I don't know if I can do this alone/
Oh after all our sweet love is flown/
I've been a running/
I've been skipping like a stone/
And I don't know if I,/
I can do this all alone/
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Men.
Under many different phases of my being, I have looked into the stars and wondered whether the blanket pulled over our existence is a construction sheet with poked holes, or just a whole lot of white we can’t see (all of). I’ve looked at the stars like they are things that haven’t changed or haven’t moved, even while they are out there orbiting, collecting, and changing in size; combusting into life and exploding into death just as we are down here; thinking ourselves birds, or otherwise still humans floating looking down into deepest seas. And even then, we —the stars and I—would look at each other from a great distance and laugh at one another’s perspective.
I wonder if the Milky Way knows we have the same taste in men.
I wonder if the Milky Way knows we have the same taste in men.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Safety Pins and Nipples
Her bare breasts were too close for comfort, the only thing covering her lower half, a tutu. You guys are the only ones my age, she told us, you can’t leave now. The party has hardly started. Her eyes were most likely attempting to make me flush, turn me on, keep me there. I was too busy staring into the adjacent room, a dark shade of crimson with low music playing and a cluster of twenty or so people all pulling at one another’s bare limbs, pumping and groaning all in a crowd. From what it looked like, there were some twenty year olds, some sixty year olds, everyone in-between. All fucking. People still do this? I said to Azara.
“I was told this was an underwear party,” Azara said.
The bare breasted girl giggled and said where’s the underwear? A sixty year old man, hair greased to the side, pulled out from the crowd of people, sweaty, and fixed the safety pins jammed through his nipples.
“Azara, where did you hear about this party?”
“Uh. The internet," Azara said.
“The internet?”
“The internet.”
“You look for parties on the internet?”
“No.”
“So how did this-”
“Listen-”
The man with safety pins in his nipples walked by in ass-less chaps. I could tell he was trying to tempt my breasts out of my shirt. Azara crossed her arms across her chest and shivered.
“Oh I’m listening,” I said.
“I just thought you could meet some new people…”
Chains rattled against the concrete wall to our left, as screens peeled themselves from the ceiling, unfolding in all of their glory, more naked bodies on display. Every one on the opposite end of the room stopped having sex for a moment and, as a collective, turned to the giant screens. The girl on the screen was bright blonde, the man a dark haired and hairy thing. I looked away before the screaming started. I suddenly noticed a man sitting in a small cubby behind us near the stairs leading into the carnal den, a stout, fat man in a white collared shirt and a thick mustache reading the New York Times under a sign reading, NO PANTS PERMITTED PAST THIS POINT. Behind him, a row of clothing hangers, some with pants, others with underwear, some, empty. I watched him reading the paper. His brow creased a little, taking in what must have been a catastrophic event. I looked back in to the other room and saw everyone doing a slow, naked waltz around one another, wondering if any of them even bothered to ask this man if we wanted to join. It didn’t look as if he was interested. I squinted at the headlines; all in Spanish. I thought about asking him what he was reading, until he looked up and saw me looking back at him and he winced. I would have winced at me too.
"Can we go now?" I said.
“I was told this was an underwear party,” Azara said.
The bare breasted girl giggled and said where’s the underwear? A sixty year old man, hair greased to the side, pulled out from the crowd of people, sweaty, and fixed the safety pins jammed through his nipples.
“Azara, where did you hear about this party?”
“Uh. The internet," Azara said.
“The internet?”
“The internet.”
“You look for parties on the internet?”
“No.”
“So how did this-”
“Listen-”
The man with safety pins in his nipples walked by in ass-less chaps. I could tell he was trying to tempt my breasts out of my shirt. Azara crossed her arms across her chest and shivered.
“Oh I’m listening,” I said.
“I just thought you could meet some new people…”
Chains rattled against the concrete wall to our left, as screens peeled themselves from the ceiling, unfolding in all of their glory, more naked bodies on display. Every one on the opposite end of the room stopped having sex for a moment and, as a collective, turned to the giant screens. The girl on the screen was bright blonde, the man a dark haired and hairy thing. I looked away before the screaming started. I suddenly noticed a man sitting in a small cubby behind us near the stairs leading into the carnal den, a stout, fat man in a white collared shirt and a thick mustache reading the New York Times under a sign reading, NO PANTS PERMITTED PAST THIS POINT. Behind him, a row of clothing hangers, some with pants, others with underwear, some, empty. I watched him reading the paper. His brow creased a little, taking in what must have been a catastrophic event. I looked back in to the other room and saw everyone doing a slow, naked waltz around one another, wondering if any of them even bothered to ask this man if we wanted to join. It didn’t look as if he was interested. I squinted at the headlines; all in Spanish. I thought about asking him what he was reading, until he looked up and saw me looking back at him and he winced. I would have winced at me too.
