He started barking at our golden retriever as he passed us on the sidewalk.
First we looked at each other, amazed. The Golden barked. She's an old lady and easily provoked. Dogs, anyone wearing a hood, and wheels set her off. I pulled Maddy back while my husband tried to restrain our two other dogs, lest then join in the melee.
"What the f-ck are you doing? Jesus Christ. What the f-ck?" We both shouted back at him.
The man puffed out his chest and spread out his arms in some kind of macho gangsta pose. And he smiled back, self-satisfied.
I cannot imagine in what parallel universe, he seriously thought he could pull off that pose of bravado. He was tall and skinny and pale and covered in a black frock coat to his knees, where the white silk stockings took over. Thick, black rimmed glasses further withdrew his credibility in this stance, but the giant mink sphere on the crown of his head ruined any hope for tough guy posturing.
But he just continued his posing as he backed away from us smiling, as we shouted and herded the dogs away.
I turned to Mark, "Is it a full moon or something?"
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Old & G(r)ay - NYC, June 2007
I slipped my orthotics into the black boots I used to wear only to sex clubs, put on expensive jeans and a red “vintage” t-shirt with a white Target bullseye. It was a brilliant, sunshiny Sunday in mid-June. The temperature sweltered near ninety, as I left Bed Stuy for Chelsea, taking two subways before hobbling up 8th Avenue to 21st Street and into the Rawhide.
Feeling around at the air like some bad skit, I stumbled into the bar, blinded by pitch darkness: black walls, floors, bar, and stools. The Rawhide goes back 30 years, as do much of the clientele. We come here once a year for the proximity to Folsom East, the kitsch, and cheap drinks.
Clive called out: “Over here.” He emerged from shadow, next to the front window.
“How old do you think he is?” Clive pointed to a man outside.
“A hundred?”
“Not me, sweetheart. Him.” Clive stood up and we kissed hello.
Clive had two more years until turning forty himself. Today he sported an aging rock-a-billy look: black combat boots, white undershirt, red suspenders, with the hair on his head shaved to the length of his facial stubble.
"God bless him," said Clive. His English accent made that sound kind.
The gentleman we were discussing, stood off the curb, pretty far into the street. Scrawny and ridiculous, he was shirtless, with one hand akimbo on his hip, trying to hail a taxi. He had tanned his skin to the color and texture of a football. His ass hung deflated, gently undulating, out the rear of his black leather chaps.
"I hate getting old. Older."
(To read the full story click here.)
Feeling around at the air like some bad skit, I stumbled into the bar, blinded by pitch darkness: black walls, floors, bar, and stools. The Rawhide goes back 30 years, as do much of the clientele. We come here once a year for the proximity to Folsom East, the kitsch, and cheap drinks.
Clive called out: “Over here.” He emerged from shadow, next to the front window.
“How old do you think he is?” Clive pointed to a man outside.
“A hundred?”
“Not me, sweetheart. Him.” Clive stood up and we kissed hello.
Clive had two more years until turning forty himself. Today he sported an aging rock-a-billy look: black combat boots, white undershirt, red suspenders, with the hair on his head shaved to the length of his facial stubble.
"God bless him," said Clive. His English accent made that sound kind.
The gentleman we were discussing, stood off the curb, pretty far into the street. Scrawny and ridiculous, he was shirtless, with one hand akimbo on his hip, trying to hail a taxi. He had tanned his skin to the color and texture of a football. His ass hung deflated, gently undulating, out the rear of his black leather chaps.
"I hate getting old. Older."
(To read the full story click here.)
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Epiphany
Friend: You look tired.
Me: Shit. I don't mind being tired, but I don't like looking tired. I wish I knew of some procedure to get rid of the dark under my eyes.
Friend: There is. It's called 10 days someplace warm, away from your blackberry.
Me: Oh. Right.
Me: Shit. I don't mind being tired, but I don't like looking tired. I wish I knew of some procedure to get rid of the dark under my eyes.
Friend: There is. It's called 10 days someplace warm, away from your blackberry.
Me: Oh. Right.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Deservedly Unsympathetic
“My hand is old!”
“What?” my husband shouted back from our bedroom.
