We passed Symphony Hall. It's a very nice place. I've seen a few performances there. Last year I saw this rather elaborate piece that had a chorus in addition to a full orchestra. They had a woman pop out of doors above the crowd like a cuckoo clock. There are doors in the rafters I never noticed before, that they must reserve for that rare musical moment that requires such vocal placement. In the same show, there were also singers in the upper balcony, and they stood from the crowd and sang their part, then sat down and disappeared among the audience.
This show was the first time I paid attention to the conductor. The maestro. I was sitting second row, and I witnessed his antics. He was quite animated: gesturing and swaying and pausing and pointing. I've always wondered if he is really necessary. I mean, these are accomplished musicians, and they do have the sheet music in front of them. Since I really don't know much about it, I'll assume the conductor is necessary. Sometimes, I would think that his motions would be distracting.
I stepped off the bus and crossed the street entering the restaurant. It was filled with tourists, and out of the city folks like E, who thought it was a hip place to be. I found the mementos in it to be unimpressive.
They were playing horrible Eighties songs, and I waited and sang along. I waited. And I waited. Just as I was getting angry and was about to leave, E came busting through the door, wearing a dress and tall leather boots. All was forgiven.
She sat next to me at the bar. We ordered some awful food, and while we waited, she batted her pretty eyes, and smiled at me. I told her I really liked her boots. She hoisted a leg onto the bar, stretching it out in full, stroking it with one of her pretty, plump hands. I wanted to run my hand along her thigh, but I was too dizzy to move.
We ate and talked without pause, and then we left to go see my artist friend's open house.
E complimented me on my cashmere coat as I got into her car. She drove and played the radio very loud. I asked her many times if I could drive her car. She always said no.
We got to my neighborhood, and parked in front of my artist friend's building. The night helped hide the unattractiveness of the street, but there was no denying that we weren't in Kansas anymore. I told E to make sure and lock her car. She said it would be fine and left her window rolled down.
The atmosphere was festive inside. We climbed the cement stairs to my friend's floor, and made our way among the artwork, many of which were grand in scale and design. Several of the artists' apartments were open and converted into mini stores, with each selling their work. I remember one that dealt with woodcarvings, and another place had large mechanical people. I met my friend near the wine and cheese table, and introduced her to E, who surprised me by carrying on a very normal conversation.
Before we left, I took her to the far corner of the floor and showed her my favorite pieces. They were large grotesque figures that reminded me of Mardi Gras. They depicted urbanites with extreme attitudes. There was a spiky-hair punk with a dog collar. He was baring his teeth, and had fists clenched, ready to rumble. There was a bust of a woman in progress, and it was lying on its back on the floor. E saw it, and informed me that she could do that as well, and she laid down and arched her back, keeping both her feet and hands flat. It was a truly impressive pose, and as I thought of many things, she stood, took my hand, and led me outside to her car.
She wanted to know what was next and I asked her if she wanted to see my place. We drove a few blocks and parked again among the trash and graffiti. We walked to my apartment, and E took my arm. She leaned her head against my shoulder. I guess she was trying to create a romantic mood. But in all honesty, it is hard to feel romantic while you are trying to keep an eye out for dog crap on the sidewalk and step over piles of trash.
When we got inside my apartment, I could tell my roommate was home. All my fantasies popped liked soap bubbles. I led E into the front room. She sat on the sofa, and I got her a beer. My roommate and E talked about this and that, mostly about the difference between old money and new money people. They are both from old money people.
My roommate invited us to join her and two of her friends, who also come from old money people, at the bar across the street, and we did. The place is cool. It has chairs that have bases made from large pieces of metal that are formed like big springs. While you're drinking you sit and bounce. I didn't sit on one of those chairs. I sat in a booth. E sat next to me with her arm around my waist.
My roommate's friends were quite nice. They are two white men from the East coast who have the same first name, and they differentiate from one another by the nicknames of Big and Little.
As I walked E back to her car, she had her arm in mine and her head on my shoulder again. Like I said, this isn't the most romantic neighborhood. In fact, I barely missed being doused with a cup of water some brat poured out of a window as we walked by his house.
eight
It's another Monday after five. I'm sitting in the employee lounge where I work, contemplating the day that passed, and the journey home. A few noisy talkers from another department are sitting across from me, and I'm trying to ignore them. What I'm about to say makes me sick. Quite literally, my stomach is churning, and I'm not sure I can keep down the candy and coffee I had as a snack.
Today I had a flicker of forgiveness for my ex, and I e-mailed her a joke that I thought she would like. I'll probably regret it. As painful as this whole experience has been, I have to admit breaking up took a lot of nerve, or whatever you wanna call it, on her behalf. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to vomit.
I'm walking on the sunny side of Market Street. It's ten o' clock in the morning and it's my first break of the day. I plan to go to the British music store, buy a blank tape, stop by the deli a few doors down from my work, and buy a bagel and apple for lunch, all within my allotted time.
