Through travel, I found that when people thought “Long Island”, the pictures they envisioned didn’t look like the place that I called home. “Do you have pigeons in your yard?” I was asked, more than once. I bet to this day an informal poll would reveal that a majority of Americans think that pigeons are Long Island’s only, and most prized bird. At first perplexed, I realized many people only live what they see and many people, having never seen Long Island, thought of it as small and city-like. But the area I grew up in was far from city-like.
The neighborhood I grew up in was lined with trees and telephone poles. Wooded areas were scattered between lots. Hidden places: a wood with weeping willows and a rusted-out hot rod (I had to inquire with my mother the meaning of “hot rod”, which she responded to only after asking “Why?”). I never concluded how the “hot rod” came to be in the middle of that wood, but the fact of its hotness was announced after my friend poked around the ignition area, assessing wires. The acre-shy plot of trees beside our home I saw as a veritable Narnia, as Middle Earth.
Back then, I didn’t yet realize that every species of tree had already been classified, field-guided. To me, when I took the time to put a name to a plant or tree or bug--I was the first: my seeing it allowed it to be. Katherine spies a “buttercup”…and so, let there be buttercups. Living on the water, we’d take a rowboat out to “Treasure Island”, which was just our neighbor’s yard, abutting the creek and thick with brush, it’s main “treasure” being deer ticks and a rash, maybe a spotting of Tom Sawyer.
It was safe where I grew up, and knowing nothing else, I assumed everywhere was safe. I thought everyone left the doors unlocked--why not? People stopped two blocks from home to buy a cup of lemonade, often leaving a tip, usually not even thirsty. I had an implicit trust in adults, particularly those who wore uniforms. I gauged the importance of adults by their uniforms--I figured postal workers must rank close to King. Yet as smart as adults seemed to know themselves to be, I was confused by their pain and drama, which they seemed to invent out thin air, unnecessarily.
“Play-dates” were never made with phones, pens and calendars or Blackberries but with bikes dropped in front yards beside banged-on doors, with shouts at second-floors: “You finish your homework yet?” In my tiny town things hummed along, like the occasional tractor on the road tying up traffic. The noises you heard were from nature, neighborhood kids, or the occasional loud car. In the summertime the sound of crickets chirping the night away was my constant torture “creak, creak, creak” 10:15, turning over.…“creak, creak, creak” 11, let me count to ten and back again…..“creak, creak, creak”, pillow over the head, desperate at midnight. “creak, creak, creak”, nonstop. Crickets were my only enemy back then.
When you took a walk people smiled and said “Hello“, or stopped to say they liked haircut or your new bike rack, or “My, how you‘ve grown” or “How‘s your mother?” There weren‘t yet cell phones to distract a simple evening stroll, so people did still stroll and they soaked it all in.
There were mainly families in my hood, all single-family homes and none of them yet McMansions. One of our neighbors owned the best ice cream shop in town, which made him like a celebrity in my book and I considered myself lucky. There was a marina, which if you crossed through it, made the trip to the beach quicker, and added a hint of mischief--this area, probably five acres, seemed at the time to be in another State entirely, and I was always unsure the navigation aspects (some things never change).
The road I lived on was paved smooth, perfect for bike rides. And the road was a big circle, which was somehow far superior to go round and round, versus up and down. The road lacked sidewalks, but there was no need--cars could wind around. There was the “Flashlight Nazi“ who would walk his dog like clockwork every night, his path blazed by the world’s biggest flashlight. So he was sure you saw him, he would shine that monster beam directly at your car. Once, I stopped to point out to him that blinding people while they were driving might not cause the best outcome. He persisted.
Everyone knew everyone’s name, and as I got older I realized that some people could even double as PI’s pointlessly chronicling their neighbors’ lives: when they left home, with whom, and “What do you think about that?”: a suburban sport more popular than mahjong
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
She trundled down the street—why did she always ask for the brown paper bags. It wasn't about the environment, in fact, she always felt duped by this in particular: was plastic really worse than paper, since paper you need to cut down trees? No, it was because of the smell. The smell of the paper bags had always drawn her respect. Not like gasoline, but subtler and more heady, like a curry. When she was told the way cockroaches hid in paper bags, she understood, but felt she could never elaborate. Not that there was no way to corroborate with the roaches, she knew a series of tests could be performed, like Pavlov. But she knew this was a test that would never be conducted. Insects were left behind in these tests. They fail both tests: they're not cute and we can't inject them with something to see if they roll over, loose their hair, grow an extra nut. She considered changing course, of switching to plastic, but at the moment, even the idea seemed crazy.
She allows commemoration. It's as if she's an alien, yet I know people do this: take pictures, remember moments. I saw this phenomenon with my sisters, who unlike myself, all have verifiable lives. If you ask where they live, there is a pic of ground that would raise its hand if it would. Open up Earth and say she is my Queen, and they have babies, made there be life: usually the first child who gets all the pictures, and the scale descends thereafter. My sisters used to pack cameras, to remember to pack the camera. Used to pack the camera, check that it was asked, ask their husbands “Did we pack the camera?”, how the uninitiated imagine OCD, always with the on and off on and off, just checking, of lights. But again, she's not American. I have never met her face to face and still she floors me, fucks my respiration.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
The other woman
She zeroed in on the place his other girlfriend was from. His old but maybe new girlfriend. Closer and closer: Little Peconic Bay. Detected by the brain of her computer, the impersonal PO box had her living in this body of water—it must be the geographical center of town. Closer and closer: Little Peconic Bay. Closer and closer seemed to mean deeper and deeper, the screen all blue. Was I diving now? Would I find her at the bottom of the bay, meet her soul there? She must be deeper than me. She would never look for me on a cold blue screen, diving into that hard electric bay. She was from another country, her life had to have more meaning than mine ever could. Damn it. She won when she was born. Check and mate. Russia.
