The bus doors clattered open, and Louise stepped out into the bright May sun, reflected tenfold from the sidewalk by her orange pumps. It was 5:08pm, and the day seemed still half-pregnant with the possibilities the morning had offered. She wanted to believe that, anyway, seeing as how all she had done today was sit at her desk at Ward Jenkins's Avian Pathology office where she answered four phone calls and filed ten papers.
Louise had not gotten off at her usual stop, which was still twenty blocks south, in order to complete a special errand: the procurement of fresh twenty-five cent leeks at E&H Local Market. She'd heard about the deal from her friend Olivia, who divulged the information on Sunday evening to her in response to Louise's complaint that she couldn't find fresh leeks anywhere in their "God forsaken neighborhood" on the north border of the cemetery, and that her cooking repertoire had suffered severely as a result (potato leek soup being, according to her friends, her best dish). "Oh yes!," Olivia had said. "Not only are they cheap, they are fresh and large and their leaves are the brightest green you've ever seen!"
Louise was still living on the high that this new and exciting information provided her, and visions of creamy potato leek soup danced in her head since she heard the news. The anticipation built as she neared E&H, now just half a block away. Holding her breath, Louise crossed the establishment's threshold which was marked by the sudden rush of air from a dusty industrial fan. Her eyes darted around, looking for that bright green bountiful pile of tender white bulbous roots.
It was then that she realized that E&H didn't sell fresh leeks. Not even old ones. Not even produce. It was then that she remembered the details of that conversation with Olivia, which had taken place in her sunlit kitchen, Louise drinking wine and leaning against the counter, and Olivia telling her about the leeks while holding her large, white, fluffy bunny rabbit which she didn't actually own, because had Louise had made it all up in her dream last night.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Monday, April 5, 2010
unsolicited correspondence
Dear Owen,
I heard all about the new girl. She sounds absolutely lovely, really. How did you manage to win that prize? And she and her dog already moved in, too? My, that was quick! It took you two full years to ask me. She really must be something! Especially if you still come home every night with that scowl on your face. By the way, I thought you hated french bulldogs? Anyway, really, congratulations on your new trophy / life. I hope everything goes just swimmingly.
xo,
Chloe
I heard all about the new girl. She sounds absolutely lovely, really. How did you manage to win that prize? And she and her dog already moved in, too? My, that was quick! It took you two full years to ask me. She really must be something! Especially if you still come home every night with that scowl on your face. By the way, I thought you hated french bulldogs? Anyway, really, congratulations on your new trophy / life. I hope everything goes just swimmingly.
xo,
Chloe
Sunday, February 28, 2010
grand street station: then and now
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)