Chloe remembered their third date. It was the first time they rode the subway together; a bright and cold Sunday afternoon in an endless winter.
As they awaited the next train at the Grand Street station, they reminisced about the second date's merits and shortcomings, the former being the excellent food at the Ethiopian restaurant on Mulberry, the latter being his unfortunate, uncontrollable sneezing episode which rendered their conversation mute for a good five minutes. As he rehashed his haphazard theory that he must be allergic to red lentils, he pulled out a veritable deck of metrocards from his back pocket, shuffling them like kings and queens. He explained that each card was it own ride, its own trip with its own ticket. He rode the subway this way so that his life would be more a series of small adventures rather than one continuous blur provided by the monthly metrocard. This, of course, went against all reason and logic, the monthly metrocard being the most cost-effective and convenient. But she admired his principle, nonetheless.
And she imagined him standing there at the Grand Street station, explaining his metrocard theory for the second time, four years later, on a bright and cold Sunday afternoon in an endless winter, to a different girl: tall, like she, only skinner, with bigger breasts and a dark crease at the crown of her head where her bright blond hair betrayed her.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
a work/life continuum
Chloe sat there like some dumb animal, staring at the moss green wall of her living room. She sat straight up, her back against the weathered brocade fabric of her small couch, her legs in right angles with knees pointing forward. A row of holes in the plaster betrayed her endeavor last April to finally hang up the bunch of framed artwork and photos that had been sitting propped up against the baseboard. Recently, she'd had to take a few down, those works associated with her somewhat recent ex-boyfriend. She was sick of the reminder. A mere glance would open the floodgates to a rush of disgust and resentment for having wasted so much time, now having realized what a terrible mistake he was. At any rate, that was all over now and in the past few months she was was able to shut the floodgates relatively quickly.
She turned her gaze to the window, where the creepy-crawly vine had had its way with the window frame, tangling itself around the old moldings and basking in the warm November sun, which at this time of year, only shone in on her apartment directly between one and three in the afternoon.
Looking out at her neighbors' clothes hanging on the line, bright against the sky, she sat there pondering the questions of her universe. Why was it that, more often that not, she would arrive at a subway station only to just miss the train? Didn't subway karma dictate that just-misses would more or less even out with spot-on arrivals? Or, why was it that whenever she was late to work, her boss was always there, sitting in his glass-walled office, his eyes following her every move? And when she was early, he was never there to see it? Furthermore, why for god's sake could she not fall asleep before midnight, then suffer dizzying tiredness all day, only to revive just when it would be an intelligent, appropriate time to go to sleep, say, 10pm? If she had it her way, the days would be 36 hours long. (That would put an end to the ridiculously uneven work/life ratio so common these days, whereby the 9-hour-a-day worker, toiling away with the end goal being to continue fattening up the bank accounts of her superiors while they sit in their corner offices drinking whiskey on the rocks, spends the majority of her waking hours making just enough money to fund the few remaining ones.) Then she'd have some time to actually do some worthwhile things like paint that cabinet in the living room, or play the Moonlight Sonata on the piano. Then she could maybe retire to the chaise with Summer by Edith Wharton, pass out, and wake up 8 hours later, refreshed and bright eyed, to the sound of the garbage truck making its morning rounds.
She turned her gaze to the window, where the creepy-crawly vine had had its way with the window frame, tangling itself around the old moldings and basking in the warm November sun, which at this time of year, only shone in on her apartment directly between one and three in the afternoon.
