You would have to see my apartment to know just how hard it is to retrieve my alarm clock when two people are sleeping in my bed. They'd been asleep for an hour or so when I discovered I'd forgotten to take it with me. Initially, instead of attempting a rescue, I'd decided to depend on my trusty but archaic cell phone to play the part, but I couldn't figure out how to set the alarm, or even whether it has an alarm. Looking for the manual wasn't an option, nor was calling someone to request a wake-up call; I had no light to work with, and it was already after 3 a.m.
My apartment is shaped something like a mobile home, and the doorways to each room line up so that if you are standing at one end of the apartment, you can see all the way to the other end without obstruction. (It's ideal for watching scary movies, because it's entirely devoid of mystery corners.) Since the doorways are cut out of the center of each wall, the side of my bed (rather than the headboard) is forced to line up against the white plaster. (I've put a screen behind the headboard in a crap Martha Stewart attempt at adding a wall. See?)) My alarm clock sits on a homemade shelf above the bed, and at that moment, it was being guarded by two sleeping dragons.
The door to my room opened with a grunt, as the multi-layered paint on two enemy surfaces gave way. The dragons shifted. I crept through the room and carefully peeled back the screen at the head of the bed, and found myself looming over them voyeur-like. (I hoped they wouldn't suddenly see me, because they would no doubt be startled.)
I acquired the alarm itself without issue, but unplugging it was another matter, as the outlet was far from me, and the metal of the bed frame was pushed up against the plug.
I tried sneaking under the bed, gently scooting a giant suitcase and a bike frame out of the way, but discovered that was a dead end early on. I considered lifting the end of the bed in the air and placing it a few inches further away from the wall, but immediately rejected that idea as well. The dragons were snorting and moving the covers around. A leg moves, an arm bends.
I grabbed the cord and tried to yank it out of the wall, my left arm tugging at the cord inches from their faces. The digital red glow had disappeared from the face of the clock, but the metal prongs were committed to staying wedged in the socket. I couldn't put the clock down, unless I put it on a pillow right next to someone's head (or unless I returned it to the shelf [square one]), so I just stood there for a second, clock cradled in one arm, and the cord draped across the other.
Defeat. I reluctantly tapped a dragon on the shoulder and asked for help.
My arm has been hurting for at least a week, just above my metallic right elbow. My physical therapist has me doing stretches in which I hold my right arm in front of me, palm up, parallel to the floor, and I pull back (and down) the fingers on my right hand using my other arm. Doing this, unfortunately, highlights how stubbornly crooked my arm still is. Sometimes I'm inclined to force it, but I don't dare, or, rather, I can't. Other times I leave it bent, and mentally declare it a normal (rather than a deformed) twin.
Heat helps loosen it up, like it's my arm's first drink at a party. That's how physical therapy sessions always begin—with me laying on my stomach, my arm stretched out behind me, a heat snake coiling around my arm. I'm not allowed to use the ultra-sound on my arm, as it has the potential to heat my hardware to an "unsafe" degree. I'm not entirely sure what would happen if the metal became hot, but in my imagination, it would turn bright orange and cook the inside of my arm like a piece of chicken.
My physical therapist regularly makes positive comments about my progress, but she anticipates my response before I have a chance to speak. "It looks really good today...it's not straight enough for you, though, I know." Her Japanese accent is strong, but her English is near-perfect. I've only had to explain one word to her ("sleet") and one rather bad joke.
Today Rick guessed that I probably have tendonitis, which would explain why my arm feels like it's been trampled. I don't know what I did to get it, nor am I totally clear on how to get rid of it, beyond practicing a new and unpleasant maneuver that I just learned, which incorporates a Styrofoam cup and a giant ice cube, and involves me pressing the ice-filled cup to my inflamed joint and swirling it around in a circle.
The room is filled with humans doing things that would seem strange if it weren't a physical therapy gym: a woman walking in place in a tub of water that has a transparent wall; a man standing on a small trampoline on one leg while playing catch; people laying in contorted positions and balancing objects as if they're circus animals. No one notices a person who's painting her elbow with a Styrofoam cup of ice. It's nice; when we enter the room, it's as if we get a license that states it's impossible to look silly. We come close, though.
Their names are in the phone book of my cell phone, in my old (and outdated) address book, and in the folders of saved emails—names of people I no longer communicate with (for whatever reason) but who were once important enough to me that I optimistically took down their information. (Good intentions and sentimentalism are what keep me from deleting them.)
Somewhere, I still have the names of people I met at various camps half my life ago. Stale street names and digits that belonged to people I shared half-remembered experiences with, people whom I would almost definitely not recognize today.