“My hand. It’s old!” I was lying on the sofa with an ice pack on my lower back. My sciatica had been creeping up on me for a week.
“What are you talking about?” He had given up the other room and now looked down at me over the couch, folding a bath towel. I would never have pegged him as someone who liked doing laundry, but then we bought a washer-dryer and I can hardly get him to stop.
“I have liver spots on my hand. I’m thirty-seven years old and I have liver spots.” Small brown spots flecked the part of my hand at nexus of the wrist, thumb and pointing finger.
“You do not have liver spots.”
He took up my hand and flipped it one way and then the other.
“Oh. Yeah. Those are liver spots.” With that he dropped it. “You can get those lasered off.”
That last sentence trailed off as he walked away. His reaction wasn’t unfriendly, just efficient.
“What?” my husband shouted back from our bedroom.
“My hand. It’s old!” I was lying on the sofa with an ice pack on my lower back. My sciatica had been creeping up on me for a week.
“What are you talking about?” He had given up the other room and now looked down at me over the couch, folding a bath towel. I would never have pegged him as someone who liked doing laundry, but then we bought a washer-dryer and I can hardly get him to stop.
“I have liver spots on my hand. I’m thirty-seven years old and I have liver spots.” Small brown spots flecked the part of my hand at nexus of the wrist, thumb and pointing finger.
“You do not have liver spots.”
He took up my hand and flipped it one way and then the other.
“Oh. Yeah. Those are liver spots.” With that he dropped it. “You can get those lasered off.”
That last sentence trailed off as he walked away. His reaction wasn’t unfriendly, just efficient.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Why I Hate Third Party Candidates!
The endless news cycle around the presidential elections - 'change' anyone? - has reminded me of a story I wrote: "Exhilarated (New York City, October 2000)." It tells of my own personal reasons for calling Ralph Nader a 'spoiler.'
This story was effectively homework for a writing class I took at the New School in the Fall of 2004. The teacher gave me some really good criticism on the first draft: "Okay, we get it. Your ex-boyfriend is a jerk. So what? What was it about you that made you want to be with this guy? That would be infinitely more interesting." I took that to heart and turned the mirror back at myself.
There's an interesting coda to this story with respect to Seth Rudetsky - a very talented musician, performer, and writer. He cyber-pens a very entertaining, weekly, theater-related column on Playbill.com. Among the theater news and tidbits he introduces his new boyfriend James. Week-after-week he goes on-and-on about James and I just wish he would get back to the Broadway gossip. Then he suddenly drops James's last name into a column one week and I'll-be-damned if it isn't the same James from my own "Exhilarated (New York City, October 2000)!" He's a regular Nancy Cunard for the gay virtual blogisphere!
This story was effectively homework for a writing class I took at the New School in the Fall of 2004. The teacher gave me some really good criticism on the first draft: "Okay, we get it. Your ex-boyfriend is a jerk. So what? What was it about you that made you want to be with this guy? That would be infinitely more interesting." I took that to heart and turned the mirror back at myself.
There's an interesting coda to this story with respect to Seth Rudetsky - a very talented musician, performer, and writer. He cyber-pens a very entertaining, weekly, theater-related column on Playbill.com. Among the theater news and tidbits he introduces his new boyfriend James. Week-after-week he goes on-and-on about James and I just wish he would get back to the Broadway gossip. Then he suddenly drops James's last name into a column one week and I'll-be-damned if it isn't the same James from my own "Exhilarated (New York City, October 2000)!" He's a regular Nancy Cunard for the gay virtual blogisphere!
Monday, January 21, 2008
Never Make Eye Contact
I heard the ring - a pulsating tone from one of those two way radio things. It came from behind me, at the front of the subway car. Knowing better and ignoring that sense, I turned my head to look. I hate those things. People end up shouting into them with every turn in conversation preceding by a thought scattering "beep-beep.'
"What're you looking at tall guy!" I had already looked away, so the shouter was anonymous. It could have been any of the kids.
"Yeah, I'm talking to you in the beige! What do you think you're looking at!"
