I'd gone to the fairgrounds for the flea market; I didn't even know about the cat show. Fortunately, by the time I arrived, the cat people had stopped taking money at the door.
"The Cat Fancier's Cat Show" was held in a giant room with rows of tables filling its center, and on the tables were cages filled with felines and fancy blankets and pillows. On top of some of the cages were framed pictures of whatever breed was sitting below, set up almost as a shrine. Many (if not all) of the cages had at least one giant ribbon dangling from them, as if every animal there had been recognized for something. A large proportion of the cats had tremendously long fur and shockingly flat faces. Some of them wore sequined bibs around their necks, and I saw one cat inexplicably wearing a coffee filter.
Most of the cages were guarded by their owners, making sure their cats weren't touched, combing through fur, and talking to the other owners. I asked one woman, who happened to be British, if it would be alright for me to take a picture of her cat. "As long as your camera isn't loud," she said. "This morning one of my cats was unable to show, thanks to the whirring noise made by someone's camera."
The edge of the room was lined with smaller "rooms" divided by white sheets, where the cats were being judged. A woman would remove a cat from its cage, set the cat on a white pedestal, stretch the animal and hold it up, telling the onlookers of its virtues. Look at the strong jaw, the eyes that are almond-shaped on top and round below; look at the long thin body, and at the slender tail. This kitty is my number eight. The crowd would applaud as she delivered the cat back to its cage, and then she would disinfect the stage for number seven.
Where there weren't cat shows and cat cages, there was cat merchandise. Teasers, carpet-covered towers, leather mice, bright tinsel balls, litter scoops in the shapes of cats, and even cat money. When I purchased one of the ridiculous cat dollar bills, the woman behind the counter said, "It's a NINE dollar bill!" and laughed. "Those bills are just for fun," she warned.
I thought I would enjoy the show more than I did. I like cats quite a bit, but perhaps not quite in the same way as some of the owners I encountered. I was probably just imagining it, but the cats themselves seemed sort of disenfranchised and jaded.
As of tonight, my cat can add to her growing list of transportation experiences. A couple hours ago, she took her first trip on the New York City subway, silently shaking in a blue plastic cage covered in stickers, eyes big and dark. She was traveling to a different part of Brooklyn, to stay with my friend Lisa while I'm in NC.
Tomorrow I'm going to NC.
J's apartment was broken into. Apparently nothing was taken, just lots of stuff dumped out and strewn around. The surprising thing is that the doorknob to her apartment was completely replaced.
S drives a cab, but not the yellow sort. It's not actually legal for him to pick people up off the street, but he does anyway. He's from Senegal, and has a thick accent. "Oh, I not really supposed to do this, so pay me...don't pay me...I don't care. I'm just driving around."
Y likes to pretend he's from another country, so he introduces himself using accents, believable or not. I got his old Jewish woman accent, which was not believable.
M is a 45-year-old in a 25-year-old's body. He likes talking about the cooking section of the New York Times, which he reads religiously. "Did you happen to see the article about the chicken stuffed in a duck stuffed in a turkey? It sounds superb, but it requires that you de-bone three birds." He wears stiff navy dinner jackets, smokes lots of cigarettes, swirls his drink around, and uses expressions such as, "I'm of two minds about that."
T is looking for an apartment. She told me that in one day alone, she saw two (unrelated) rooms for rent that had 4-foot-high ceilings. One of the ads said, "Think: Being John Malkovich."
When people ask G what he does for a living, sometimes they think he's joking. He tells them, "I'm an ice skater, and I make paper mache masks that I wear when I skate." But it's true.
(a few of the random people from my weekend)
In the town I moved to when I was 12, there were two places where I could go to get my hair cut. One was a place somewhat inappropriately named "Uptown Cut and Style"; the haircuts were okay, but the hairdressers liked to poof and aerosol spray every hair before it left the building. I would inevitably comb my fingers through the sticky forest on my head upon walking out the door and take a shower as soon as I got home, consoling myself with the knowledge that after two weeks or so, my hair would noticeably improve.
The other in-town salon was a place called "Guys 'n' Dolls Hair Styling," which was housed in a trailer in the parking lot of a gas station, where the hairdressers were 60-year-old women who had leathery faces and gravelly voices, and who called you "honey" and chain-smoked long, skinny cigarettes. They, too, were fond of the aerosol can.
I've never been much of a service-industry complainer, especially not when I was younger. As long as the damage wasn't permanent (i.e., damage made with hair spray as opposed to scissors), I would agreeably let them do what they wanted with my hair and dutifully nod when they asked me if I liked it. I remember once, when a hairdresser had just plastered the hair above my right ear to the side of my head with a flowery-smelling mist, and I answered her query with my regular nod, she exclaimed, "Wow, you're easy to please!" In fact, I wasn't easy to please at all; rather, I was tolerant, and I didn't want to be difficult or hurt anyone's feelings.
I haven't had much better luck in other towns I've lived in, unable to find someone I wasn't completely wary of. Often I've resorted to cutting my own hair, because, while I didn't always do a great job, I had control over what was happening.
