripheral view.
This will be an unbeatable night, I thought. Everyone is excited for my birthday.
What a foolish notion.
The N train came to a halting stop at 49th Street and we boarded the last car, which was full, uncomfortable, a hot mess. We stood near the door, grasping the overhead bar to keep our balance. There was chit chat and silence, and I lost track of stops.
One brave soul decided it was time to split and pushed her way up out of her cozy bench seat, freeing herself from the chaotic sub-atmosphere. G. Sitay comfortably slipped into the woman's spot. Once G. Sitay was firmly placed on the bench, I sat beside her.
A tall, thin white woman - who we''ll call Rosemary's Baby - sidled up toward me as I took my place next to G. Sitay. Did she want my seat? I couldn't tell.
Two seconds later Rosemary's Baby aggressively shoved her size 0 body into the narrow space between G. Sitay, a pole, and an unsuspecting woman named Lonnie (my name for her). Lonnie squirmed in her seat as Rosemary's Baby wiggled in, thrashing her hips back and forth to create a space for her thin, lanky frame.
I couldn't help but laugh. There wasn't any room for Rosemary's Baby between Lonnie and G. Sitay. What is this lady doing? Was anyone else watching this shit?
Rosemary's Baby wildly opened and closed her free copy of the New York Post (the Devil's paper), a scared, blind sea gull flapping its way out of a nasty tar spill. (But much funnier.) I pressed up against the woman to my right, Gretel, as Rosemary's Baby pushed G. Sitay out of her space.
A few breathless seconds passed and Rosemary's Baby sprung from her contortion and leapt to her feet. Deep crimson hues shot up from her toes to her face. She was as red as a raspberry, which is more pink or magenta (wouldn't you say?).
"SEE, I GOT UP DIDN'T I?" Rosemary's Baby yelled into G. Sitay's face, a dybbuk's spirit possessing her voice and violent motions. As if G. Sitay did or said anything at all.
We were all silent. Lonnie, Gretel, G. Sitay and I.
Thank goodness I focused on the unusual facial hair of another subway rider (a woman named Augustina). Otherwise I may have burst into unbridled laughter. I twisted my face to make a somber smirk, unable to draw a thin line of New-York-apathy across my lips. I think Rosemary's Baby noticed. But I DON'T CARE because Rosemary's Baby got problems and Rosemary's Baby should try lithium. I hear it works wonders.
A distant voice announced: "14th Street, Union Square, Transfer to the 4, 5, 6 ..."
"THIS IS OUR STOP. LET'S GO. NOW!!!!" I pushed past tourists, hoping G. Sitay would grab onto my hand, shoulder, hair, skirt, shirt, anything to safely follow me out of the Devil's lair. We made it. We're alive. Rosemary's Baby stayed beneath. Where she belongs.
So here's the bottom line: MTA - PLEASE QUIT PUTTING BLANK, UNFORMED BENCHES IN YOUR SUBWAY CARS. We need lines, we need divisions, parameters! Give me seats, or give me death! Because death is exactly what it may come to next time we go downtown.
The end. (Applause)
PS The pizza was a-m-a-z-i-n-g. Try the artichoke slice. Tell Artie I sent ya.
One of my great friends, Grandma Sitay, offered to take me for a slice of pizza at the ever-popular Artichoke on 14th St. Lucky us, August 18th fell on a Monday this year so we grabbed the opportunity to stake out the pizzeria known for avenue-wide lines.
She works in the Rockefeller Center area, one of my least favorite parts of Manhattan due to its disturbing tourist-to-native ratio. We met on 50th Street and 6th Avenue, site of a famous Rosemary's Baby scene, where we discussed our transportation options.
"How should we get there?" Grandma Sitay asked, glancing around our environs, the numerous Europeans posing for pictures in front of Radio City Music Hall.
"I know! I have a brilliant idea. Let's take the NRW to get us farther east on 14th." I always have brilliant ideas about subway travel. You'll see why.
"Sure, that's fine." Grandma Sitay trusted my instincts. Something she'll never ever do again.
We wandered over to 49th and 7th to pick up the NRW. As we stood safely between the two white parallel lines, waiting to cross 7th Avenue, a woman stumbled past Grandma Sitay, slightly knocking into her. She called out, "Oops, I'm sorry, sweetie." So appreciative of this kind gesture, G. Sitay double-taked, asking, "Did she just call me 'sweetie'?" We both reveled in the moment of rare human connection and crossed the street, Times Square's flashing lights twinkling in our peripheral view.
This will be an unbeatable night, I thought. Everyone is excited for my birthday.
What a foolish notion.