Looking out at her neighbors' clothes hanging on the line, bright against the sky, she sat there pondering the questions of her universe. Why was it that, more often that not, she would arrive at a subway station only to just miss the train? Didn't subway karma dictate that just-misses would more or less even out with spot-on arrivals? Or, why was it that whenever she was late to work, her boss was always there, sitting in his glass-walled office, his eyes following her every move? And when she was early, he was never there to see it? Furthermore, why for god's sake could she not fall asleep before midnight, then suffer dizzying tiredness all day, only to revive just when it would be an intelligent, appropriate time to go to sleep, say, 10pm? If she had it her way, the days would be 36 hours long. (That would put an end to the ridiculously uneven work/life ratio so common these days, whereby the 9-hour-a-day worker, toiling away with the end goal being to continue fattening up the bank accounts of her superiors while they sit in their corner offices drinking whiskey on the rocks, spends the majority of her waking hours making just enough money to fund the few remaining ones.) Then she'd have some time to actually do some worthwhile things like paint that cabinet in the living room, or play the Moonlight Sonata on the piano. Then she could maybe retire to the chaise with Summer by Edith Wharton, pass out, and wake up 8 hours later, refreshed and bright eyed, to the sound of the garbage truck making its morning rounds.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
cannibal carpet
Louise dropped onto the soft carpet of grass that covered the hill on the southern face, letting the folds of her white eyelet lace dress land gently about her, which contrasted nicely, she thought, with the saturated green of the ground. She gazed about, her eyes level with the tops of the few hundred gravestones of fallen civil war soliders that stood at tired attention in roughening rows, casting diagonal repeating shadows. The sun shone down on her face, the warmth kissing away the pervasive chill in her bones. A fact unknown to her, this was the highest point in Brooklyn, and when the sun shone in November, the warmest.
Louise had been coming to this spot regularly ever since Ward Jenkins had gotten married and went off on his African tour honeymoon with his socially ambitious and, she opined, commonly pretty new wife. It had been three months now since they left, and Louise was charged with the general upkeeping duties of the office as well as the house, including the feeding of the three macaws, two cockatiels, one african grey, and that damned loud cockatoo that always sounded like it was being tortured.
Aside from the cockatoo's screams, it was lonely and dark in the first floor office. She looked forward to the afternoon light that would stream in through the stained glass windows in the foyer. Her days and nights melted into each other eventually, and sometimes she didn't speak to a single soul for a few days, in the back-and-forth from her apartment to Ward Jenkins's. It got to the point where in the mornings, when she unlocked the front door, she would pretend that things were going on exactly as before, with Hilda the housekeeper bumping noisily around in the kitchen and Ward sitting contentedly at his desk eating his daily breakfast of grapefruit halves with the serrated spoon. That was when she decided she'd better get out, and one day, found herself on the hill in the cemetery.
She imagined, with a revolting, leadened feeling in her stomach, Ward and his new wife touring the pyramids, smiling and happy and sickening. And his wife was just so... boring, thought Louise. At any rate, Ward could be so self-centered and moody, and maybe they deserved each other. He'll probably make a terrible husband, she thought, as she brought her gaze down to the ground, picking at the little blades of grass, tearing their innocent, young bodies in half in undeserved cruelty and throwing them back onto the earth where, certainly, the soil would swallow the dead matter and the grass would grow strong from feasting on itself.
Louise had been coming to this spot regularly ever since Ward Jenkins had gotten married and went off on his African tour honeymoon with his socially ambitious and, she opined, commonly pretty new wife. It had been three months now since they left, and Louise was charged with the general upkeeping duties of the office as well as the house, including the feeding of the three macaws, two cockatiels, one african grey, and that damned loud cockatoo that always sounded like it was being tortured.
Aside from the cockatoo's screams, it was lonely and dark in the first floor office. She looked forward to the afternoon light that would stream in through the stained glass windows in the foyer. Her days and nights melted into each other eventually, and sometimes she didn't speak to a single soul for a few days, in the back-and-forth from her apartment to Ward Jenkins's. It got to the point where in the mornings, when she unlocked the front door, she would pretend that things were going on exactly as before, with Hilda the housekeeper bumping noisily around in the kitchen and Ward sitting contentedly at his desk eating his daily breakfast of grapefruit halves with the serrated spoon. That was when she decided she'd better get out, and one day, found herself on the hill in the cemetery.
