brioche for sandwiches | the doobie brothers’ black water | burning man | 3d movies | india pale ales | anxiety | rain (or maybe umbrellas?) | pizza with sesame-seeded crust | insincerity | the royal tenenbaums
He was a patient man, but after twelve years Arlo’d had enough. The shamelessness. And the chronic lateness. And the bailing. He’d had to train himself not to consider their plans confirmed until she was present and in his sights. So it was with great aggravation that he found himself sitting at the diner. Waiting for Casey. Again.
Thirty-seven minutes later, she exploded through the door of the diner. She was a bundle of bags (hand-, shopping, and messenger) and incognito accessories (headscarf, oversized sunglasses). After making her way over, she thomped into the brown vinyl booth and grabbed hold of her waiting, sweaty water glass. As Arlo watched the slivers of melting ice slosh at its surface, she caught her breath. In that last moment of quiet, Arlo tried to recall why they were friends in the first place. Failing that, he resigned to hoping the meeting would be brief. Soon, though, it was clear that instead of getting his (a) keys and (b) money back, he’d only receive a litany of excuses. Again.
“I know I’m late. It’s been a shitty week,” she began. “I really hoped not to have to get into it. And I totally have money for you.” Casey’s excuses were predictable and Arlo knew a “but” loomed. “But,” she delivered. “I was just getting cash. That shady ATM on Waverly? It kept saying, ‘Cannot complete transaction,’ or whatever. And, I don’t know, I guess I tried too many times and it wouldn’t spit out my card. And the bodega guys were not helpful.”
Bold, thought Arlo. A combination excuse, both portions of which were recent repeats. Her expressive, manipulating eyes searched for understanding, but fanned Arlo’s irritation instead. He looked down at his lukewarm coffee and stirred. “You really have uncanny bank luck,” he said flatly. Unmoved by — or impervious to — the passive aggression, she went on.
“Seriously. Now I have to wait, like, seven business days for a replacement. It’s so… inconvenient. And I feel awful, of course, because, I mean, I did have money for you. Do, I mean. Do have money.”
“It’s fine. Do you have the key? I want the neighbors to have it. For emergencies, you know. Making copies is weirdly expensive.” Arlo tried to move things along.
“Totally.” Casey dug into her cavernous bag, creating junk heaps on the table as she searched. Receipts, gum wrappers, a rumpled cardigan, wadded plastic bags, the cellophane-string-rectangle unmistakably torn from a pack of cigarettes, a worn copy of “The Alchemist” likely adopted from the street. “Got it.”
When she handed over the key with its now-dingy “Aloha from Maui” rainbow fob, Arlo knew he held in his hand all that he’d come for. He knew, and didn’t care, that he wouldn’t see the money again. Three hundred dollars was a fair price for this being their final interaction. Sure, twelve years of history was a lot to walk away from, but he was tired of the chore. And he already felt lighter at not letting guilt or obligation get the best of him. Not again, anyway.
I lived for 30 years with two brothers. And I’ve lived, now, for 6 with only one. The day my brother Victor died, one of the first things I thought about was what I would say when someone eventually asks me how many siblings I have. It’s a stupid detail. I knew that at the time. Yet, it has more or less been on my mind since that day.
I ran out of the hospital room Vic was in because, apparently, he was about to die. Now that I’ve had some time to think about it, I believe I’d ideally want all the people I love in the room with me when I die. But that day, I felt certain that Vic would want me to do whatever I want. I’m still not super sure which is right and I’ve come to terms with the fact that it really doesn’t matter at all. He was unconscious (whatever that really means) when it happened. I couldn’t watch anything involving a hospital on television for months. The blips and beeps and, especially, those long, lingering tones made my skin tingle and my bones ache.
As I headed back to the waiting room full of my extended family, I was texting my best friend. I wanted her to tell me I didn’t have to be in the room and she did. I didn’t get very far in my flight. Very soon after I walked out, my sister-in-law (not Vic’s widow) came for me. She, as most people do, felt I’d want to be there. But by the time I got back in, that tone was toning. And hysteria had already replaced fear as the prime force of the room. Everything was broken. No one in the room knew what they were anymore. Or how they could be something other than what they had been 1, 10, a thousand minutes earlier. A wife. Parents of 3 adult children. The oldest brother. A sister to 2. A medical resident caught by surprise.
We all cried – even the young doctor. We couldn’t have done anything else. Our minds and bodies shut down and the only thing we could produce were hot tears and short breath. But once I could, I fled again. I walked as far away from that part of my life as I could and found the closest outside I could escape to. It was a sunny day in October and I stood under a turning tree. Breathing, being mad that I could still breathe. Being confused. I sent a text letting people outside of the hospital know what had happened. I thought that was important.
I cried alone and thought about the new stain on everything. The clothes I was wearing. New Haven. Sunny fall days. All of these things would be a reminder of the Worst Thing That Ever Happened.
I started to feel bad about not thinking about my brother. His empty body and his full life. But, you know, when something that terrible happens I have to tell you, you don’t really have to go out of your way ot think about it.
After what she over-dramatically felt was a mouse infestation, our heroine moves back to Brooklyn from boisterous St. Mark’s Place. And while always thinking of herself as a ‘Brooklyn person,’ some Manhattan-derived affectations have settled in her during the seven years as a Manhattanite. The most lasting have to do with transportation: a) She eschews the subway whenever possible (she could walk or cheaply taxi everywhere, you see), and b) her fear of requesting taxis take her to Brooklyn returns from her earlier experiences in that metropolis. When these attitudes are freshest, our heroine finds herself in an Uber minivan, returning to her tony brownstone block, laden with several parcels from Whole Foods (another shameful Manhattan habit). The following is an account of that ride.