This scared me the most about cheating. As much as I hate myself mostly because of my looks, pat a good narcissist on its head, it wasn't that she was better looking than me. Or even the possibility she could perform tricks in bed, foreign tricks, passed from untold generations and guarded like a vaginal national treasure, gleaming. What most crippled was this: that she was deeper. Rather, that he thought she was deeper. That he thought of her and thought of peaceful things, of Ansel Adam prints and batting eyelashes. Of them standing together in a field, with a rusty barrel or wheelbarrow or barn in the back and her saying “Oh. Let me take out my camera”. Of her taking a picture and him holding a pose, happily. That her life has more meaning, I cringe. She might be the first in her family to go to college—insta-meaning. Worse: she attends graduation, makes an appointment to have her hair done before, makes a day of it. She could probably even get away with an updo. A swooping, kempt updo. In her world, there are deep breaths , there are “There, there's”, the word nice has a life. Nice time, nice earrings, nice breeze. Commemerations. She calls a few friends. Maybe she picks up a cake. Probably, someone makes her a cake. Probably, there is more than one friend in on the baking of the cake. They talk beforehand: “We should really get N a cake”. “Oh, I was going to bake one. My grandmothers recipe, from Germany-German chocolate.” For her, even the cake becomes a thing. Has a life. Her cake has more of a life than I. And I, my mantra is “forget forget goodbye goodbye”.
This scared me the most about cheating. As much as I hate myself mostly because of my looks, pat a good narcissist on its head, it wasn't that she was better looking than me. Or even the possibility she could perform tricks in bed, foreign tricks, passed from untold generations and guarded like a vaginal national treasure, gleaming. What most crippled was this: that she was deeper. Rather, that he thought she was deeper. That he thought of her and thought of peaceful things, of Ansel Adam prints and batting eyelashes. Of them standing together in a field, with a rusty barrel or wheelbarrow or barn in the back and her saying “Oh. Let me take out my camera”. Of her taking a picture and him holding a pose, happily. That her life has more meaning, I cringe. She might be the first in her family to go to college—insta-meaning. Worse: she attends graduation, makes an appointment to have her hair done before, makes a day of it. She could probably even get away with an updo. A swooping, kempt updo. In her world, there are deep breaths , there are “There, there's”, the word nice has a life. Nice time, nice earrings, nice breeze. Commemerations. She calls a few friends. Maybe she picks up a cake. Probably, someone makes her a cake. Probably, there is more than one friend in on the baking of the cake. They talk beforehand: “We should really get N a cake”. “Oh, I was going to bake one. My grandmothers recipe, from Germany-German chocolate.” For her, even the cake becomes a thing. Has a life. Her cake has more of a life than I. And I, my mantra is “forget forget goodbye goodbye”.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
The Spirit
Coming home from school the last day before Winter break pops loud like a bottle cork getting pried off. Christmas season: shrouded mystery, open book. Consistently warm, regardless actual weather. Better than wet-weather baking, better than snow days, better than any day in November, in February, than even July. There was nothing that wasn’t possible. Smiles said “I’m right here, right now. And I expect joy”. How often is joy expected? Joy in bursting: bursting off that last bus; bursting through the door; bursting up and down aisles in stores. Bursting so much so the night before, that only eyes grew tired waiting for that moment of bursting from bed. (*Now getting out of bed involves verbs like “pry” or “brace”, and unfortunately not “burst” or “joy”.)
Piping chimney, piping hot fire, hot stove. Cold toe, hot breath. Sweating through wool. Lonely outdoor aromas inhaled deeply, ravenously, with animal lungs. Deep inhales that said “Hold on. Don’t rush. Let’s let this last for more than just one slice of forever”. Huffing visible breath in the air, thinking “Wow, look at us, we are air making machines and we can see life”.
The promise of Christmas wonder was guaranteed: no school meant sleep late, meet with friends. Take treks in the woods, wear yourself out. It meant people held doors for one another and on those doors were wreaths which smelled of laundry. Elves’ laundry, done in the woods. All around, people were harried in a good way--they hustled, like in the last lap of a race or better yet last quarter of a tied game because that means “fight for the team” and that is also part of the Spirit: Unity.
Unpacking boxes of Christmas ornaments and adorning the tree was a rite of passage. My seven siblings and I had filled boxes with glue-ronments, assorted kindling of felt and ice-pop sticks, glitter and pinecones, and starring Elmer’s glue by sight and smell…inhaled through the years. Bought breakables, the up-high ones sleeping in paper wombs, opening each like a secretly passed note or possibly prized Wonka bar. After fifty weeks of slumber in an attic tomb, they rose to life like marching soldiers upon seeing light, a yearly birth.