She imagined, with a revolting, leadened feeling in her stomach, Ward and his new wife touring the pyramids, smiling and happy and sickening. And his wife was just so... boring, thought Louise. At any rate, Ward could be so self-centered and moody, and maybe they deserved each other. He'll probably make a terrible husband, she thought, as she brought her gaze down to the ground, picking at the little blades of grass, tearing their innocent, young bodies in half in undeserved cruelty and throwing them back onto the earth where, certainly, the soil would swallow the dead matter and the grass would grow strong from feasting on itself.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
trials
Every year around the same time, Chloe made the trip down to Miami to visit her parents. She only saw them once a year, owing to the fact that if her family was to maintain some semblance of, well, family, the duty rested upon her shoulders to show up for Christmas. This was because her parents never came to visit her in New York, for all of the five and a half years she had lived there. Her father detested the city, having grown up among palm trees and sunny open spaces in Florida, and also having developed a severe case of claustrophobia crawling through pyramids on an Air Force tour in Egypt in the 60s. Her mother made verbal promises to visit, but unfortunately she had that dreadful combination of being a persistent procrastinator and non-commitant.
As such, every year, the month of December meant having to arrange for the trip: buying the plane ticket, shopping for "New York gifts" of which her family members were fond, but which had to be non-liquid, unbreakable, and not too heavy, stuffing said items in her suitcase, and then the pleasant experience of LaGuardia Airport on December 22nd.
She dreaded the whole process every year, but she had to admit that once she landed at Miami Airport and the doors of the baggage claim slid open before her, the rush of warm and humid air signaling that she was home for Christmas, it was worth it.
As such, every year, the month of December meant having to arrange for the trip: buying the plane ticket, shopping for "New York gifts" of which her family members were fond, but which had to be non-liquid, unbreakable, and not too heavy, stuffing said items in her suitcase, and then the pleasant experience of LaGuardia Airport on December 22nd.
She dreaded the whole process every year, but she had to admit that once she landed at Miami Airport and the doors of the baggage claim slid open before her, the rush of warm and humid air signaling that she was home for Christmas, it was worth it.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Chloe vs. The Raccoon
Through the fuzzy darkness, Chloe strained her eyes to see the clock. 2:36 am. Damnit, she thought. Maybe it's too hot in here. The entire bed felt too warm, her body heat having transferred over the course of the past few hours. Tearing the bed clothes off of her legs, she cursed that raccoon intrusion incident that forced her to shut her windows every night since then.
[Back in the Spring, Chloe had made the mistake of leaving her bedroom window open, which was located on the fire escape. This being Chinatown, not only was her apartment not furnished with an oven, but it also lacked window screens. She never saw the thing, but evidence of the raccoon was everywhere when she returned home late one night. Sooty footprints betrayed its run of every square foot in her apartment... it trekked across the white bedspread, overturned the bookcase, splashed around in the toilet, then rummaged around the papers on her desk before going on its merry way back out the window.]
Aside from the uncomfortable temperature, something else weighed on Chloe's mind. Jenkins. It was one of those names that's common in theory but rare in practice. She couldn't shake the memory of the events earlier that day at the cemetery, and, feeling that there must be some depth to the story, she resolved to look into the matter more thoroughly in the morning.
It's so damn hot. Then, Chloe remembered an old trick. Flipping the pillow over, her cheek met its cool underbelly, and she fell asleep.
[Back in the Spring, Chloe had made the mistake of leaving her bedroom window open, which was located on the fire escape. This being Chinatown, not only was her apartment not furnished with an oven, but it also lacked window screens. She never saw the thing, but evidence of the raccoon was everywhere when she returned home late one night. Sooty footprints betrayed its run of every square foot in her apartment... it trekked across the white bedspread, overturned the bookcase, splashed around in the toilet, then rummaged around the papers on her desk before going on its merry way back out the window.]
Aside from the uncomfortable temperature, something else weighed on Chloe's mind. Jenkins. It was one of those names that's common in theory but rare in practice. She couldn't shake the memory of the events earlier that day at the cemetery, and, feeling that there must be some depth to the story, she resolved to look into the matter more thoroughly in the morning.
