flamingo pink

It was a pale blue afternoon and the air felt like it could snap in two. Chloe put on her brown wool hat and stepped out onto the sidewalk, mixing in among the masses of tourists and chinese families of six or seven. She headed east down Hester Street, and as she cleared the herds crossing Chrystie Street, she broke into a stroll.

"Ahead of schedule," she thought, which was an unusual circumstance, and you bet she would take advantage of it. Passing the chinese men's club, which seemed perpetually gathered in a circle of smoke, she removed the small bag of dates from her pocket, which she held open in her hand from which to snack, and she ambled on.

Chloe was on her way to visit her friend Gabrielle who lived in a big flamingo pink building on the corner of Grand and Orchard. It sounds tacky, and she hated pink, but she liked flamingos, and it reminded her of them, so it was forgiven, as far as she was concerned. Also, the windows were huge and the whole facade was iron-wrought. It was a converted suspender factory that Gabrielle's parents, both artists, had lived in since the 60's. They bought the whole building and lived on two floors. Gabrielle grew up there, among the drug dealers and whores who populated the corner in those days. "I learned right away what real life is," she had told Chloe.

Not that Gabrielle had anything to worry about. She was well taken care of. When her parents decided to move upstate, they left the whole building to her. And so, eventually, she set up a yoga and dance studio on the second floor, below her living quarters on the third floor. The fourth floor served as everything from an art studio to a dance floor to a wine cellar of sorts. There was enough room for all of it and probably fifty of her friends.

Chloe crossed Allen Street and swung left up to the black door to Gabrielle's. It was hard to find, and as the years went on, since she had known Gabrielle, it seemed to blend more and more into the pasted-up poster and graffiti collage that had spread like wildfire all over the exterior wall where it met the sidewalk. She hadn't had a commercial tenant in the bottom floor for years, and she had basically just locked it up and let the outside go to pot. "I am doing my part to retain the character of the neighborhood," she said.

Up on the third floor, Gabrielle was drinking Bordeaux and listening to Devotchka. Chloe could tell from the speaker when she buzzed her in downstairs. The elevator didn't work, and the two flights always seemed like an eternity - the equivalent of four flights in a normal tenement building. Out of breath but very much enjoying the rush of blood through her veins, Chloe swung open the big metal door.

"Helllooooo, how is everything?" Gabrielle said, wrapping her silk kimono-swathed arms around Chloe. "Oh, fine," she replied, taking off her coat and hat and plunking herself down on one of the five couches laying about the loft. Gabrielle returned to her chaise by the giant window, where she glowed in the sunlight that streamed down.

"Promise me that they will play this song at my funeral," she said with a dramatic sigh, her head turned to gaze outside, and the glass of Bordeaux in her hand. How it Ends was playing on the speaker. It sounded so much better in her apartment. The voices bounced off the walls.

Taking the already-poured goblet siting on the table (how long has it been sitting there? she didn't care), Chloe took a sip and slumped down further on the couch, till her whole body was basking in the warmth of the sun.

two movies and a book

It was a rainy afternoon in December. That kind of chilling, damp air that penetrates to the bone. Chloe had just gotten off the phone with her friend Georgette, who had become slightly depressed as of late. She didn't know what she wanted, in general, and was sad about most things. Chloe had tried to console her.

Pretend you are a character in a movie and look at everything from the outside, and suddenly everything will come into perspective and everything will seem small.

Chloe's boots went clip-clop over the cobblestones on Crosby Street. She preferred to walk over these instead of the narrow sidewalk, because it felt like it must have felt to walk there in the 60s, when Crosby Street was a better version of itself. And in the emptiness, it felt like her own.

The cobblestones, though, were also a melancholy reminder of how little streets there were left paved with this vestige of old New York. Just last year the city had paved over all of Grand Street, leaving a smooth and slick surface, lined with stores selling thousand dollar t-shirts. Save for Wooster, Greene, Mercer, and that two block stretch of Clinton in no-man's land below Delancey, Crosby Street was one of the last holdouts.

The day Crosby is paved over is the day I leave New York.

The echoes of her boots filled the silence, and it started to pour rain just as she pulled open the big door at Housing Works Bookstore. She was craving a useful book. Perhaps a Historical Account of Crosby Street, or A Detailed Description of How to Navigate the Canal Street Subway Station. Finding neither of her desired books (what else could be expected?), she ambled over to the 50 cent cart.

While contemplating the usefulness of The Science of Relationships, she felt a tap on her shoulder. It was her friend Griselda, who had worked there for as long as Chloe had been getting her books there, which wasn't long. "I have a book for you!"

(Griselda had been keeping an eye out for certain books as they arrived, as a favor to Chloe, who had the idea that she wanted to collect all the books with the word "ocean" in the title. It was an ongoing project, but she had
collected quite a range, thanks in large part to Griselda's efforts.)

"It's called 'Near the Ocean' by Robert Lowell."

(The cover was aqua, with corners worn white with wear. The title, in a sans serif italic, sat in an off-white square, with aqua wave lines alternating each word, which were stacked one on top of another, flush left. It was very 60s.)

"Thank you, this is perfect."

Forgetting her mission to find a useful book, Chloe took off her coat and sat at a table with the volume... But first, a glass of wine, she thought. She stood up and went to the bar.

(Hello's. The order. Merlot please. Digging through her wallet. Thank you.)