It's not beige. It's camel. Why am I letting these black, ghetto, teenagers bother me? Shouldn't they be in school? Am I being racist for hating them so much because my own thoughts and conversation keep getting derailed by their nonsense. Maybe I'm just a classist. Does the volume have to go up as the family income goes down? Why is every sentence punctuated with "n*" this and "n*" that.
Mark shook his head and gave a disapproving smirk, an inaudible tsk-tsk. He stood opposite me, holding the same pole, as the L Train passed underneath the East River.
"What're you smiling about guy in the green! Something funny!?"
Poor Mark. He had wanted to board at the front of the train but I had insisted on this position, calibrated for a perfect exit at my stop.
Then I compounded one mistake by making a meager gesture of defiance. To stand my ground or not show fear or protect my husband, I tuned back and stared. I looked some of them in the eye and didn't look away. I still didn't know which delinquent had been the shouter.
Nothing happened. I turned back to look at Mark.
"What're you lookin' at tall guy! Yeah! I'm going fuck you up. Seriously. What the fuck does he think he's lookin' at?"
I thought for sure they would get off at 1 st Avenue. There are still pockets of those neighborhoods that are poor enough for these jerks.
The taunts continued, through third avenue and onto Union Square - where Mark gets off the train to go to work. It didn't escalate, but remained a banal, persistent menace.
"Get off the train with me here and change cars. Please." Mark is often the most practical person in our marriage.
At the Union Square stop, we got off and quickly kissed goodbye. We ran back a car and passed the conductor. Mark held the door open so I wouldn't miss it. As the doors separated us, he waived good-bye. The L train all but clears out at that station so I had most of a bench to myself.
Should I do something? Tell the conductor maybe. That could be a whole other thing. They'd call the police. Could I even pick any of them out of a lineup?
The train stopped at 8th Avenue, the end of the line. As I walked out, I glanced back at the offending car. Those same kids were sitting there on the idle train as it waited to go right back where it came from.
Above ground, I sent Mark a text message to let him know that I had arrived safe. He worries.
"What're you looking at tall guy!" I had already looked away, so the shouter was anonymous. It could have been any of the kids.
"Yeah, I'm talking to you in the beige! What do you think you're looking at!"
It's not beige. It's camel. Why am I letting these black, ghetto, teenagers bother me? Shouldn't they be in school? Am I being racist for hating them so much because my own thoughts and conversation keep getting derailed by their nonsense. Maybe I'm just a classist. Does the volume have to go up as the family income goes down? Why is every sentence punctuated with "n*" this and "n*" that.
Mark shook his head and gave a disapproving smirk, an inaudible tsk-tsk. He stood opposite me, holding the same pole, as the L Train passed underneath the East River.
"What're you smiling about guy in the green! Something funny!?"
Poor Mark. He had wanted to board at the front of the train but I had insisted on this position, calibrated for a perfect exit at my stop.
Then I compounded one mistake by making a meager gesture of defiance. To stand my ground or not show fear or protect my husband, I tuned back and stared. I looked some of them in the eye and didn't look away. I still didn't know which delinquent had been the shouter.
Nothing happened. I turned back to look at Mark.
"What're you lookin' at tall guy! Yeah! I'm going fuck you up. Seriously. What the fuck does he think he's lookin' at?"
I thought for sure they would get off at 1 st Avenue. There are still pockets of those neighborhoods that are poor enough for these jerks.
The taunts continued, through third avenue and onto Union Square - where Mark gets off the train to go to work. It didn't escalate, but remained a banal, persistent menace.
"Get off the train with me here and change cars. Please." Mark is often the most practical person in our marriage.
At the Union Square stop, we got off and quickly kissed goodbye. We ran back a car and passed the conductor. Mark held the door open so I wouldn't miss it. As the doors separated us, he waived good-bye. The L train all but clears out at that station so I had most of a bench to myself.
Should I do something? Tell the conductor maybe. That could be a whole other thing. They'd call the police. Could I even pick any of them out of a lineup?
The train stopped at 8th Avenue, the end of the line. As I walked out, I glanced back at the offending car. Those same kids were sitting there on the idle train as it waited to go right back where it came from.
Above ground, I sent Mark a text message to let him know that I had arrived safe. He worries.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