Finally, here in Brooklyn, I think I have found her, someone I almost trust. Yesterday was the second time I'd gone to her (the first was when I had her cut off about eight inches), and though I'm still waiting for the post-hair cut two weeks to pass, my positive response to her question was honest.
Environmental, political, critical news is a plate full of soggy, overcooked vegetables—good for you, but difficult to digest and unpleasant. As bad as it tastes, you want everyone else to try the same food, so that we can collectively fire the cooks who prepared it. The Daily News, AOL news, FOX news—that is last year's stale Halloween candy. Initially, it looks like it might be a good idea to eat it, and it certainly is friendlier than the soggy vegetables, but it gives you a false sugar high, and if you consume too much of it, it makes you sick. More dangerous is eating it little by little, and learning to subsist on that alone, because that's when you start to believe that that's all there is. I generally get a daily dose of both (one because I look for it, and the other because I can't avoid it), and I have yet to decide which makes me feel worse.
A four-year-old child laying on his back across his mother's ample thighs, his head tilted back and his legs stretched out over the subway seat. He's laughing; she's pulling off his pants (underneath which are still diapers) and yanking on a new pair over his bent little legs. She refers to herself as "Big Mama," and refers to her son as "Sweet Cheeks." "Shit!" he says, and she responds with, "Don't say that!" They repeat this cycle a few rounds, until she warmly says, "Now set your ass here beside me." The two lesbian girls to my right are laughing along with the little boy.
A McDonald's on a busy street that's always darker than the other streets, since the subway in this part of town is above-ground, forming a ceiling between the people and the sky. Above the McDonald's is an empty-looking floor shielded by large glass windows, and behind the windows are people wearing their Sunday clothes, waving their arms back and forth, swinging their hips, and moving their mouths. It almost looks as if they're praising the franchise beneath them, as they dance on top of the red lighted sign.
***
Last night I went to an amateur musical in Brooklyn. I'm not especially critical when watching a play or a musical live, because no matter how good or bad the songs and the story, I'm always impressed by the effort to put something like that together, by the people who try to make a living dancing, acting, singing, directing, and producing.
I don't go to many performances, but when I do, I tend to wonder about the potential I had, had I chosen to go in a different direction. I honestly have no idea whether I would've been particularly good or bad at those things; I can't convince myself of either. I'm curious as to how the people I see onstage ended up where they are—whether it was a personal, parental, or circumstantial effort, or a combination of those. It's a similar feeling I have when I hear about people working in very obscure, specific occupations: how did they go from wanting to be astronauts and firemen and nurses as children to what they currently do? How many wish they did something else?
Just before I left for work yesterday, I got my first prank call in Spanish. At least I think it was a prank call, as I heard two small voices and some giggling, and because they kept talking to me, even after I'd hesitantly responded in English. But I don't know enough Spanish to know if they were asking whether my refrigerator was running or if they had a legitimate question. I felt bad when I finally hung up. I wanted to participate, but couldn't.
I left early to have time to walk to the post office and pick up a package, but no matter how early I get there, I run out of time, inevitably forced to stand in a long line of seemingly patient people who are being served by one slow oblivious postal worker. There's a TV hanging from the wall to keep minds occupied (and perhaps mouths quiet), but in the morning, it plays Good Morning America and only makes me anxious.
He handed me my package, and I ran a few blocks through the cool morning air and into the dank hole in the ground, where I stood breathless, watching the train pull away without me, and feeling cool sweat form beneath my layers.
***
Happy Birthday to everyone who has a birthday today.
If I had to draw what the year looks like in my head, I would draw a rounded rectangle, with summer at the top—July in the middle, and June and August hanging over the curved edges. September, October, and November would be stacked down the left side, the last days of November bending around the southwest corner. December would suspiciously take up the whole of the bottom, and most of winter and all of spring would be crammed on the right-hand side.
I have known since I was quite young that the bulk of December falls into autumn, and I have always known that it has roughly the same number of days as the other months. Yet I refuse to give up this picture; or, more precisely, I'm unable.
Numbers start at the bottom and move upward, though I'm pretty sure they are positioned diagonally. Come to think of it, my year-rectangle is diagonal too, maybe even 3-D. Days of the week sit on an oval, with Saturday and Sunday greedily spreading themselves out over the whole left side. Time is on a zigzag line, with seven o'clock a.m. sitting at a nadir and climbing upward toward the left, reaching its zenith at about one a.m.
They are like primitive maps: vastly inaccurate but useful sketches that help me pinpoint and remember. When I do remember a date or a time, it's usually because I see it somewhere on the lop-sided shapes I once drew with my juvenile brain.
Ten dollars on Canal Street (in Chinatown), and you can watch 8 Mile on DVD in your living room while you drink tea and lime water, wear sweatpants, and fight off getting sick, despite the fact that the movie just came out in theaters three days ago. Granted, it may look sort of washed out, it may be called "8 Miles," the sound and the picture may become out of sync toward the end of the film and remind you of an old Japanese movie, the credits may be chopped off, and there may be no trailer, but it's definitely possible.