Things were thick. The weight of Winter was heavy yet not burdensome. Held up on frozen ground, nests of carolers huddled, offering their hearts. No constriction was felt in full rooms of family. Chock full of stuff. Dense with love. Loaded with the smell of bacon, of roast turkey and other delicious decaying flesh. Heavy linens with deep hues and heavy plates--the weight of finer things.
This time reflected one thing I liked about church: the ceremony. Here: extra care, extra tableware. There: extra people, extra Jesuses, extra Marys. Marking her calendar month: Mary, the original Mz. December. Extra altar adornments and Poinsettias abounded. People spoke in low tones, counted steps.
Within rites of passage, roles reverse: kids bow to their parents’ sugarplum visions. Think Santa. A neighbor (who I knew was smarmy even at seven) came over, Santa for hire, offering his lap, the usual line of questioning, and accoutrements like beard, Hohohoho--and I, knowing it was him yet playing along, prayed “This face must look more smile, less wince, no?” We all force stories of necessity eventually.
I wonder when the official fact of Santa’s non-existence stood up, Dean of Childhood’s Death?
It’s kind of like figuring the last time you did something, especially if it was A Thing. Every day after-dinner walks with Dad; Sunday: chicken day; Wednesday, Parcheesi tournament: Boys v. Girls; Thursdays with Aunt Edna (’91-’94). You never remember the last because you usually don’t know it’s The Last. And who among us recalls calling cut?
As years went by, the excitement of the Holiday waned: like an engagement ring offered after ten years of courtship-the smile of the bride not quite beaming, an “I do, not DO!!”. A submission. What happened to the wonder of Winter? For me: I got cold. Knew new kinds of heaviness: why person x and person y didn’t talk and why. That everyone had either x, y, or z in their family tree and that sometimes sorry wasn’t enough to call truce.
Now my wonder is in how it was all pulled off? What kind of veneer was used, what potion allowed adults to carry out the backstage handiwork which to me was just a play? Those theatrics. How did they get Peter to fly like that? It seemed it must include a lot of forgetting. Intentional forgetting. I can picture a priest reciting “Let us rise. In Peace. And let us all forget.” Amen.
Piping chimney, piping hot fire, hot stove. Cold toe, hot breath. Sweating through wool. Lonely outdoor aromas inhaled deeply, ravenously, with animal lungs. Deep inhales that said “Hold on. Don’t rush. Let’s let this last for more than just one slice of forever”. Huffing visible breath in the air, thinking “Wow, look at us, we are air making machines and we can see life”.
The promise of Christmas wonder was guaranteed: no school meant sleep late, meet with friends. Take treks in the woods, wear yourself out. It meant people held doors for one another and on those doors were wreaths which smelled of laundry. Elves’ laundry, done in the woods. All around, people were harried in a good way--they hustled, like in the last lap of a race or better yet last quarter of a tied game because that means “fight for the team” and that is also part of the Spirit: Unity.
Unpacking boxes of Christmas ornaments and adorning the tree was a rite of passage. My seven siblings and I had filled boxes with glue-ronments, assorted kindling of felt and ice-pop sticks, glitter and pinecones, and starring Elmer’s glue by sight and smell…inhaled through the years. Bought breakables, the up-high ones sleeping in paper wombs, opening each like a secretly passed note or possibly prized Wonka bar. After fifty weeks of slumber in an attic tomb, they rose to life like marching soldiers upon seeing light, a yearly birth.
Things were thick. The weight of Winter was heavy yet not burdensome. Held up on frozen ground, nests of carolers huddled, offering their hearts. No constriction was felt in full rooms of family. Chock full of stuff. Dense with love. Loaded with the smell of bacon, of roast turkey and other delicious decaying flesh. Heavy linens with deep hues and heavy plates--the weight of finer things.
This time reflected one thing I liked about church: the ceremony. Here: extra care, extra tableware. There: extra people, extra Jesuses, extra Marys. Marking her calendar month: Mary, the original Mz. December. Extra altar adornments and Poinsettias abounded. People spoke in low tones, counted steps.
Within rites of passage, roles reverse: kids bow to their parents’ sugarplum visions. Think Santa. A neighbor (who I knew was smarmy even at seven) came over, Santa for hire, offering his lap, the usual line of questioning, and accoutrements like beard, Hohohoho--and I, knowing it was him yet playing along, prayed “This face must look more smile, less wince, no?” We all force stories of necessity eventually.
I wonder when the official fact of Santa’s non-existence stood up, Dean of Childhood’s Death?
It’s kind of like figuring the last time you did something, especially if it was A Thing. Every day after-dinner walks with Dad; Sunday: chicken day; Wednesday, Parcheesi tournament: Boys v. Girls; Thursdays with Aunt Edna (’91-’94). You never remember the last because you usually don’t know it’s The Last. And who among us recalls calling cut?
As years went by, the excitement of the Holiday waned: like an engagement ring offered after ten years of courtship-the smile of the bride not quite beaming, an “I do, not DO!!”. A submission. What happened to the wonder of Winter? For me: I got cold. Knew new kinds of heaviness: why person x and person y didn’t talk and why. That everyone had either x, y, or z in their family tree and that sometimes sorry wasn’t enough to call truce.