"Can we go now?" I said.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
George Washington, Pocketed
I worked for eight hours and didn’t think for nine. As soon as I stepped over the threshold onto 7th Avenue, I thought about quitting my job at MarketMarket as I pulled at the seams of my just-received check. The smell of food clung to my hair. I looked down at my paycheck and cried, then seriously considered purchasing cigarettes. I had money, have money. The most money I have ever made. I thought about the dresses I could buy, or the friends I could visit in D.C. What do other people do with their money? With all these tips? A man pushed by me in tight jeans, Bob Dylan sunglasses and the quick stench of cold hard cash. Strip clubs. That’s what people do with their money. If I buy cigarettes with too many singles, I will smell like a strip club. Her strip club.
I chose not to buy them.
My friend Ana always told me her father would drive her places she never wanted to go, but this wasn’t the scrapping of the barrel, she told me. Stripping is only the nails holding the whole disgusting, alcoholic, life digesting concoction together. I visited her with some of my tips spilling out of my back pockets from work last Tuesday. I stood outside, looking into the brick, wondering if I should take up smoking. I asked who I could only assume was a customer of the club if he had a light, and when he said yes, I told him thank you, but I have no cigarette. He talked with me as I looked at the words LATINO LUXURY flashing in pink, pale fluorescent skin. That little phosphorescent woman moved in standing, squatting, spread-eagled position across the windows. I walked in and smelled loss sliding down the throats of every man looking at the gyrating, naked women. I saw her from the doorway, somewhere towards what must have been the back of the place. The dollar bills become aware of their surroundings and made my pocket warm. I pulled my purse back over my shoulder and walked with no grace. Naked breasts stared at me from stage to stage, women slick with Vaseline, not sweat, and men eating sushi staring at their shoes. I reached the end of the curving red faux velvet couches, spots in the seats worn to black. I sat down at one of the tables right in front of her. Music on a distant speaker broke into static. She shook herself around, then saw me. She was wearing a wig. Red brown. I ordered a Jameson on the rocks from a nearby waitress in only an apron and looked up at Ana. She looked back at me and she danced. The speaker was fixed and played 80’s hair rock. We didn’t blink as we looked at each other. I reached into my back pocket and placed a one at her stiletto-ed heels. She danced. Other men noticed and watched me. Steadily they made their way to the edges of the stage and added a one or two. Ana started to dance their way, before I added money and looked at her wig as she turned back to dance towards me. A man placed down a 20 and I put down a 50. She looked at me and I looked at her. A man shouted it wasn’t fair my faggot ass got all the action, this wasn’t some lesbo club, get the fuck out of here. My fingers pulled more bills out of my back pocket and when that place was empty, I reached into my purse and took cash from there.
Finally a waitress came over and motioned to Ana signaling the end of her shift. She blew a kiss to the disappointed men whom I promptly stared at before reaching for my purse to leave. I turned and a man twice my size stared down at me.
"Who you doin' that for, young lady?" he said.
"Me," I said.
He shook his head.
"Nah. I don't believe that."
"I don't either."
I shrugged and pushed by him.
I chose not to buy them.
My friend Ana always told me her father would drive her places she never wanted to go, but this wasn’t the scrapping of the barrel, she told me. Stripping is only the nails holding the whole disgusting, alcoholic, life digesting concoction together. I visited her with some of my tips spilling out of my back pockets from work last Tuesday. I stood outside, looking into the brick, wondering if I should take up smoking. I asked who I could only assume was a customer of the club if he had a light, and when he said yes, I told him thank you, but I have no cigarette. He talked with me as I looked at the words LATINO LUXURY flashing in pink, pale fluorescent skin. That little phosphorescent woman moved in standing, squatting, spread-eagled position across the windows. I walked in and smelled loss sliding down the throats of every man looking at the gyrating, naked women. I saw her from the doorway, somewhere towards what must have been the back of the place. The dollar bills become aware of their surroundings and made my pocket warm. I pulled my purse back over my shoulder and walked with no grace. Naked breasts stared at me from stage to stage, women slick with Vaseline, not sweat, and men eating sushi staring at their shoes. I reached the end of the curving red faux velvet couches, spots in the seats worn to black. I sat down at one of the tables right in front of her. Music on a distant speaker broke into static. She shook herself around, then saw me. She was wearing a wig. Red brown. I ordered a Jameson on the rocks from a nearby waitress in only an apron and looked up at Ana. She looked back at me and she danced. The speaker was fixed and played 80’s hair rock. We didn’t blink as we looked at each other. I reached into my back pocket and placed a one at her stiletto-ed heels. She danced. Other men noticed and watched me. Steadily they made their way to the edges of the stage and added a one or two. Ana started to dance their way, before I added money and looked at her wig as she turned back to dance towards me. A man placed down a 20 and I put down a 50. She looked at me and I looked at her. A man shouted it wasn’t fair my faggot ass got all the action, this wasn’t some lesbo club, get the fuck out of here. My fingers pulled more bills out of my back pocket and when that place was empty, I reached into my purse and took cash from there.
Finally a waitress came over and motioned to Ana signaling the end of her shift. She blew a kiss to the disappointed men whom I promptly stared at before reaching for my purse to leave. I turned and a man twice my size stared down at me.
"Who you doin' that for, young lady?" he said.
"Me," I said.
He shook his head.
