I've been thinking of getting a temporary cat. There's a place at Union Square that allows you to foster them, which means that you bring one home Sunday evening and take it back Friday afternoon, as if you're renting a warm, living ball of fur for the work-week.
On the weekends it sits in a cage while people stick their fingers through the metal grid and coo. If no one decides to take my temporary cat home, then I'm notified and asked to retrieve it. If my temporary cat has found a home, I think that means I'm given a different feline. Sort of like Netflix, I guess, but without the convenience.
There are a few problems with this set-up, of course. I'll have to do a lot of cat transporting, and I imagine that dropping it off will be sort of sad and confusing, as I won't know whether I'll see the same animal again on Sunday. Perhaps the most discouraging factor is that I spend very little time at home, so I'm not even sure I'd be doing the cat a favor by inviting it over.
I've only had one dream about my cat Jane since she died, or at least that I can remember. In it, I was going on a trip, and for some reason I neglected to find someone to feed her or give her insulin shots while I was away. In fact, I just left her in a yard of some sort, collarless, and took off. Several days after returning, I realized what I had done and began to panic, wondering if she was okay and if I'd ever see her again. And then my rational dream brain spoke up and reminded me, "Don't worry. You didn't leave her in a yard. She died of diabetes," as if that were somehow a relief.
I keep visiting the cats at Union Square and reading the stories pinned on their cages, all of which are cleverly told in first-person, as if the animal were speaking directly to you. And each time I go, I decide that I'm going to take one of the cats home the following Sunday night. But by the time Sunday night rolls around, I've talked myself out of it again.
Some photos of spring in New York, taken last year.
Right now I'm reading a book about the Stasi, or the East German secret police. I've been fascinated by the former East ever since Ingo began telling me stories about it (the personal kind, rather than the detached tales presented to me in history class). I'm reading it, in part, to refresh my memory for a trip to Germany that I'm taking in May. It's been almost exactly five years since I moved back from there, and since my grasp of the language began to unravel. Somehow that number seems inaccurate.
I used to measure time by the city or apartment that I lived in, or by the color of my hair. It seemed that I changed those elements often enough that I could date a photograph or memory within a 3-month margin of error. Naturally I use seasons to gauge passing time, too. I'm told that people who live in places with consistent weather (like L.A.) tend to have more trouble remembering which month a certain event happened. Of course, that would be impossible to verify, but I believe it anyway.
Whenever things go pretty well for me, like they are at the moment, it makes me a little paranoid, as if something bad is bound to follow. I don't believe in karma, but I do have faith in the non-supernatural, pragmatic version of it, the type that tells the stock market that it can't go up indefinitely, but that it must, by some law of the universe, fluctuate like a row of WW's. I sometimes have trouble completely enjoying perfect weather for the same reason: because I can't forget that it's only temporary.
I swear I'm not all that pessimistic, but it has crossed my mind that, any day now, I might get hit by a bus or a train, people I like might die, my city might get attacked by terrorists, someone might throw acid in my face, or the ladder on a fire escape I'm walking under might fall and hit me in the head. Fortunately, however, even though the course of my life is steadily ascending (for the moment! ...only for the moment), each day that passes is decidedly full of positive and negative moments (like the stock market, see), which makes me slightly less uneasy around buses, fire escapes, and hydrochloric acid.
I knew I hadn't ordered anything from Amazon, but there it was, a brown box sitting on my desk with my name on it. Nevermind that the package had been messily fastened with duct tape—I didn't give myself a chance to contemplate the reason for that, or why part of my name had been obscured. Instead, I eagerly grabbed the nearest pair of scissors and stabbed through the seam, wondering what exciting present was awaiting me on the other side.
I was momentarily confused and disappointed by what I found: two identical books bearing the logo of the organization I work for. (It turns out, the coworker who sits beside me was reusing an old box of mine to send some work materials. It took me a few seconds to figure that out.) I looked up at my coworker, whose back was to me, and timidly called her name. She turned around to find me guiltily poised over the box, holding the pair of scissors like a dagger. Her package looked like it had been ripped open by savages. "Uh...sorry about that."
***
By the way, I posted a local (on-site) version of my barber shop photo essay from The Morning News, which includes twenty additional pictures.
I have a bad habit of enduring things that make me miserable, if the circumstances require me to be particularly assertive, or if there's a danger of embarrassing someone or getting somebody in trouble. I might complain about the situation to a third party, but I'm often not willing to correct it for fear of the ramifications (i.e., hurting someone's feelings, or living with oppressive guilt). If I weren't me, I would get on my nerves if I saw me do this.