Now my wonder is in how it was all pulled off? What kind of veneer was used, what potion allowed adults to carry out the backstage handiwork which to me was just a play? Those theatrics. How did they get Peter to fly like that? It seemed it must include a lot of forgetting. Intentional forgetting. I can picture a priest reciting “Let us rise. In Peace. And let us all forget.” Amen.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
How my Cat will Die....A Children's Fairytale
Nearly the point of exhaustion. Obsessed with death. Lately I’ve been unable to look at even my cat without conjuring up, and then existing within, some historic timeline–starting with the cat’s arrival in my life and then gelling into a sort of montage, including highlights of what she used to be and do.
She used to play Fetch! In her youth, a master at finding balls, and
holding them in her mouth as she dainitily trotted back. She would only go for those aluminum balls, though. I’ve always thought (but never confessed) that clearly this had something to do with the fact that her natal Sun is in Aquarius. They love all things silver.
My Aquarian kitty. She could hear the aluminum crinkling some 20 yards to the fore, and come running. But alas, no longer a kitty.
There are various other scenes I replay, often for some unavoidable reason involving the different litter boxes and their respective surroundings that she has shat into over the years. Sigh.
It bothers me how her eyes have been dulled by time--less vibrant, less acute. And ultimately the timeline will end with her death. The imagining of all forms of that scenario: like for example, will I find her one day, just a little lump that I assume is sleeping?
She used to play Fetch! In her youth, a master at finding balls, and
holding them in her mouth as she dainitily trotted back. She would only go for those aluminum balls, though. I’ve always thought (but never confessed) that clearly this had something to do with the fact that her natal Sun is in Aquarius. They love all things silver.
My Aquarian kitty. She could hear the aluminum crinkling some 20 yards to the fore, and come running. But alas, no longer a kitty.
There are various other scenes I replay, often for some unavoidable reason involving the different litter boxes and their respective surroundings that she has shat into over the years. Sigh.
It bothers me how her eyes have been dulled by time--less vibrant, less acute. And ultimately the timeline will end with her death. The imagining of all forms of that scenario: like for example, will I find her one day, just a little lump that I assume is sleeping?
Picket: Lines, Fences
Picket: Lines, Fences
With outside noise boxed
In its own wilderness
I wait inside, first in line
For some serendipitous
Round and round
Theme park ride
I'm the white lap cat
That came out of nowhere
Stunning -- Hungry
Tossed from a seeming abyss
In a vast motel
I'm the Canadian quarter
That filled your icebox slot
An undetected foreigner
With a future just as uncertain as the blessed rest
With outside noise boxed
In its own wilderness
I wait inside, first in line
For some serendipitous
Round and round
Theme park ride
I'm the white lap cat
That came out of nowhere
Stunning -- Hungry
Tossed from a seeming abyss
In a vast motel
I'm the Canadian quarter
That filled your icebox slot
An undetected foreigner
With a future just as uncertain as the blessed rest
what happens when your home is sold
They will file in, buzzing
peck their ways to the view
laser eye the walls on either side down
and the horrible border of my childhood room
will be virtually redone
my biggest memory is the whole sky
at night smooth move up and down a porpus
and you warned me about the world
I was ten
you said materialistic, it was bad
and I knew you meant it
and it meant a lot
peck their ways to the view
laser eye the walls on either side down
and the horrible border of my childhood room
will be virtually redone
my biggest memory is the whole sky
at night smooth move up and down a porpus
and you warned me about the world
I was ten
you said materialistic, it was bad
and I knew you meant it
and it meant a lot
We’d all heard enough about your world travels when...
We were being driven by a man
who was driven from his homeland
Poor and probably better educated
than us combined
He came for his family
for the prosperity of food
But the ride was not enough, you needed
an offer of congratulations: you had been
there or near there somewhere near his home
And you had to tell him,
this some-odd person of the night
of your mock wonder, your exploring eye
You wanted white teeth, a sharp smile
a gesture of congratulations
For your Americanass
having done your world touring
stuffed sitting on a bus, camera in hand
and then you needed a thank you
a why isn’t that nice?
We were being driven by a man
who was driven from his homeland
Poor and probably better educated
than us combined
He came for his family
for the prosperity of food
But the ride was not enough, you needed
an offer of congratulations: you had been
there or near there somewhere near his home
And you had to tell him,
this some-odd person of the night
of your mock wonder, your exploring eye
You wanted white teeth, a sharp smile
a gesture of congratulations
For your Americanass
having done your world touring
stuffed sitting on a bus, camera in hand
and then you needed a thank you
a why isn’t that nice?
Simple
The simple facts: Had I known, would I have participated? Like when I got my cat. If someone said "Your Dad will be dead before your cat", would I not have gotten her? Does one thing have to do with the other?
If you would have told me before I took that first puff of weed that, less than a decade later I’d be hung up in rehab. Looking for answers from places with names like “Promises” and “Hope for Life”. Would that knowledge, a real knowledge, not an uncertain, wavering, I can contest that, pissant, fourteen-years-olds excuse for knowledge but real knowledge, have precluded me from taking that first hit? From successively seeking it out at seemingly every turn in the few years thereafter?
I know that feeling my father must have used to have. I keep feeding my cat treats, woefully afraid that it is at least the primary, if not the only, reason she loves me and that if I stop she will cease loving me. That’s why he incesssanlty bought me ice cream. He was buying love, paying it forward. And I’m afraid any love I showed him he figured was because of the oreo.