The N train came to a halting stop at 49th Street and we boarded the last car, which was full, uncomfortable, a hot mess. We stood near the door, grasping the overhead bar to keep our balance. There was chit chat and silence, and I lost track of stops.
One brave soul decided it was time to split and pushed her way up out of her cozy bench seat, freeing herself from the chaotic sub-atmosphere. G. Sitay comfortably slipped into the woman's spot. Once G. Sitay was firmly placed on the bench, I sat beside her.
A tall, thin white woman - who we''ll call Rosemary's Baby - sidled up toward me as I took my place next to G. Sitay. Did she want my seat? I couldn't tell.
Two seconds later Rosemary's Baby aggressively shoved her size 0 body into the narrow space between G. Sitay, a pole, and an unsuspecting woman named Lonnie (my name for her). Lonnie squirmed in her seat as Rosemary's Baby wiggled in, thrashing her hips back and forth to create a space for her thin, lanky frame.
I couldn't help but laugh. There wasn't any room for Rosemary's Baby between Lonnie and G. Sitay. What is this lady doing? Was anyone else watching this shit?
Rosemary's Baby wildly opened and closed her free copy of the New York Post (the Devil's paper), a scared, blind sea gull flapping its way out of a nasty tar spill. (But much funnier.) I pressed up against the woman to my right, Gretel, as Rosemary's Baby pushed G. Sitay out of her space.
A few breathless seconds passed and Rosemary's Baby sprung from her contortion and leapt to her feet. Deep crimson hues shot up from her toes to her face. She was as red as a raspberry, which is more pink or magenta (wouldn't you say?).
"SEE, I GOT UP DIDN'T I?" Rosemary's Baby yelled into G. Sitay's face, a dybbuk's spirit possessing her voice and violent motions. As if G. Sitay did or said anything at all.
We were all silent. Lonnie, Gretel, G. Sitay and I.
Thank goodness I focused on the unusual facial hair of another subway rider (a woman named Augustina). Otherwise I may have burst into unbridled laughter. I twisted my face to make a somber smirk, unable to draw a thin line of New-York-apathy across my lips. I think Rosemary's Baby noticed. But I DON'T CARE because Rosemary's Baby got problems and Rosemary's Baby should try lithium. I hear it works wonders.
A distant voice announced: "14th Street, Union Square, Transfer to the 4, 5, 6 ..."
"THIS IS OUR STOP. LET'S GO. NOW!!!!" I pushed past tourists, hoping G. Sitay would grab onto my hand, shoulder, hair, skirt, shirt, anything to safely follow me out of the Devil's lair. We made it. We're alive. Rosemary's Baby stayed beneath. Where she belongs.
So here's the bottom line: MTA - PLEASE QUIT PUTTING BLANK, UNFORMED BENCHES IN YOUR SUBWAY CARS. We need lines, we need divisions, parameters! Give me seats, or give me death! Because death is exactly what it may come to next time we go downtown.
The end. (Applause)
PS The pizza was a-m-a-z-i-n-g. Try the artichoke slice. Tell Artie I sent ya.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Starbucks 2.1 - Any suggestions for where I can write?
I am very disturbed.
To the point where I am having trouble falling asleep. Now, I don't want to keep you awake but I imagine you'll read this over AM coffee and boring work tasks. A little ruffling of feathers never hurt that regime.
Tonight I went to Starbucks to write. This time I opted for the 96th/Broadway fixture, with high hopes of avoiding the string of weirdos at the next express stop.
Well, apparently I need to choose a Sbuck (as I'll refer to it) at a local stop.
7:00 PM
As I happily type away on my computer, listening to the new Conor Oberst cd, which you should buy when you're done reading this entry, I watch customers come and go, talking of Michelangelo among other topics - usually not in English. I turn up the volume, drown out their noise, and carry on, thinking of smart metaphors and turns of phrase to aptly capture my subject.
Half-way through the CD, I hear a man's voice directed at me.
"What kind of computer is that? What is it? A fluff book?" He says, startling me.
"Um..." I am taken by his appearance. He is not ambiguously homeless, unlike Kenny. There is a direct, explicit quality about his homelessness that shines through his wooden teeth and stained clothing.
His stare demands a response.
"Um, it's a MacBook Pro." Why am I talking to him?
"Oh, what's the processor? A dual processor?" Interested in computers, I see.
"Uh, um." I am genuinely fearful of him, but remove only one earbud to indicate I intend to end this conversation sometime before the song I'm listening to ends.
"You don't know."
"No, um, it's dual processor. I don't know." Do I not know? Why I am talking to him is what I don't know.
"Okay." He waves his hand at me, saying, You're dumb and bought a computer you know nothing about.