Taking her seat again, she opened the cover. 1967. She couldn't help but wonder whether she would have preferred to have lived then. Maybe her happiness would have been greater. She started thinking about all that she wanted but couldn't have, and all that she had but didn't want. Drifting in thought, she sighted a man in the corner with a solitary stack of books like a skyscraper. Beyond him, she drifted up the stairs and up to the platform that stretched across the second level of the store. Gazing over the railing, she watched herself from above. And suddenly everything felt light and free, and all the bookstore and its patrons were just characters in some movie sitting on a dusty shelf.

Sam the Weatherman

Chloe knew a woman about 14 years her senior named Melba who lived down Mott Street across from the park. Her apartment was on the fourth floor directly above Ng Fook Funeral Services, LLC. Melba had told her that, in theory, living above a funeral home was rather morbid, but in practice it provided quite the contemplative atmosphere. "Being reminded of one's own impending death every day when one comes home keeps a person more alive," she had said.

Over hot tea one sunny afternoon in Melba's small living room overlooking the park, she confided to Chloe her disdain of the new blonde haired local news station anchor. You see, Melba had recently caught on to some potential flirting between her beloved "Sam the Weatherman" and said blonde woman as of late, and had become perturbed. She thought Sam was the ultimate man: handsome, funny, witty. She had told Chloe months ago that he wasn't cheesy and superficial "like those other weathermen." Melba had always felt Sam was all hers from 5am to 7am every morning, that they were meant to be together, she and Sam the Weatherman. When Chloe and Melba would meet for pork buns at Ho Won Bakery, she would always recount to Chloe some witty remark he had recently made about politics or the news.

But now, today, after a hot cup of tea, Melba felt less alive.

letter to no one

Dear Bicycle Seat Thief,

I hope that you feel every inch of your sorry human skin melt excruciatingly away in the flames of hell.

May your days of your sorry excuse for human existence be numbered.

xoxo,
Chloe

of lunch-eaters and table-benches

It was the only park nearby. Well, it wasn't really a park, as it lacked the requisite vegetation, covered as it was in asphalt and brightly colored children's climbing things. It was more like a playground, but at least it had plentiful benches, where Chloe could sit and eat her lunch, solitary among the shrill cries of spoiled 3 year olds, untended by chatting nannies.
On the whole, the playground suited its purpose for Chloe: a place to sit by herself under the sun. Every lunch hour was a new story; upon arrival, Chloe walked farther into the playground until she spied an open bench.
For many months, she coveted the four pairs of benches that faced one of four tables just outside the gates, under some trees. They were always taken, mostly by solitary lunch eaters, as if they felt themselves so lucky when they found their prize that they never left their seats, day after day. And no one would think to try to sit in the empty facing bench, because no one in their right mind would want to sit and eat their lunch facing a complete stranger, in some sort of forced, awkward closeness.
Then, one day, the playground gods shone down upon Chloe. The first pair of table-benches was open. She took a seat, smiling satisfyingly in her mind, spending five whole minutes retrieving the lunch items from her bag and setting it upon the table.
Just as she took her third bite of tuna salad, a 30-something businessman walked up to the facing bench and asked Chloe in the most polite of ways, "if anyone sitting here?"
The politeness only made her rage worse. Surely he was joking? She looked around at the other table-benches, all of which were attended by a solitary person. Why didn't he ask one of them? Why ask in the first place? She never asked anyone before, patiently waiting for her day, this, sunny, special day, when the playground gods would shine down upon her. Surely he thinks it could be at least slightly awkward, him, in his shirt and tie, eating a sub sandwich, facing her, two feet away? She would have to start some sort of labored conversation, the kind that strangers in uncomfortably close situations in places like New York have, consisting of awkward, basic generalizations about the weather and such. What a drag. What a jerk.
"No," said Chloe, as she re-packed her carefully placed lunch items, remnants of those short sweet moments of naivete that were taken from her just as quickly as they appeared, then retreating to a regular, non-table bench.

ring of fire

Chloe didn't know whether to scream and shout, laugh, or cry. Nevertheless, the feelings erupted from her like submarine volcano, the molten lava spewing up from the deepest of recesses, unbeknownst to all but herself, below a cool, calm blue surface. Building quietly upon itself whenever the moment arose, centuries later, she might finally break the surface.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Submarine_volcano

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ring_of_fire

here come the gents

Drew always forgot to bring beer for himself when he came over to her apartment after work. Chloe didn't drink beer, the consequence of her unrelenting thirst for wine. She never had any beer on hand.
So, as usual, he had to go out all over again, and, as usual, in her slippers and robe, she reminded him of the only place nearby that sells beer - the Vietnamese shop on Mott. He could find it in the drink case next to the soybean paste.
When Drew returned, he exclaimed his shock about the "sheer quantity of silk-clad blondes in towering stilettos, led by dudes in finance/banking costume." This confirmed Chloe's worst fears. They had finally broken the Canal street barrier, venturing forth into her once quiet-after-dark neighborhood. What did it all mean?
As she pondered her near future - her rent succumbing to the forces of gentrification, an Irish bar installed next door, tequila howls outside her bedroom window at 4 in the morning - she thought about the repercussions that extended beyond her own interests. Where would this trajectory be in 10 years?
Chloe imagined it coming full circle. All the Upper East Siders will have migrated to the "new cool neighborhoods," Brooklyn and lower Manhattan, deserting their abodes in Midtown and Uptown and leaving all but the old rich in their fanciful townhomes. With skyrocketing vacancies, rents in those neighborhoods go down, thus beginning a mas exodus of artists, designers, musicians, and writers from Williamsburg, Greenpoint, Chinatown, and Lower East Side, all to congregate in the now-affordable Upper East Side. Faux-hip midtown bars give way to dive bars with $1 PBRs, and bands perform where power lunches once ruled, among wood paneling and dusty chandeliers.