If you would have told me before I took that first puff of weed that, less than a decade later I’d be hung up in rehab. Looking for answers from places with names like “Promises” and “Hope for Life”. Would that knowledge, a real knowledge, not an uncertain, wavering, I can contest that, pissant, fourteen-years-olds excuse for knowledge but real knowledge, have precluded me from taking that first hit? From successively seeking it out at seemingly every turn in the few years thereafter?
I know that feeling my father must have used to have. I keep feeding my cat treats, woefully afraid that it is at least the primary, if not the only, reason she loves me and that if I stop she will cease loving me. That’s why he incesssanlty bought me ice cream. He was buying love, paying it forward. And I’m afraid any love I showed him he figured was because of the oreo.
Adios
While most immigrants o.h.o.c.r.i.t.u.s aren’t particularly assuming, they do try their best to fly under the radar in their hand-me-down cars with out-of-state plates, lacking insurance. Most have a work ethic far superior to any born-here American, and somehow accept their lack of citizenship, and ultimately civil rights, with a very quiet grace. A please don’t make me leave grace. Unlike in the 80’s most people o.h.o.c.r.i.t.u.s who have come here were not rounded up and put on boats unwittingly sent by their Commie dictator since they were, well, less than model citizens (be it on account of their ears falling of or the fact they raped every female in their family, etc.). No, these people have gone through much, much more than situations at Kennedy that have left a few Americans teetering on the edge of sanity. They had come with the specific intention of building a better life, just as my non-oho ancestors had. Either that, or they came here cause shit may have allegedly been “going down” where they cam from, either on their own account or otherwise. The person I’m about to recall for you was of the latter variety, having come here for unspecified reasons somehow pertaining to his job in the government and the need to get away from the county (Colombia) as a result. He would remind you every other time he saw you that he was, in fact, once a principal in a Jesuit University there. I started off my journey of getting to know Manuel on probably a sort of shitty foot, let’s say it was it’s owner had just recently been diagnosed with Diabetes, although it had been festering. The reason for this is I had the distinct displeasure of working with one of his daughters at this restaurant before working with him. One of their stays was short-lived, but I will always remember Sabrina–not for her bussing skills or lack thereof but for her horseman’s face that came angrily stampeding towards yours whenever a request of her was made. The other, who I worked with more frequently, was insolent, rude and rollity-eyed to the point of being obnoxious–as if she were Paris Hilton, but her parents had recently gambled off every last piece of property at a drunken orgy and she was now forced to toe the line, working for meager pay in a position eons below someone of her stature–at 18 years of age. You’d ask her to do something a certain way, cringing as she executed it incorrectly numerous times, and she’s snap at you–her mouth telling you uh-duh, I obviously already know that you idiot, while her eyes worked perhaps a magic picked up at some chi-chi-mariki religion in Colombia, which burned through you–I am piercing your soul, you evil white whore. Anywho, having no idea what to expect but seeing what literally came out of him, I thought, I wonder what this guy is gonna be like. Well, I knew it would be interesting. And oh, it was. Unlike those who had come here for a better life and were eager to work those extra hours, save that money, he told you flat out that he had a better job before, and let me know, in broken English, that Colombians are a much better breed than the Guatemalans we worked with. They were lucky he talked to them. Poor him. But all I could think was the obvious: if you hate it so much here, if you were such a toot!toot! Man of importance from whence you came, why not crawl, er, pridefully strut on back their. Heck, book your whole family a first-class one-way trip heading out tomorrow. Adios! But obvious to me was that he must have done something to go from esteem and authority to living in a second floor walk up bussing tables in America. Yes, it’s not that I’m some genius. But because Manuel considered himself three-steps ahead of all of us dumb Americans, coupled with the fact that he was clearly delusional, I don’t think he had any clue that any of us had soaked up the information he readily and regularly offered up about his history, and added the 2 plus the other 2 and wound up with four. No, we were too dumb for that. What really struck me about this individual was his confidence that he knew better than anyone. He must have considered himself a regular Newton or Edison. He had never worked in a restaurant before, probably had never even dined in one in America, and he was working with people who had 5, 10, 20, 40 years experience specifically in the restaurant business, specifically in the US, specifically on Long Island, and yet, he constantly piped up about how we could do things better, run more efficiently, etc. etc, and most of the time he had no fucking clue what he was talking about. I often wanted to lean in with some tweezers and pluck the hairs off his facial mole one by one, while I patted him on the head and like I child explained “There, there, you have such great ideas! We are so proud of you! Now you wanna finish wiping down Table 12?” Firstly, because I’m an asshole but also because I hate the whole men are superior bs. That was another issue– he was a bus boy, and hence his job was to do what even those with a cursory idea of the duties of a bus boy would know: fill water glasses, bring bread, clear the table. But all these things were all beneath him. More accurately, he’d prefer to not do them and would either tell you that outright, or would disappear at different times to do things like hide in the kitchen, or make personal calls outside. Or, he would pretend not to understand you when you asked him to do any one of those things. And you would almost always have to ask, because, although after say 50 times of performing one of only about ten operations, he still didn’t build up that automaticity that many of the American kids could: “Glass=more than half empty, let me fill it, I am no idiot, and that is part of my job”. No, not with him. First, wanting to help him with his English (which was supposedly why he took this job) I would ask him things in complete sentences “Hey, Manuel, would you please bring water to table 10?", which (this was hysterical at first, then sublimely funny, but soon made me wince was always followed with an “Excuse me?” the intonation of which I’ll attempt to convey phonetically: “Eh-hux-cuh-uh-you-saah me?” So, in the begginging when I still had some patience/desire to help him assimilate, I would fully repeat myself “Sure, would you please refill the water on table 10?. Eh-hux-cuh-uh-you-saah me? So, I would modify it a little, making it sligthly more terse (I was probably getting pulled in two directions at this point myself” “Table 10, bring some water”. Ex-cuh-uh-you-sah me? Now, with desperation: “Ten, water, please”, to which he would look at me with irritatedly, although as I realized soon enough it was a mock-irritation cause this guy was fucked in the head and viewed this at best as a game. He tried to break you down. He was, in a word, a dick. Sometimes when we were really busy and he would whip out another Ex-cuh-uh-you-sah me? With that doe-eyed BS mock wonder, I would simply say (and I knew this killed him) “agua por diez”. Ha! Comprende? Yea, I thought so.