The tourists are lined to ride the cable car at the base of Powell Street and the local freaks are working them for change. There is the Bad Silver Man. The Good Silver Man was cool. He was completely silver: silver hair, skin, glasses, clothes, gloves. He stood like a statue and people gave him money. Unlike the Good Silver Man, who attracted his fans into giving money on their own accord, the Bad Silver Man roams among the crowd asking for spare change.
The Sock Puppet Lady sits at the base of one of the transplanted trees and has her sock puppet sing gospel songs. The Sock Puppet Lady is white. She is missing teeth and has black sunken eyes. She is probably a better singer than her sock puppet.
The Repentance Twins stand with their hands in their pockets, discussing the sad state of affairs. They wear old time sandwich board-type signs on their front and backs, proclaiming, fallen is Babylon. My guess is these guys haven't been laid in years.
I pass a few clothes stores, and notice the guy that usually offers Tarot card readings is selling some kind of funky ceramic globs. He usually has a blanket laid on the sidewalk with a plastic milk crate, showing his Tarot cards fanned on top. The ceramic globs he has for sale today look like multi-colored apple fritters or cowpies.
The reason I ventured out at this time, is that the foot traffic is light. When I come out at lunch, walking is like an Olympic event: synchronized body weaving.
I enter the British music store, and there is a dirty homeless man listening to the headphones attached to one of the listening posts. He is movin' and groovin' to the music. The cd featured at the listening station is a compilation put together by the record store under the heading of songs for Gay Pride. The cd cover features figures that you typically see on top of wedding cakes. The figures are paired same sex. It's funny, but the homeless guy doesn't look gay.
I buy my blank tape and leave the store, walking over to the shady side of Market Street. The department store that sponsors the turkey day parade has two huge pots in the window. They are about the size of baby hippos. I can't make out the price, but I bet they are expensive. The kiln that glazed them must have been the size of a bus.
I see pretty girls say hello to the Hom
eless Pet People. One Homeless Pet Person has two orange tabbies rolled in a blanket, and one has two dogs on leashes strapped to a shopping cart. Next to them, in a rusty news rack, there is a local adult service newspaper whose headline reads, "I Was A Sultans Love Slave."
I'm on my block, and I pass the working moms standing in front of the trade school next to the Social Security office. The ones in the medical classes wear blue hospital scrubs. I see some cuties once in a while.
I get a bagel and an apple from the deli next door to the theater where I saw the vampire movie. The apple selection is poor. Most are badly bruised, but I manage to find one that's edible.
On my way back to the floor where I work, I notice a lip print on the elevator door of a dirty red kiss. Boy, somebody must really love this place.
There's one thing about being poor, or at least living with the poor people like I do, and that is, it's hard to get good food. When I say good food, I mean food that's good for you, healthy food, like fresh fruits, vegetables, and breads.
There are two stores on my block, appropriately enough, one on each of the corners at the opposite ends of the street. There's the one where they try to short change you and cheat you, and there's the one where they don't try to short change you and cheat you.
The store that tries to cheat you is better stocked than the one that doesn't try to cheat you. They carry man magazines, household items, cold pills, and crack lighters, along with the standard overpriced dry goods. Sometimes they have apples, bananas, tomatoes, and onions, but they go quickly. I don't like this corner store. It costs ten dollars to use the ATM they have by the register.
Every once and a while, I'll buy a pack of gum or an apple from this place. The guys that work there are Phonies. They call me "Buddy" when I make one of my measly purchases. I buy small there, so I know they aren't double charging me. My roommate is always being taken by them. She'll come home and look over her receipt and find that the Phonies have charged her at least twice for something, sometimes more. I've told her not to shop there, but she said she really doesn't have a choice, because the real grocery store is far away, and the corner store that doesn't try to cheat you doesn't have anything.
It's true. The corner store that doesn't try to cheat you doesn't have anything. It's run by a young brown husband and wife, who keep their baby inside a playpen in the store. I like the wife. She is pretty and friendly. Sometimes, I'll buy something there in an effort to put together a dinner.
I've discovered rice and apples. Today I bought a can of ravioli and a few limes. I ate the limes like you'd eat an orange in order to have Vitamin C. They also carry good breakfast-type buns there for only ten cents, and I buy them too. I don't like the husband. He's another Phony.
I was raised that you took your car to the supermarket once a week, bought what you needed, stashed it away in your fridge and cupboards, and you were set. I always had plenty to eat. But now that I'm not an American, and don't have a car, it's a lot harder to eat. I try to go to the supermarket once a week on my way home from work and buy good food to last all week. I now buy powdered milk, because milk in a carton or jug is too heavy to carry home.
nine
I spent the Fourth of July walking. First, to and from the soccer stadium where my friend and I went to see the semi-final match of the women's world cup. It was packed with nubile young white women in halter-tops. Our team won the soccer match, and they made me feel proud. The other team was more talented, and handled the ball with more style, but our team won with sheer hard work and guts.