The kids from Rockingham. I went to choir camp for two consecutive years, when I was 9 and 10. The kids from my town (Lexington) would always share a large cottage with kids from a town called Rockingham, which was hours away by car and might as well have been Spain. Our cottage was divided in half (boys' bunks on one side of the building and girls' on the other) and sat right on the beach; the camp itself was located at an old fort we were sure was haunted. The kids from Rockingham were cool, and seemed somehow more advanced—they had an unusual air of confidence for kids that age, and they were already having first and second kisses, already having "relationships." All of us developed week-long crushes on the Rockingham kids. (I never aggressively pursued mine; they were always secret and from afar.) Anyway, I haven't seen or heard from any of the Rockingham kids since that summer. I have pictures, though, and I remember names.
Martin. Martin was from Virginia and was part of a throng of boys attending soccer camp at the local university. My friend Stephanie had befriended (and declared her love for) a cute skater named Brian who had an asymmetrical bowl cut and a wardrobe covered with the Vision Street Wear logo. Martin, his subdued friend, was by default the guy I was "supposed" to like, because it made a neat equation. Martin and I only became friends (rather than what Stephanie had envisioned), but we did keep in touch for at least one phone call after he'd returned home. I know this because my brother once wrote "Lisa, Martin called" on the refrigerator dry-erase board, accidentally using permanent marker. As far as I know, those words are still hovering on my parents' refrigerator, fourteen years later.
Dana. I shared a dorm room with Dana for a long weekend during freshman orientation at college. We'd stay up late talking, and we'd show the other freshmen around Raleigh, a city we both felt somewhat familiar with (namely, we dragged them to a dark, underground club that we both agreed was cool). During the four years that followed, we'd occasionally run into each other, and (I think) would mutually recognize that we would probably still get along if we ever made the effort to get together. The interaction never failed to go the same way: how-are-yous, semi-generic responses, we should get together sometime soon, I'll call you, yes that'd be great. (I think we hung out only once post orientation.)
I still try, to some extent, to contact the more recent ones—people whom I spent time with in hostels and trains in Europe, companions in old offices and classrooms—but none of us do very well, barring a handful of old close friends. I tell myself that we will be in contact again even though I don't always believe it, because I find the alternative rather depressing.
The names in my cell phone are the most recent ghosts, and therefore the most perplexing ones, as I've only lived in New York for a year and a half. How is it that I've already lost touch with so many people whom I've known only a short time? And why do I even find that sad? I couldn't possibly keep up with all of the people whose information I've collected over the course of my life, and I'm quite sure I wouldn't even want to. Even so, I don't delete them, and I think of them fairly often, if only because I scroll past their names so frequently.
...
Stef and Matt are visiting from Raleigh, harmoniously staying with me in my skinny apartment. I like how out-of-town guests encourage me to go places I wouldn't normally go, and encourage me to keep my days entirely open. I feel almost like I'm on vacation myself.
Co-worker Sarah saw a dead chicken on the subway steps this morning. She noticed a few articles of clothing draped over the railing before she spotted it. It had white feathers, she said, and it was propped up on one of the steps.
She waited a whole 45 minutes to tell us, co-worker Ian pointed out. Where are her priorities?
The chicken isn't the first dead livestock she's seen this week. On Tuesday, she told us about a rotting goat head in her new neighbor's yard. The head still had fur on it, and had melted-down candles encircling it. I was disappointed to hear she hadn't taken any pictures. She has, however, done a little research on the subject. She learned that it is not uncommon for sacrificial carcasses to be left near train tracks (although she didn't say why, or whether subway steps were sufficient).
When she mentioned the goat head to her landlord, he told her about the dead cats the neighbor had once "hung out to dry" in the backyard. I pictured them attached to a clothesline, clothespinned up like socks, their bodies sunken and matted. "I think he may have said something about the cats hanging from a tree," she offered. We speculated about where the cats may have come from.
...
She's been in her new home less than a week. So far, she likes it. Apart from the sacrificed animals, that is.
1. Sometimes I mistake other people for me. Of course, within a fraction of a second I realize that it isn't me, because it would be impossible for there to be two of me. The person I mistake for me doesn't even have to look much like me, although often she does. In any case, it's an odd feeling to think someone else is you, however brief that moment is. It's a little bit like accidentally seeing your reflection in a store mirror and thinking it's someone else, but without the judgment.
2. I gave away my old computer. It was nice, actually. I got to hang out with someone I hadn't seen in almost a year-and-a-half. It went about how I'd expected—we got along well and made references to the things we know about each other, the things we could assume hadn't changed. We talked about things that were new, about plans and goals and people. We ate burritos and closed down a wood-paneled bar near Penn Station; we were abandoned by the other customers and were cleaned around. It wasn't about the computer, anyway. I think I feel better.
3. Lately it's been bothering me that my mid-twenties are stubbornly distancing themselves, not because I necessarily want to be in the same place as I was then, but because those years feel close, even though the calendar says otherwise. I have a theory that it's because I still feel like I know the person I was then, it being the first five-year period that I haven't changed substantially. ... I don't feel old otherwise. And apparently I don't look old, at least according to the postal worker in window 4 on 18th Street and 7th Avenue.
4. My surgeon sent me two letters this past week. The second was a bill for $890. The first was to ask me to donate money to the hospital. Aren't those more or less the same letter?