Some things that I did with my weekend. Tore the heads off of shrimp. Attempted to remember all of the songs I play on guitar, which I never play. Mad Libs. Rode on the back of a bike just above the tire, holding my body delicately balanced, as to not fall off. Stood in a dressing room and tried on clothes, some of which I would never wear. Bought a DVD player and watched Amélie. Ate at a restaurant where the servers are drag queens. Saw two bands play. Homemade burritos. Went to a wine-tasting party at a store around the corner from my apartment. Danced by myself at an electroclash club around the corner from my apartment. Rummaged through a garage "store" around the corner from my apartment and bought a tin toy. Opened a few presents. Slept late.
The weather has been unusually warm. One of the past few days, as I was walking through a park around the corner from my apartment, I looked up at the orange leaves against a thick blue sky and wondered for a moment if I could make myself believe I was somewhere else. Then I saw white strips of toilet paper caught in the branches to my right and left, and saw a plastic bag floating through the air like a bloated bird. And I quickly remembered, No, I'm definitely in New York.
Regardless, I'm really happy here. I no longer constantly wish that I actually were somewhere else.
I was carrying a giant bunch of flowers (as big as if I had just won a pageant), a bowling bag containing a handbag, a discman, and a disorganized stash of papers, and a plastic bag holding a vase I borrowed from the office.
First he asked me if I wanted to buy two bikes, then one, and then he said he wasn't really interested in selling the bikes at all. What he really wanted was exactly 75 cents. Then he mentioned that he was not only homeless, poor, and hungry, but that his mom had just died.
I was skeptical of his story, but I thought, what the hell, and rearranged my things so that I could pull out 50 cents for him. Dropped a coin, heard the metal land and circle on the concrete. When I bent over to pick it up, my favorite pants screamed out, one important section suddenly divorcing itself from another important section. "Here's 50," I said, and walked off down the street, noticing a brand new breeze.
The rest of my birthday has been good so far. The generosity of my coworkers is genuinely impressive.
I called today and learned that I am not Lawrence's first. [See all Lawrence-related entries here.]
Election night speculation was unbelievably bad. I'm going to bed now, hoping to wake up tomorrow morning to an NPR voice that tells me everyone was wrong.
The letter came today. I hadn't expected it, and I only vaguely recognized the name of the attorney printed on the outside of the envelope; I thoughtlessly ripped it open on my way up the stairs to my apartment. Dear Ms. Whiteman: The above named defendant pled guilty to all charge(s) and was sentenced by the court to serve an active sentence of 121 - 155 months. Since an active prison term was imposed, the payment of restitution was not ordered.
121 - 155 months. I read that over and over again, calculating it until it made me crazy. That can't be right; he just stole my bag. I got everything back.
What is sentenced and what is served are two different things, I know. But even if he only serves a fraction of that sentence, his life will change completely. What if I had thrown away the serial number on my camera, or if I hadn't carelessly left my bag in the van? Perhaps it would've happened eventually anyway, some other "opportunity" that slyly waits in back seats of automobiles and beckons to kids with bad ideas.
We step into our boxes eagerly. One box has the types of music we like written all over it, the names of individual bands ordered by favorites. Stamped on another box are the names of the towns we've lived in, and yet another is labeled with our political and religious beliefs. We go down the list, as if we're checking inventory, trying to figure out who it is we're talking to, and to present our own contents, spilling them out rather sloppily and immodestly. Of course it makes sense to assess each other and to figure out which boxes we share, but we haven't learned to pace ourselves, haven't realized that we're being too simplistic and judgmental.
That said, last night's party was fun, and I did get past the preliminary (mandatory?) interrogation with a few people. I've decided that after two nights of living behind my make-up and hair spray, I'm happy to return to society in my normal state; for some reason I found my costume this year unusually exhausting. Also exhausting: learning to be passive, something I've reluctantly had to practice this past week. And going to bed at 2 a.m. on week nights. Stupidly exhausting.
Thursday morning on my way to work, I was quite sure that some of the people I passed didn't realize I was in costume, or at least weren't sure. A few seemed curious, and I could tell I was being studied. It was liberating, pretending I was someone else, though, as the day progressed, other creatures began to emerge, and I was no longer a mystery.
The parade downtown was like a debutante ball for the creative. There were infinite costumes to see, each labored over for hours to weeks, each carefully applied in bathroom mirrors across the city. I chose to walk in the parade, because I was told that is the best way to actually see it, free to weave in and out of the forward-moving force of hulks and batmen and prostitutes and storm troopers. (I unexpectedly ran into Choire, who dressed as a form of one of the above.)
I didn't particularly feel part of the parade—no one knew who I was supposed to be, and there were so many costumes to focus on that the crowd didn't dwell on any one person. Liberating, as well, to go unnoticed, while wearing the same outfit on the same street, just a few hours later. I'll try to post pictures soon.