And the demands he would make. In restaurants, many times you share “meal time” before service--we did this here and not only would he spend the whole time whining about how he didn’t like/sign off on this or that thing that we did or way that we did something, but you’d see the manager/owner pulled over to the side, hairy mole looking him squarely in the eye as Manuel pontificated this or that injustice to which his watering glasses hath forced upon him. When he was on my official shit-list-from-whence-there is no return, I noticed this manager almost leaning in to overhear the conversations and dealings between Manuel and I. That, coupled with the way Manuel would congratulate me when he felt I was being nice to him, I knew that Manuel had gone to our boss/the manager, and actually complained about me! Me! I would sit with him (at first) during meal time and would do my best to engage him in conversation, to include him in other conversations the staff were having–I really thought “I hope I can help him learn English so he can go get a better job”. But the whole pretending-to-not understand thing was so fucking annoying. And the times where he congratulated me for being polite to him, were times where I, along with doing my waitress-related duties, also did his bus-boy related duties, which was much less irritating than finding him (he was often unfindable–I coined him “the ghost”), or playing the game where he acts stumped. I was over that. Especially since, if in a pinch, I needed him to actually do something, I would when asked to repeat myself, just respond mostly in Spanish. The look I got for that–ooh-wee! I KNOW WHERE his daughter got that zapping you with my eyes bit. Jesus Christ I thought. I don’t know if it was this that made me wince, or the fact that (and I wanted so badly to discreetly tell him this, as it made me want to vomit even when it wasn’t me doing the dining) he had that somewhat substantial mole on the side of his face with several long hairs coming out (probably about an inch). Yes, that’s true–not poetic license. It shows a new era has arrived–back when my ancestors came here they worked hard and shut up. They were openly discriminated against, but they fought through it. Now, I am NOT suggesting that new immigrants should be subjected to some old-timey discrimination-we know better than that now. But jeez, this guy hasn’t put a dime into any kind of infrastructure cost and he would complain that there was a pothole not far from his house. Really? You should have said something. I hope Manuel is doing well today. I no longer work at this restaurant, and he got a job before I left at a liquor store. May he be their best customer.
And the demands he would make. In restaurants, many times you share “meal time” before service--we did this here and not only would he spend the whole time whining about how he didn’t like/sign off on this or that thing that we did or way that we did something, but you’d see the manager/owner pulled over to the side, hairy mole looking him squarely in the eye as Manuel pontificated this or that injustice to which his watering glasses hath forced upon him. When he was on my official shit-list-from-whence-there is no return, I noticed this manager almost leaning in to overhear the conversations and dealings between Manuel and I. That, coupled with the way Manuel would congratulate me when he felt I was being nice to him, I knew that Manuel had gone to our boss/the manager, and actually complained about me! Me! I would sit with him (at first) during meal time and would do my best to engage him in conversation, to include him in other conversations the staff were having–I really thought “I hope I can help him learn English so he can go get a better job”. But the whole pretending-to-not understand thing was so fucking annoying. And the times where he congratulated me for being polite to him, were times where I, along with doing my waitress-related duties, also did his bus-boy related duties, which was much less irritating than finding him (he was often unfindable–I coined him “the ghost”), or playing the game where he acts stumped. I was over that. Especially since, if in a pinch, I needed him to actually do something, I would when asked to repeat myself, just respond mostly in Spanish. The look I got for that–ooh-wee! I KNOW WHERE his daughter got that zapping you with my eyes bit. Jesus Christ I thought. I don’t know if it was this that made me wince, or the fact that (and I wanted so badly to discreetly tell him this, as it made me want to vomit even when it wasn’t me doing the dining) he had that somewhat substantial mole on the side of his face with several long hairs coming out (probably about an inch). Yes, that’s true–not poetic license. It shows a new era has arrived–back when my ancestors came here they worked hard and shut up. They were openly discriminated against, but they fought through it. Now, I am NOT suggesting that new immigrants should be subjected to some old-timey discrimination-we know better than that now. But jeez, this guy hasn’t put a dime into any kind of infrastructure cost and he would complain that there was a pothole not far from his house. Really? You should have said something. I hope Manuel is doing well today. I no longer work at this restaurant, and he got a job before I left at a liquor store. May he be their best customer.