5. At the zoo this weekend, loud children made a red panda nervously pace back and forth. I watched two tigers slap each other with big, furry paws. I ate stale curly fries out of desperation. A peacock ran away from me. A monkey tried to feed me some bright orange food by smashing it up to the glass, where I'd placed my hand for his benefit. That made me really happy.
I once saw my friend Scott jump onto the subway tracks to retrieve a Chinese fortune that he keeps in his wallet. It had slipped out of his fingers and floated down to the trough of discarded batteries, dirt, electricity, and rodents, and, without pausing, Scott hopped down and hoisted himself up again in one graceful move. He stood on the platform grinning, holding the tiny piece of paper between his thumb and index finger, as I looked at him incredulously.
I often think about that when I'm standing on the edge of the platform, the yellow warning paint under my feet. I wonder what it would take for me to leap down there; what would I have to drop? The thought process follows a strict path. I consider the items I have in my possession, and whether they would merit a dangerous rescue. The answers are always the same.
My camera? A yes to that. My cell phone? Umm...not sure. My nice umbrella? No way. It's then that I remember that I promised myself I wouldn't drop anything, because I don't want to be forced to make that kind of decision. Then I clutch whatever I'm holding with the same ferocity as if I were standing on the edge of a cliff.
Recently, a different friend, also named Scott, mentioned buying a can of Spam as part of a cheap stash of groceries. Which got me thinking: how much money would I require to eat a can of Spam in one sitting? I decided that $100 seemed like a fair price, a conclusion I later shared with Scott (who maintains that Spam tastes quite good, despite its infamous and disparaged ingredients).
I did make the connection. It did occur to me how absurd it was that eating a can of Spam could be less attractive than putting my life in gory danger. Of course, when I think of it that way, the Spam easily wins. On Sunday Scott joked, "So then, how much money would it take for you to rescue a can of Spam from the tracks?"
Today an 18-year-old girl was killed by a train when she jumped onto the subway tracks to retrieve her cell phone. My answers have changed.
It happened in this order: I discovered him, looked for signs of life, and made a phone call. Then we had a photo shoot, I pet him on the head with a single finger, I said I was sorry, and I tossed him out the window by his long, sleek tail.
He landed on the ground, which is what I'd hoped—on the snow, actually, which covers the imported rectangles of grass in the backyard of the newly built (and vacant) condos behind me. I can still see him from my window, still bent in the shape of a smile and lying on his side.
Yesterday, the apartment building excitement came at 2 a.m. in the form of a loud, angry man who'd been locked out of his apartment during an argument. Or at least I think that's what happened; I saw none of it, and he was yelling in a language I don't know. But then, don't arguments in any language sound pretty much the same?
For what it's worth, here are the states I've seen; I think it's time to go to Kansas. Try it yourself, here. (via Alison and Ryan)
There's a strip of road in East Village that's lined with Indian restaurants; they stand side-by-side soldier-like, wearing almost identical red and gold uniforms. I've heard it called Curry Row, although I suspect that isn't the official designation. It's also been suggested that there's a single giant kitchen located in the bowels of the street that supplies all of the restaurants with food, and, as a result, it doesn't matter which one you choose.
You don't choose, anyway. The moment you pause outside of one of the restaurants—to look at the menu or glance through the window or ask the people you're with where they'd like to go or to simply tie your shoe—you belong to the restaurant in front of you. The staff are predators that sit in wait for your feet to stop moving; as soon as you're stationary, they fly out the door and gesture you inside, telling you of (perhaps) free music, a free glass of wine, or free dessert. They sting you with some sort of paralyzing poison that prevents you from saying no—they sing to you like sirens—and you hypnotically shuffle inside.
Of course, it's easier to watch the hunt from a distance, as a third party. Tonight, after the reading, seven of us sat at a table at one of the restaurants, in front-row seats just by the door. We'd spot the prey and watch the restaurant greeter respond. Get 'im! One of us would whisper. Sometimes, he'd snap them in with the grace and speed of a frog that's tongue-lassoing a fly; other times, he'd notice them too late, and they'd continue down the red and gold path.
The food in these places, by the way, is quite good, and, once you're inside, the predatory staff instantly becomes friendly and accommodating. Our restaurant supplied live music (one of the musicians played a sitar), including one track we decided sounded something like the Indian version of The Simpsons' opening theme. While we ate, a very bored 8-year-old boy (who was likely the son of one of the employees) wandered around and watched patrons; as soon as he was noticed, he'd recoil and run away.
The friends I'd gone to the restaurant with didn't know each other all that well, which made it even more satisfying that they all got along so well, that they were so good at making each other laugh, and that they effortlessly made me forget about my nervous hangover.
The pre-show anxiety was worse, when my legs felt unnaturally weak and like they were no longer part of my body. I wonder how many times it would take for my legs to like the stage, to be planted like sturdy and sure Sequoias. Today they were saplings.