Heroine: Hey, how are you? I need to go to Wyckoff and Hoyt in Brooklyn. The Manhattan Bridge is usually best, I think.
Uber driver (UD) with unspecified accent that betrays that E is for sure an SL: Yes, of course. Tell me where to go.
Heroine, distractedly pulling out her phone to cycle through the social media channels she reviewed only minutes ago: Great.
The van enters the grand archway of the Manhattan Bridge.
UD: Excuse me, can I ask? My English is not so great. What is… uhn-uhl?
Heroine, looking up first at UD and then the majestic lower Manhattan skyline receding behind her: I’m sorry, what?
UD: This word, uhn-uhl. What is it?
Heroine: I’m sorry, I don’t know what word you’re saying.
UD: Uhn-uhl. It is spelling A-N-A-L.
Our heroine gasps and takes note of her precarious position in a moving vehicle with a stranger on a major metropolitan thoroughfare that is also a bridge.
Heroine: Um. Uh.
UD: So, you know this word?
Heroine, staring at driver and committing his side profile/visible facial features to memory: Well, okay. Yes. But I mean, there are a couple of meanings.
UD, his tone curious and frustrated with his ignorance of the matter: Like what? What is the meaning?
Heroine, more convinced of UD’s sincerity: Well, okay. So, one meaning is, like, say if a person is just very, very neat and clean. Like, maybe even so much that it’s annoying.
UD, still confused: Okay.
Heroine, now earnestly feeling for the guy as no one likes to be in the dark: Okay, so the other meaning is. Well, it’s, well, it’s anything to do with, you know, your butt.
UD, rapidly: MY BUTT?
Heroine, placatingly: Oh, well. I mean. Anyone’s butt.
UD, mortified, laughing nervously: Oh. Wow.
Heroine: Yup.
UD, still embarrassed, still laughing nervously: I am just divorcing and now dating. This lady on Facebook, she asks me, ‘Do you like uhn-uhl?’
Heroine: Ohh. That is nice of her to ask, I guess.
The remaining 9 minutes of the car ride are spent in complete silence. Upon arriving in front of our heroine’s brownstone, UD: Uh, thank you for the, uh, information.
Heroine: Oh, yeah. Sure. Well. Hey, good luck with that lady.
end scene
christopher nolan films (batmans excluded) | mayonnaise | the doors | the universal appeal of kyle maclachlan’s handsomeness | budweiser | haruki murakami | potatoes (fried varieties excluded) | that popcorn smell | fine tip pens
downstairs neighbors cook bacon >> smell wafts into my apartment >> “i am having a stroke”
inadvertently place watch face down >> tick is louder than usual >> “the walls are infested with rats”
sit awkwardly, leg folded under self >> leg falls asleep >> “i have tangled all important veins”
“It’s fine.”
He was mad. The channel through his hair – from repeatedly running his hands over his crown – was a telltale sign, and as he looked down it stared me in the face. He was wiping his glasses for the second time in 6 minutes. Another sign.
“If you’re annoyed, I really wish you’d just say so,” I said.
“You do not actually wish for that.”
For some reason, this amused me. As did the need he felt to correct me. As did my own to lie. I kept my mouth from smiling, but can never rein in my eyes. It would make things worse so I looked away. Down, too, through his glasses at the ghostly ketchup stain on his tie.
late night consumption of qdoba nachos | sleeping for > 9 hours (even – especially? – when broken up) | increased tolerance of stevie nicks/van halen/doobies | dancing when there is no dancing | poor tuesday crossword success rate | heavy reliance on uber and seamless web | near-daily shampooing | antisocial wearing of headphones whilst not actually listening to music | occasional use of word “whilst”
mobile phone conversations during in-person human interactions | umbrella abuse (e.g., inappropriate size, snow use, when unnecessary, etc.) | walking and smoking | heavy reliance on sarcasm | use of those blue flashlight cigarettes | singing along to headphones | comic sans | not dancing when there is dancing | not owning a tv | use of phrase “pardon my french” | late night consumption of qdoba nachos (up for review: could be personal problem)
When I got home from my pick-up game, my brother was sitting on the stoop. He was wearing this holey Flintstones t-shirt that everyone hates and the bad orange hat with a beer logo on it. Most of us hated that even more. As I crossed the street from the bus stop he smiled – maybe he had just told himself a joke, maybe, but not definitely, it was at my expense. I tried to look cool. I dribbled the ball as I walked and it only got away from me once. Well, twice. But I don’t think he saw the second time, so I was pretty happy with that.
There’s this picture of my family. We’re all on an airplane probably going to the Philippines. I can’t be more than a few months old. A year, tops. I’m propped up in a bassinet attached to the bulkhead. It seems dangerous, actually. My brothers, at the time 8 or 9 and 9 or 10, are making funny faces while being held as still as possible by our parents. They’re mid-squirm; they don’t want to be still. My parents don’t seem at all annoyed. They look happy and sort of smug. It’s impossible to tell how far along we are on that endless flight. Could be before takeoff. Could be 10 hours in. I can’t imagine there’d be no trace of aggravation in my parents’ faces, though, if we were that far in.
Anyway, even though I am basically an infant, I’m the only person in the picture who’s looking at the camera. I think that is significant in some way.