The ER
Generally, in an unfortunate way, the immigrants from “down-South”(father than the US border, and heading as far as Argentina) are less than demanding as they try to settle in to our okay country–in search of better lives. Usually, they earn meager wages in places like hotels, restaurants, and are paid under the table, so that although they don’t have to pay taxes, they also don’t earn Social Security benefits either. Ultimately, that sucks. And as a Democrat, and more importantly someone with some (although not always enough) compassion, I most of the time feel sorry for them. But not always--For example, not at the emergency room. You hear it said, at least I had, and wanted to dismiss it, that due to lack of heath insurance, people of Hispanic origin currently residing here (anyone think that may be deserving an acronym?) use the ER as their “primary care physicians”. And while I hate stereotypes, it is here in the ER as well as over the years waiting tables, that I have found, well, that there’s a reason why they became steroytpes in the first place–they’re true. Generalizations, yes, they are not good–in a general way. But sometimes you need a little comic relief, at someone else’s expense, especially if said person is directly responsible for your ER visit amounting to a day’s work, at a whopping eight hours.
It was the end of the line for me at the ER that day. I could almost taste the backwash of Vicodin. And I needed it. I was coming off of Effexor, on purpose. It’s not in the doctor bible yet that this is a horrible experience that can make your internal organs feel as if they are being twisted and pulled into a devil may care distortion. But, I can tell them that that’s the case. After waiting what felt like hours, probably because it was hours, I was almost in--next at bat for some pain relief lovin'.
I’d had this happen before, only to be teased with a screaming child coming in just as the orderly was heading out into the waitng room with my chart in hand. Fuck, I’d think. Fuck fuck fuck. I joked out loud that this would happen again, and ha ha ha, never one to miss an opportunity to help fate fuck me over, just as I was next up this time, in came a Hispanic man–with two children. Fuck. But, not to let this get to me, I thought optimistically, one down, one to go. The little brat, excuse me, little brat of Hispanic origin currently residing is the US, would be called quickly, and in no time I’d be happier than ever to hear my name. But I was not so lucky. This family o.h.o.c.r.i.t.u.s. was only the harbinger of more ill-health in small packages to come. There were four more said familias en todo, y all of them were f's.o.h.o.c.r.i.t.u.s. And, like I said, this is not the first time this happened. Suddenly, as I was doubling over in pain, sure that when they suggested “Kidney Stones” they must have meant Paleolithic rocks, I wanted to walk around the room, glaring at each and every parent, and offering them my medical expertise–if only I’d had my English to Spanish dictionary. “Oh, you’re kid has a slight fever?” “Go buy one of these, my friend”, and as I pulled out a Baby Tylenol, they would be forever thankful, idiot parents that they were. I would fake a smile, and do an impersonation Princess Diana wave, and they would walk off to la farmacia, saying prayers for my own good health, while I waked over to the registration lady and let her know that the Ortiz family would no longer be needing medical assistance, today.
It was the end of the line for me at the ER that day. I could almost taste the backwash of Vicodin. And I needed it. I was coming off of Effexor, on purpose. It’s not in the doctor bible yet that this is a horrible experience that can make your internal organs feel as if they are being twisted and pulled into a devil may care distortion. But, I can tell them that that’s the case. After waiting what felt like hours, probably because it was hours, I was almost in--next at bat for some pain relief lovin'.
I’d had this happen before, only to be teased with a screaming child coming in just as the orderly was heading out into the waitng room with my chart in hand. Fuck, I’d think. Fuck fuck fuck. I joked out loud that this would happen again, and ha ha ha, never one to miss an opportunity to help fate fuck me over, just as I was next up this time, in came a Hispanic man–with two children. Fuck. But, not to let this get to me, I thought optimistically, one down, one to go. The little brat, excuse me, little brat of Hispanic origin currently residing is the US, would be called quickly, and in no time I’d be happier than ever to hear my name. But I was not so lucky. This family o.h.o.c.r.i.t.u.s. was only the harbinger of more ill-health in small packages to come. There were four more said familias en todo, y all of them were f's.o.h.o.c.r.i.t.u.s. And, like I said, this is not the first time this happened. Suddenly, as I was doubling over in pain, sure that when they suggested “Kidney Stones” they must have meant Paleolithic rocks, I wanted to walk around the room, glaring at each and every parent, and offering them my medical expertise–if only I’d had my English to Spanish dictionary. “Oh, you’re kid has a slight fever?” “Go buy one of these, my friend”, and as I pulled out a Baby Tylenol, they would be forever thankful, idiot parents that they were. I would fake a smile, and do an impersonation Princess Diana wave, and they would walk off to la farmacia, saying prayers for my own good health, while I waked over to the registration lady and let her know that the Ortiz family would no longer be needing medical assistance, today.
Getting Out
What getting out of Mattituck meant for me was different than what it meant for anyone else. It was not so much the place, as the state of mind. I have many friends who have gotten out of Mattituck, only to stay intextirably linked to their former selves, their parents ideals, their homegrown fondness for corn. For keeping up with the Joneses, even if the Joneses in Mattituck might be a little more low key than Manhattan or Manhasset Joneses. They may have moved miles, but their heads are still buried in the sand, both figuaratively and literally. So, living back on Long Island and having to endure their mock sympathy...their unknowingness that their heads are where they are...is really fucking annoying.