My friend let me drive his car, and after the match, I stopped at the grocery store in order to get some money from the ATM. I paid him for the ticket. Then, I went to the golden arches. I wanted a big hamburger, fries, and a soda. I refrained from using the ketchup dispenser, because a dirty homeless man was guarding it for someone as he danced to the music playing overhead.
I was completely exhausted when I got home, and resigned myself to staying in and watching the fireworks on television. But, when the sun went down and it got dark, I was itchy to go out, so I got dressed and left.
They definitely do the Fourth of July right in my neighborhood. As I walked to the subway station, I passed countless groups of brown people igniting impressive amounts of explosives.
By the time I got to where the big show was, it was over, and the crowd was leaving. There were youngsters here and there shooting off their fireworks, and a group of kids holding up traffic, singing the national anthem. It felt good to be with everyone. I sat and watched as some boy would light a fire, then jump it with his skateboard. As a rule, I've noticed the skateboarders here tend to be lame. The really good ones appear to be down South, but this boy was okay. Not once did he misland with his board.
There were still a couple weeks to go until the officially scheduled second date, when E called and complained about the guy she was seeing from Long Beach. Apparently he had been flying up on the weekends and driving E crazy with his predictability. She said all he wanted to do was smoke pot and watch videos.
E asked if I would consider joining them at her place for the weekend, pretending to be her brother, in order to relieve her boredom. I could stay in her mom's room, since she was out of town, and I could help myself to all the food I wanted.
I didn't even have to think about it.
I asked her what time she wanted me there.
She was surprised, and thanked me repeatedly. She said she didn't know anyone else she could ask to help. The real selling point was the food. It had been a very, very, long time since I had experienced the joy that comes from unlimited access to a suburban refrigerator. Visions of cold cut sandwiches, big glasses of milk poured from gallon jugs, and packages of cookies zapped across the wires of my brain while E outlined her plan.
I would take the train, and call from the bar where we thumb wrestled after work on Friday, saying that I was her brother in town for the weekend on a surprise visit. My name would be Jim. She would get me at the bar, telling Mr. Long Beach that she was going to the airport. Then I would spend the rest of the weekend with my best sister, and the current apple of her eye.
E made me promise several times before I hung up the telephone that I would show. I assured her that I was a man of my word. The last thing she said before good-bye was that we would have fun. I did not doubt that in the least. I hung up the phone, and stared at the rug on the floor of my room for a long time, marveling at how things could change so fast.
I took my bag packed for the weekend to work with me, and walked to the train station after quitting time. It was under construction, and there was plywood and chain link fencing everywhere. It separated the depot from the boarding area. I walked past the two porta-johns at the front, and up a narrow wooden plank that led to a solitary ticket window.
There were several brown people in line in front of me. I waited my turn. I bought my ticket, and the young black woman working the booth poked a corner of it with an ordinary hole punch.
There was a small stand that sold flowers, candy, and soda. I thought about buying my sister that I really don't have flowers, but I didn't feel like carrying them. I made my way through the plywood and chain link fencing maze, and joined the many people waiting for the train. There weren't any benches or seats. I sat on the plywood flooring, and leaned against the chain link fence. The fence gave quite a bit. There was absolutely no way to look cool in this position. I smiled and leaned forward, removing the tape player from my travel bag. I put in a cassette, and watched while a couple motherly-types scowled at me.
Finally the porter pushed aside the gate that led to the train platform, and we all made our way through the chute into the cars of the train. I stepped into the nearest door and made my way up to the second level. I had never been on a train before that I could remember. I guess my Mom and Dad took me on a train to Chicago before my other brothers were on the scene, but that would have made me a baby, and I don't remember anything about being a baby. My firs
t memory is when I was two. I remember falling into a deep drainage ditch by my house on my tricycle.
We pulled out of the station, and made our way south, stopping to let more people board. The scenery was a picture of urban decay: yards of industry with big brown rusted barrels, and piles of garbage. I also saw the backs of the projects, with their great graffiti covering every possible inch of the cement wall that separated the living areas from the hillside leading down to the tracks.
We passed the horse track and the mall, and then I exited the train. I walked past the new car dealerships into the quaint old town area, and looked in the little shop windows as I made my way to the bar to call Sis. It was six o'clock in the evening, and every one of those cutesy places was closed. So much for the working people. I guess the only people that shopped there were housewives and retirees.
I got to the bar and set my bag on a chair. The place was dead. I got a beer, left a dollar tip, and called E. I got her machine. I hung up without leaving a message, thinking horrible things. I sat and sipped my beer. Mercifully, the jukebox was playing a decent song. I took this as a good omen and tried calling again. This time Sis answered. She put on a good front, asking me what I was doing in town, and how long did I plan to stay. I told her I didn't know and to hurry and come get me. I hung up and went to check out the selection on the jukebox. It was excellent, and I chose several selections. It seems when I play the juke box, usually every song in the world plays before mine, and I end up leaving before I actually get to enjoy them.
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