It's so damn hot. Then, Chloe remembered an old trick. Flipping the pillow over, her cheek met its cool underbelly, and she fell asleep.
Monday, August 17, 2009
the meeting
It was again that time of year for the trip to the cemetery. Autumn, Chloe's favorite season, had settled in with a whisper, scurrying the dead remnants of summer's growth over the earth. The air was chill, and it tore through the buttonholes of her cardigan as she pedalled fast, careening down the slope of 5th Avenue, past Union and 1st, then up, and then down again.
The sun had already begun its descent into New Jersey, but it was still bright in a clear sky, and Chloe had a few hours yet. She was always late, even to her own planned-upon outings. At what point will she finally change her ways? She imagined she'd finally learn, someday, to be one of those who always arrives early, calm and collected, having perhaps spent the past half hour at the bar with a scotch, or having taken a stroll in the nearby park. Chloe always envied those people, as if this issue were something she couldn't actually, easily, change (she couldn't).
Having finally reached 25th street, and nearly run over twice by speeding Mack trucks, Chloe arrived at the iron gates of Greenwood. They towered over her in all their Gothic glory. Locking up the bike, she crossed the pathway and headed straight for the first grassy hill. Days on end of nothing but hostile pavement made the soft earth seem cloudlike under her moccasins. It gave way to her weight, and felt natural, serene.
Having walked ten minutes now into the vast graveyard, Chloe realized she hadn't seen another person since she entered. Looking around it appeared deserted, and she figured that maybe it was too chilly a day to be out at a cemetery. Maybe she shouldn't be here, either. The sun was ever descending, and the cold ever more biting. (Of course, she forgot her coat.)
A sudden gust blew over the tops of the hills, and among the whirlwind of leaves, a flash of bright green. Chloe turned her head quickly to follow it, and watched a green parrot alight on a low branch. Of course, everyone knows the story of the green parrots of Greenwood. Sometime back in the 70s, someone at JFK opened a suspicious crate, letting escape hundreds of exotic monk parrots, who eventually found their way to Greenwood, where they made the cemetery their home.
The wild bird looked at Chloe with the one-eye bird stare, cocking its head to one side, then took flight towards a mass of trees around a mausoleum at the top of a nearby hill. Chloe followed, thinking with slight amusement that this scene would be a nicelead-in sequence to a horror film.
Nearing the mausoleum, she noticed the door ajar, and the bird, peering down at her, sat atop a cornice above the engraved name "JENKINS." She craned her neck to better see inside the cavernous space. It was dark, and a hint of stained glass light shone on the floor. As she drew closer, she could feel the damp, cold air.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
Startled, Chloe jumped, turning around abruptly.
Elderly and staring with uncomfortable intent at Chloe, she wore a fuchsia silk dress with covered buttons, her hair pulled back neatly, a cashmere coat over her shoulders, with a bouquet of peonies in both hands. She stood still, feet clad in black pumps planted equally firm in the soft ground.
"Oh! I'm so sorry. I didn't realize anyone was here..."
"Do you think that means you may go barging into strangers' resting places? For shame!"
Chloe clutched at the camera strung about her neck.
"You young people are always coming out here, up to no good with your cameras and such nonsense, making pictures where you oughtn't."
"I'm very sorry..." As Chloe started walking away from this horrible situation, the woman held her pose, turning her head to follow Chloe with her eyes, until Chloe was just beyond a large old tree. After about twenty uneasy paces, Chloe turned to gaze back at the woman, and she hadn't moved an inch, rigid as a gravestone.
The sun had already begun its descent into New Jersey, but it was still bright in a clear sky, and Chloe had a few hours yet. She was always late, even to her own planned-upon outings. At what point will she finally change her ways? She imagined she'd finally learn, someday, to be one of those who always arrives early, calm and collected, having perhaps spent the past half hour at the bar with a scotch, or having taken a stroll in the nearby park. Chloe always envied those people, as if this issue were something she couldn't actually, easily, change (she couldn't).