I return to my music, shaken up, but he walks behind my chair to plug in his power cord.
7:30 PM
"I got to charge it up." He's talking about his laptop that he's pulled out of a Duane Reade shopping bag. I notice a few speakers in the bag as well. Capacious.
"Right." As he's moving behind me, he looks over my shoulder to read what I'm writing and makes a face at me, close to mine, then bends to insert his cord into the wall. He knocks my adapter out in the process.
"Oh! I'm SO sorry! That was so rude of me." Exclamatory is he. There's no need for embellishing on my part (!).
"It's fine. You didn't mean to do it." Stern at first, then soft, sympathetic.
"It's just so rude to do that. I really didn't mean to." He didn't mean to. He means to keep talking to me.
"Don't worry about it." Like we're old friends.
"What's your name?" Here we go again.
"Nicole." Genevieve should have been tonight's alias.
"Nice. Do you come here often? Yeah, you come here often. I can tell. You got a boyfriend?"
He knows so much about me. Already. "I come here every now and then" - intermittent reinforcement for his stalking - "and I don't have a boyfriend. That's probably why I'm here right now."
I laugh to myself. He doesn't think it's funny. He stares into me, through me with his big blue eyes. As we're "talking," a woman friend of his, with an equally horrifying dental situation, brings him a venti tea. He chides her for placing it on the table with his valuable hardware.
"I've been working in computers since 1983." So he knows a lot about them.
"Oh yeah?" I shut down my computer.
"Yeah, an insurance company I worked for. I could have sued them but I didn't. I'm not someone to do that. Know what I mean?"
"I do. It's a morality thing." Remove the adapter from the wall.
"Exactly. It probably wouldn't have made a difference to them, but for me, it felt like something I couldn't bring myself to do."
"I totally understand what you're saying." Adapter in the bag, velcro crunch, pocket sealed.
"You should listen to this song about changing the world. I wish politicians would follow it." He's one to follow the important issues.
"Oh, I will sometime. Thanks." Laptop in the bag.
"You like the band Tool? Nine Inch Nails?"
"I've heard of them." Zipper - zoot! - bag shut.
"There's this song I have on my computer. Let me play it for you." He opens the file and attaches his speakers to the computer. "They won't mind." He points to the baristas behind the counter who are chatting about their love lives.
"What's your name again?"
Genevieve. "Nicole. What's yours?"
"My name's only for friends, but I don't have any of them." Then who is the lady you're sitting with, buddy? "It's Tom." He smiles.
"Nice to meet you." A quick smile. I don't extend my hand or fantasize about blending it in someone's frappaccino.
My tote full of personal items is on the table, ready for lift off. The laptop bag is already slung across my chest.
"Sure, play it."
On his screen, Trent Reznor, ball of sunshine that he is, appears, suspended in a cloudy sky. Music wells around him. His dark precise facial hair contrasts his pale face. The camera cuts to a large bird with giant ugly claws and big blinking eyes. Then some woman, part of Trent's sexist fantasy, writhes on a couch, clothed or not. I am too lost in my escape plan to notice the minute details of this presentation. Trent sings something like, "I want to be with you. I want you."
During the two minutes of this spectacle, I've become increasingly anxiety-ridden, looking around at the people in the Sbuck, who all seem to think this is the usual for Tuesday nights.
"Nicole, this is what I want to say to you. What he's saying right now." He's referring to the NIN lullaby chorus about "wanting you."
Jaw drops, nausea begins. Luckily, a barista, done talking about her boyfriend, intervenes, telling Tom to turn the music off.
"You got this Enya crap going on in here. I don't know how you can stand it all day. What's next? Tony Bennett," he yells at her across the room as she sweeps the floor.
This is my opportunity to leave, so I grab it and shake it like an infant, run the hell out of there. On my trip home, I feel paranoid that Tom is following me. I am up tonight because I can't shake this man's stare.
Good night?
To the point where I am having trouble falling asleep. Now, I don't want to keep you awake but I imagine you'll read this over AM coffee and boring work tasks. A little ruffling of feathers never hurt that regime.
Tonight I went to Starbucks to write. This time I opted for the 96th/Broadway fixture, with high hopes of avoiding the string of weirdos at the next express stop.
Well, apparently I need to choose a Sbuck (as I'll refer to it) at a local stop.
7:00 PM
As I happily type away on my computer, listening to the new Conor Oberst cd, which you should buy when you're done reading this entry, I watch customers come and go, talking of Michelangelo among other topics - usually not in English. I turn up the volume, drown out their noise, and carry on, thinking of smart metaphors and turns of phrase to aptly capture my subject.
Half-way through the CD, I hear a man's voice directed at me.
