thoughts on the way to work

“Remember when that pigeon was pecking that other pigeon?”
“Um. . . yeah. . . .”
“Well, first he was walking around on the dead pigeon then he started eating him. . . .”
“Yeah, that was pretty gross.”

************

I sidestepped a furry patch on the pavement. It was a rat, most likely, before an unfortunate moment-- minutes or hours ago-- in the street where Clinton meets Houston.

I heard a long, loud list of angry obscenities across Spring, but didn’t turn my head, concentrating on Jack Johnson’s and Cat Stevens’ brilliant scoring of my walk to work.

Last night I saw a naked man roller-skate onto a stage-- more of a circus ring, really-- and my first thought was just, If I’d ever taken time to try to imagine a naked man roller-skating, that, I think, is what it would have looked like. . . . the physics, at least, if not the mohawk.

I’m just a drop sometimes, part of an underground stream capable of running up stairs before spewing onto the dirty sidewalk, eyes down-cast in order to avoid dead rats and dog poop, but, when happening to glance up, desensitized to the postcard skyline.

I don’t get asked for directions as often as I used to, but when I do, I can usually give them.

I’m not a New Yorker, I want to shout at the tourists in ugly sneakers, the bums, the F train, the three-hundred-dollar tee shirts, myself. I’m just a little girl from Georgia: witness to shooting stars so bright they must have landed just on the other side of the azalea hedge, where we should probably check in the morning; possessor of black soles, unable to recall the last time she wore shoes; creator of potent perfumes, made with the finest combination of macerated petals, sticks, dirt, and plastic-hose-water; explorer of magnolias, with rooms, big like houses; beneficiary of the night-time lullaby of frogs and crickets and the occasional train whistle.

I could be a New Yorker, most days.

I can believe it until I hear the whine of a 4- or 5-year-old child, sharp and whining, demanding of a parent or nanny that they not walk, but take a cab to their destination.

It’s a voice you’ll hear again in 15 or 20 years. It will be walking in front of you, having an indiscreet mobile conversation about an ex-best-friend’s recently acquired STD or at the next table over, discussing a mother’s most recent rehab attempt and failure. It will sound angry, even when it’s not.

It’s a voice I feel sorry for, making me wonder, In a place with no dirt driveways, where do you learn to ride a bike?


~beatrix

the chorus

I keep wishing the blossoms back on the trees.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older, then we wouldn’t have to wait so long.

That Beach Boys’ song came on today at work. I don’t think Brian Wilson* ever sang about the excitement of maybe starting a savings account together. Or apprehension at the possibility of your boyfriend getting a really amazing job in Philadelphia. Or worrying that you’ll never get your place on 6th street or 9th street and that everyone in Philadelphia will hate you and that all the jobs will be in cubicles.

. . . Maybe we could liiiiiiiive together. . . Oh, wouldn’t it beee niiiiice. . .


Sam says it’s the ultimate goal.
“What is?”
“Two people, one bedroom.”

They don’t even mention the part where you have to clear out some of your stuff so your boyfriend’s stuff will have a spot . Or how nice it will be to have both of your wardrobes in a central location. Or how all the logistics will be easier and whoever gets home first can start dinner. . . .

The Beach Boys are old now-- like Beach Grandpas****. In the late autumns of their lives, they probably aren’t wishing to be older, but instead wishing friends back into lives, lovers back into beds, babies back into play-pens, hair back onto heads, blossoms back onto trees.

I just want to be here for a while.



*not to be confused with my lover, and anchor of the NBC Nightly News, Brian Williams**

**not to be confused with my boyfriend, and MSNBC personality, Carl Quintanina***

***I have a thing for newsmen

****Wouldn’t it be nice if they were older and could live together in the same assisted living community?


~beatrix

happy holidays

Latkes and Hebrew Saturday night, my cousins’ Christmas concert at their church on Sunday, ‘cause we’re all being open and receptive around here.

He asks if I can sight read music. I could have pretended, but the song was Hark! the Herald Angels. Also, I was mostly just mouthing the words.

There was a truly awesome handbell choir.

Then we all sang Silent Night and lit candles and tried not to drip wax on each other since it is the holidays.

You have to blow out the candles sometime.

“It smells like Chanukah in here.”

His stage whisper deserved shushing. And I couldn’t help giggling and this religion thing might turn out to be an adventure.

I know I’ll miss him while I’m in Georgia with my family. He has to work and it was just impossible for him to come at all.

But he doesn’t say anything idiotic like “It will be fine.” or “It’s not so long.”

He says, “We’ll get through it.”


~beatrix

eternal fates

We were facing west, bright orange sunset glow all around us. Just the two of us, on the beach. When my mother told me,

“Just. . . please don’t marry a Jewish boy.”

She asked, really.

I must have been twenty. Growing up in a town with two temples, I had three Jewish friends, had attended a single Bat Mitzvah, and had two Jewish acquaintances from my ballet studio I probably would have counted as enemies if they’d ever acknowledged my existence. But now I was going to a college that was one-third Catholic, one-third Jewish, and one-third Other. I’m pretty sure I’d never been Other before.

A family friend a few years older than me had recently gotten married and converted, and my mom was concerned about the eternal fates of the souls of her unborn grandchildren.

I’m pretty sure I didn’t make any promises.

So the Jew thing doesn’t throw me, even though he might not love questions like, “If you’re kosher, is it ok to eat chicken with eggs?” (I’d been wondering that for a while.) And I’m doing a pretty good job of ignoring the fact that he’s 25 because he’s almost 26. And anyway, he’s cute enough and clever enough, and it’s just for fun.

“Did you ever play an instrument?”
“Flute in middle school band. And I can, like, play a song on a piano. How ’bout you?”
“I played clarinet.”

It’s this that stops me in my tracks. I think he’s joking, this boy who has access to so many of my secrets. I don’t believe him at first, but when I realize he’s serious, I’m disappointed.

“What’s wrong?”
“It’s just. . . that’s sort of a dealbreaker.”

He must think I’m joking.

I fall asleep, all wrapped up in his arms, mumbling something about just wanting to find a nice WASPy boy who plays something like. . . a trumpet.

~beatrix