Having finally reached 25th street, and nearly run over twice by speeding Mack trucks, Chloe arrived at the iron gates of Greenwood. They towered over her in all their Gothic glory. Locking up the bike, she crossed the pathway and headed straight for the first grassy hill. Days on end of nothing but hostile pavement made the soft earth seem cloudlike under her moccasins. It gave way to her weight, and felt natural, serene.
Having walked ten minutes now into the vast graveyard, Chloe realized she hadn't seen another person since she entered. Looking around it appeared deserted, and she figured that maybe it was too chilly a day to be out at a cemetery. Maybe she shouldn't be here, either. The sun was ever descending, and the cold ever more biting. (Of course, she forgot her coat.)
A sudden gust blew over the tops of the hills, and among the whirlwind of leaves, a flash of bright green. Chloe turned her head quickly to follow it, and watched a green parrot alight on a low branch. Of course, everyone knows the story of the green parrots of Greenwood. Sometime back in the 70s, someone at JFK opened a suspicious crate, letting escape hundreds of exotic monk parrots, who eventually found their way to Greenwood, where they made the cemetery their home.
The wild bird looked at Chloe with the one-eye bird stare, cocking its head to one side, then took flight towards a mass of trees around a mausoleum at the top of a nearby hill. Chloe followed, thinking with slight amusement that this scene would be a nicelead-in sequence to a horror film.
Nearing the mausoleum, she noticed the door ajar, and the bird, peering down at her, sat atop a cornice above the engraved name "JENKINS." She craned her neck to better see inside the cavernous space. It was dark, and a hint of stained glass light shone on the floor. As she drew closer, she could feel the damp, cold air.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
Startled, Chloe jumped, turning around abruptly.
Elderly and staring with uncomfortable intent at Chloe, she wore a fuchsia silk dress with covered buttons, her hair pulled back neatly, a cashmere coat over her shoulders, with a bouquet of peonies in both hands. She stood still, feet clad in black pumps planted equally firm in the soft ground.
"Oh! I'm so sorry. I didn't realize anyone was here..."
"Do you think that means you may go barging into strangers' resting places? For shame!"
Chloe clutched at the camera strung about her neck.
"You young people are always coming out here, up to no good with your cameras and such nonsense, making pictures where you oughtn't."
"I'm very sorry..." As Chloe started walking away from this horrible situation, the woman held her pose, turning her head to follow Chloe with her eyes, until Chloe was just beyond a large old tree. After about twenty uneasy paces, Chloe turned to gaze back at the woman, and she hadn't moved an inch, rigid as a gravestone.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Poor Peeved Phebes
Phebe was pissed. "I can't believe she did such a terrible job. I mean, I went through all of that pain and the hair is still there. It literally looks like I never had it done."
Just like every second week of the month for the past three years, Phebe had been going to the same lady for a Brazilian wax at a clandestine, semi-questionable top-floor salon in Soho. All of their services were dirt cheap but generally they did a good job, and Phebe was always happy with the quality of Helena's Brazilian wax services.
"And of course, this had to be the time that I get it done the night before I leave on a trip to the Bahamas with Steve, when it's really going to matter. Now what am I going to do?"
"Poor Phebes," thought Chloe. "She really got the full wrath of the bikini wax gods this time."
Just like every second week of the month for the past three years, Phebe had been going to the same lady for a Brazilian wax at a clandestine, semi-questionable top-floor salon in Soho. All of their services were dirt cheap but generally they did a good job, and Phebe was always happy with the quality of Helena's Brazilian wax services.
"And of course, this had to be the time that I get it done the night before I leave on a trip to the Bahamas with Steve, when it's really going to matter. Now what am I going to do?"
"Poor Phebes," thought Chloe. "She really got the full wrath of the bikini wax gods this time."
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