"What kind of computer is that? What is it? A fluff book?" He says, startling me.
"Um..." I am taken by his appearance. He is not ambiguously homeless, unlike Kenny. There is a direct, explicit quality about his homelessness that shines through his wooden teeth and stained clothing.
His stare demands a response.
"Um, it's a MacBook Pro." Why am I talking to him?
"Oh, what's the processor? A dual processor?" Interested in computers, I see.
"Uh, um." I am genuinely fearful of him, but remove only one earbud to indicate I intend to end this conversation sometime before the song I'm listening to ends.
"You don't know."
"No, um, it's dual processor. I don't know." Do I not know? Why I am talking to him is what I don't know.
"Okay." He waves his hand at me, saying, You're dumb and bought a computer you know nothing about.
I return to my music, shaken up, but he walks behind my chair to plug in his power cord.
7:30 PM
"I got to charge it up." He's talking about his laptop that he's pulled out of a Duane Reade shopping bag. I notice a few speakers in the bag as well. Capacious.
"Right." As he's moving behind me, he looks over my shoulder to read what I'm writing and makes a face at me, close to mine, then bends to insert his cord into the wall. He knocks my adapter out in the process.
"Oh! I'm SO sorry! That was so rude of me." Exclamatory is he. There's no need for embellishing on my part (!).
"It's fine. You didn't mean to do it." Stern at first, then soft, sympathetic.
"It's just so rude to do that. I really didn't mean to." He didn't mean to. He means to keep talking to me.
"Don't worry about it." Like we're old friends.
"What's your name?" Here we go again.
"Nicole." Genevieve should have been tonight's alias.
"Nice. Do you come here often? Yeah, you come here often. I can tell. You got a boyfriend?"
He knows so much about me. Already. "I come here every now and then" - intermittent reinforcement for his stalking - "and I don't have a boyfriend. That's probably why I'm here right now."
I laugh to myself. He doesn't think it's funny. He stares into me, through me with his big blue eyes. As we're "talking," a woman friend of his, with an equally horrifying dental situation, brings him a venti tea. He chides her for placing it on the table with his valuable hardware.
"I've been working in computers since 1983." So he knows a lot about them.
"Oh yeah?" I shut down my computer.
"Yeah, an insurance company I worked for. I could have sued them but I didn't. I'm not someone to do that. Know what I mean?"
"I do. It's a morality thing." Remove the adapter from the wall.
"Exactly. It probably wouldn't have made a difference to them, but for me, it felt like something I couldn't bring myself to do."
"I totally understand what you're saying." Adapter in the bag, velcro crunch, pocket sealed.
"You should listen to this song about changing the world. I wish politicians would follow it." He's one to follow the important issues.
"Oh, I will sometime. Thanks." Laptop in the bag.
"You like the band Tool? Nine Inch Nails?"
"I've heard of them." Zipper - zoot! - bag shut.
"There's this song I have on my computer. Let me play it for you." He opens the file and attaches his speakers to the computer. "They won't mind." He points to the baristas behind the counter who are chatting about their love lives.
"What's your name again?"
Genevieve. "Nicole. What's yours?"
"My name's only for friends, but I don't have any of them." Then who is the lady you're sitting with, buddy? "It's Tom." He smiles.
"Nice to meet you." A quick smile. I don't extend my hand or fantasize about blending it in someone's frappaccino.
My tote full of personal items is on the table, ready for lift off. The laptop bag is already slung across my chest.
"Sure, play it."
On his screen, Trent Reznor, ball of sunshine that he is, appears, suspended in a cloudy sky. Music wells around him. His dark precise facial hair contrasts his pale face. The camera cuts to a large bird with giant ugly claws and big blinking eyes. Then some woman, part of Trent's sexist fantasy, writhes on a couch, clothed or not. I am too lost in my escape plan to notice the minute details of this presentation. Trent sings something like, "I want to be with you. I want you."
During the two minutes of this spectacle, I've become increasingly anxiety-ridden, looking around at the people in the Sbuck, who all seem to think this is the usual for Tuesday nights.
"Nicole, this is what I want to say to you. What he's saying right now." He's referring to the NIN lullaby chorus about "wanting you."
Jaw drops, nausea begins. Luckily, a barista, done talking about her boyfriend, intervenes, telling Tom to turn the music off.
"You got this Enya crap going on in here. I don't know how you can stand it all day. What's next? Tony Bennett," he yells at her across the room as she sweeps the floor.
This is my opportunity to leave, so I grab it and shake it like an infant, run the hell out of there. On my trip home, I feel paranoid that Tom is following me. I am up tonight because I can't shake this man's stare.
Good night?
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