I'd like to thank my devastatingly bad video production course professor for unknowingly helping me with this personality flaw, which has been with me for as long as I can remember. Because of his incompetence, I was inspired to contact the head of his department to find out whether I could drop the class, or instead take it with someone who didn't have contempt for his students.
Granted, the first draft of my letter was way too timid and forgiving, and in it I actually said things like, "I know I probably should've brought this up after the first day of class," and "I realize I'm not eligible for a full refund." Fortunately I ran the letter by my friend Alex, who decorated it with red pen and coached me into writing an epistle that might even make the professor feel a little bit bad about his performance, if only he had a soul. (In the first version I hadn't even mentioned the professor's name, or given any examples of his transgressions.)
I've always been wary of ratting people out, even if it's only a consequence of a greater goal. I'm not sure if it's because my brother was always so eager to tell my parents of my minor crimes, or if it's because I naturally had an overabundance of guilt, empathy, or a desire to be liked. In any case, I refused to tell on anyone for anything, even when a boy I knew lit my sweater on fire while I was wearing it, and even when my parents threatened to cancel Christmas if I didn't tell them who was responsible. (My brother, on the other hand, would keep my parents posted about even the pettiest of sins, like the time I spoiled my dinner by eating too many cookies.)
I do feel a little guilty about implicating my professor, but I can't tell you how happy I am that I only sat through three disappointing classes (as opposed to a full semester), and that this summer I'll be taking the class with (hopefully) someone more capable. It has occurred to me, however, that the school has probably since created a file for me and put a mark by my name, perhaps in the form of a Mr. Yuk sticker, that suggests I'm someone to watch out for. Kind of the equivalent of the cook spitting on your sandwich after you sent it back to the kitchen for improvement.
I'm not sure how Joel recognized him; he was sitting far away, and neither of us had expected him to be there. "I think I just saw Dan Aykroyd," he said, and pointed to a man seated at the edge of the room, several feet below us. "There, in the corner." I squinted and tilted my glasses, neither of which gave me a definitive answer. The only thing that convinced me that it might in fact be Dan Akroyd, was that the suspect was wearing a black shirt and a red tie, which seemed slightly flamboyant for an unfamous man in his fifties, but fitting for a famous one.
I'd come to the event as a spectator, but Joel had come, in part, as a journalist. After Al Gore finished speaking, Joel announced that he was going to interview Mr. Aykroyd about his response to the presentation. "C'mon, let's go." "Really?" I asked. "You're just going to walk up to him and start asking him questions?" I didn't want to disturb the man, but my curiosity was more powerful than my discretion, and I followed Joel downstairs. I figured it was okay, since Joel was planning to interview the actor, rather than ask for an autograph or something.
Dan Aykroyd was talking to a group of friends when we approached. Joel said something to him that I couldn't make out, and the next thing I know, Joel is handing me a camera, and the two of them are looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to blind them with a flash. I conceded, and then silently shook Dan Aykoyd's hand. Instead of professionals—or fellow spectators, even—Joel and I had just identified ourselves as Fans.
Moments later, when Joel approached Aykroyd for an interview, I stayed behind, because I didn't want to be bothersome, and I wanted to somehow make up for my earlier Fan sin. So I stood ten feet away instead, and occasionally glanced over at them, mouthing words and nodding; they'd moved away from the crowd and seemed to be at ease. I wish I'd been around for that instead.
The Morning News published my photo essay on New York barber shops. Please have a look.
"A man died in my building," K. told us. That morning she'd opened the door to her sixth-floor apartment, and was smacked with a smell that her brain didn't recognize, but one that her body knew was gag-inducing. We crowded around her as she provided details. The body was three floors below.
She told us about the detective who joined her on the elevator, flashing his badge and asking where he could find the super. At this point I interrupted her. "Wait. You have an elevator?" She digressed, sharing my disbelief and commenting on her building's central air and central heating (other anomalies in New York apartment buildings).
(Later on, when our coworker showed us the porch swing she'd purchased at lunch, K. and I responded in the same fashion, simultaneously asking, "You have a porch?" Our coworker quickly reassured us that she only had a dirty roof and a fire escape, a response that [for some reason] gave us obvious relief.)
The man from the third floor had been in his sixties, K. learned, and had lived in the building for thirty years. He'd been an alcoholic and a heavy smoker; sometimes the super would find him slumped on the stairwell and would help him inside. A long time ago, the man used to be a gym teacher.
There doesn't seem to be much else, apart from these details. He'd been dead for a week before anyone noticed.