In Mattituck there is a Democractic bent that sits. A Democratic bent that knows that it has laurels to rest on. And forever will so help me god and Amen. A clash of religion and what's really in the heart.
And it paints a Jesus picture--has to do with being a "real Christian". Has to do with doing the right thing, as long as I can take periodic vacations with my dispendable income. As long as I have a few J Crew sweaters and my slipppers are also from J Crew. Not without MY baby! Not without TWO for ten dollars. NO!
Mattituck (and I specify this place because it is where I grew up) is perceived as a microcosm of the whole world. As with one, so must be with the other, right? There's a nationalism involved, even though it's just a speck of a town.
The whole idea of being a “nationalist” is fine–as long as if that’s you, you agree to admit that it makes you an asshole and that by doing so you renounce your religion. You spit on it. You in effect say “Fuck the whole caring for everyone thing”. As long as you don’t call yourself Christian, or Jewish, or a man of spiritual nature....and also a nationalist. Because: the NIMBYism is repulsive. It slides its way into everyone's mentaility. The "I'm better than..." is so repulsive because, for all it's protracted effort, the result is rarely more than mediocre. Nice try, Tucker!
You can’t decide to completely shun the main message of you religion but also quote Biblical lines down to the nitty-gritty, inciting them when it serves you even as you’ve already discarded there major lessons.
For all the million things I hate about the town I now live in, close to my hometown but on the other side of the tracks, at least it has no fucking clue what it is. It doesn't try to be something it's not. I've always been a fan of "If you don't try, then you can't fail", which is to my own detriment, but sometimes effort is worse.
In Mattituck there is a Democractic bent that sits. A Democratic bent that knows that it has laurels to rest on. And forever will so help me god and Amen. A clash of religion and what's really in the heart.
And it paints a Jesus picture--has to do with being a "real Christian". Has to do with doing the right thing, as long as I can take periodic vacations with my dispendable income. As long as I have a few J Crew sweaters and my slipppers are also from J Crew. Not without MY baby! Not without TWO for ten dollars. NO!
Mattituck (and I specify this place because it is where I grew up) is perceived as a microcosm of the whole world. As with one, so must be with the other, right? There's a nationalism involved, even though it's just a speck of a town.
The whole idea of being a “nationalist” is fine–as long as if that’s you, you agree to admit that it makes you an asshole and that by doing so you renounce your religion. You spit on it. You in effect say “Fuck the whole caring for everyone thing”. As long as you don’t call yourself Christian, or Jewish, or a man of spiritual nature....and also a nationalist. Because: the NIMBYism is repulsive. It slides its way into everyone's mentaility. The "I'm better than..." is so repulsive because, for all it's protracted effort, the result is rarely more than mediocre. Nice try, Tucker!
You can’t decide to completely shun the main message of you religion but also quote Biblical lines down to the nitty-gritty, inciting them when it serves you even as you’ve already discarded there major lessons.
For all the million things I hate about the town I now live in, close to my hometown but on the other side of the tracks, at least it has no fucking clue what it is. It doesn't try to be something it's not. I've always been a fan of "If you don't try, then you can't fail", which is to my own detriment, but sometimes effort is worse.
Big Shitty
The city seemed like a good place to go. It was away. It was new. It was big. People had ideas and cared about ideas. And also it was close to home. Close enough to the bosom that I could take a quick train trip home for some good old-fashioned moms cooking. Far enough and lenient enough that I could smoke pot constantly and not nobody was gonna bother me. At least before Herr Guilianis’ rule. He really pricked things up. When I first arrived at NYU in 1996 I lived in a dorm right on the park, Hayden Hall. I rarely made it to class, that surely was a downfall. But I loved that I could drink a forty ounce of OE and smoke a blunt in front, in Washington Square Park, and if the police were any the wiser then they didn’t care. After Guilianis regime (aka the Disney brigade) there were video cameras (with people actually watching the video in real-time) and a stake-out trailer where the eyes were always upon you. Once in the late evening, on a quiet night with oddly few people around, my roomate and I, while living on the corner of Thompson and Bleeker, strolled over to the park with her puppy to enjoy a nice kind joint, when some non-descript middle-aged man with a conspicuous baseball cap came over, after seeing us smoke, to ask where had gotten the weed. I, still semi-retarded and not much the wiser would probably have given him the number to one of our delivery services, if...If he was younger and cuter; if he had taken the time to shoot the shit for a minute before deciding to make his move. But Sam took the lead from the get-go. She responded to his first question, which by the way was leading “so you two were just smoking a joint over here. Period. Question mark”. Sam says no, we weren’t and the way she’s looking at him is telltale fuck you buddy, the jigs already up might as well save your breath. But, sticking to his steno pad story, he tries to play it out a little longer, and finally, after a few painfully awkward minutes, wants the number to a delivery service. “You girls know they have these things, right? These ‘delivery services’ that you call, and they come to deliver you weed, right?!?”. Yea, no. We’ve gotta be going. Your number? I think we’ve got it. I, feeling sorry for the guy say “Why didn’t you just tell him we were smoking, give the guy the number?” Because Kat, that guy was totally an undercover. Alas and alack, the conspicuous baseball cap looked so for a reason.
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