"Nah. I don't believe that."
"I don't either."
I shrugged and pushed by him.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Robert E. Lee Went Down/Up in Flames
I could tell the conversation was making him anxious. I knew that from the second I shook his hand next to the tiki bar. His palm was clammy, confused, shaking; his eyes distant and unable to focus. Friend of a friend, he told me, and you could tell. Even now he couldn’t look straight ahead and his left leg kept giving out a little every time someone shook their head in disgust. I looked at him from the doorway of the bar bathroom. The bar we were in was shitty, named something like Tommie B’s Bar, and I kept losing Ana and the other friends I came with in a sea of the scantily clad. Blonde hair and spandex crowded the island bar in the middle of the packed room, the smell of cigarette smoke choked what little perfume I wore. But he didn’t exactly look at everyone else, and I had my eyes fixed on his hands gripping his thin plastic cup of beer. It spilled as he stood unmoving. His name was Sean. Bad music played. I thought about how I’d give anything to be in New York City in a bar with better beer and better music. Less likely there are better people, necessarily. I overheard I don’t get it dude, why date her when you’re about to leave for Mexico?; Dude, you’re such a, like, fucking idiot. Apparently he just told a girl he loved her, not even a week before he decided to leave to Mexico on a Mayan archeological dig. I didn’t think there was anything left to dig up. I paused before leaving the bathroom, used my finger as a swizzle stick in my frothed cup and stepped toward him. He was no better than the rest of the meathead crew the room was bursting with, except that he wore a Bruce Springsteen shirt directly indicating there was a chance that he maybe, occasionally, didn’t gel his hair. I motioned for him to follow me and we stood on the dance floor next to a large speaker. I dig that you’re sticking with her, I yelled over the music.
“Yeah?” he said.
“Yeah.”
I shrugged, drank from my cup and hid my face. I swallowed hard, could feel myself making a face that implied something bitter.
“Also you have someone to bring home cheap shit to," I said.
“Cheap shit?”
“How the hell is she gunna know it’s cheap. It’ll still be foreign.”
“You have a point.” He finished his beer, threw the empty cup at the DJ who was busy watching two people hump on the dance floor. Sean stood empty handed.
We stood and watched everyone dance. I thought I knew a song that played. I didn’t. Small white lights flashed across the ceiling, our faces. My eyes. I leaned close to him and said, “I’m a gypsy too.”
“She’s going to be my wife, I think.”
“You hate being in one place, too, right? That’s why you’re going to Mexico. It makes sense. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere and no one can find you.”
“Maybe she’ll visit me while I’m there .”
“I like places that smell like pine trees. I think that’s the next place I’ll go, somewhere with more pine trees. Big ones, like in Washington state--”
A song played and Sean knew it. He grabbed my hand and we walked to the middle of the crowd of gyrating people. Placing his hands on my waist, the music made the floor throb and he pulled me close. His hands running all over my back, I looked at his eyes looking through my clothes and then right through me. I could smell the beer on my shirt and I could no longer remember where I had placed all the bobby pins that until recently, were holding up sweaty strands of hair. His body moved with mine. The liquor made my skin numb. He leaned in, softly held his cheek against my own and pressed his hands into mine. His left hand toyed with the ring on my right hand. He pulled it from my finger, placed it on my ring finger, then my middle finger, then back to my ring finger. Songs played. He lay his head, heavy onto mine. She won’t leave you, I whispered loudly into his ear. He held me close and said something meaningful back, just before the rest of the night went black.
The next morning, I woke up on Sean’s couch, my friends strewn across the floor on a blowup mattress. Where they were all night, I didn’t know. Ana had her hand reached up under Sam’s shirt, softly snoring as Sam’s face was in the lower back of Azara and Lynn spooning. I looked at the clock blinking 8:32AM and woke up Ana. I used my foot to poke her.
“Up,” I said.
We gathered our things. I had a bruise on my arm I didn’t remember getting. I peed in the bathroom and wondered why there was toilet paper clinging to the sink. I fixed my hair, then hugged Sean goodbye and good luck. His flight was meant to leave that day but now his flight was switched to Thursday. Something about a family dinner he needed to attend. I told Azara, Sam and Lynn I’d see them back in New York. I waved from Ana’s car as we pulled out of Sean’s driveway. His house was salt washed, beige, with a large boat dumped in the front yard with a trailer attachment underneath. The name ROBERT E. LEE sprawled under the hull. My head throbbed and the car stung my eyes with heat.
“I’m cracking the windows,” I said. She said nothing and turned up the music. I pushed down on the window button and the smell of low tide rushed into the car. We were five minutes away from the beach, passing signs told me. I didn’t once see water. As we drove, small, squat pine trees belonging to the Pinelands National Reserve flew by the windows. I thought about last year and thought maybe if I breathed deep enough, I could smell ripe blueberries, bring out the sun and feel like I was being held. We drove along the turnpike and watched as the grey skies rolled over us, music filling the quiet. For a second I felt warm. The mind plays tricks like that.
“Yeah?” he said.
“Yeah.”
I shrugged, drank from my cup and hid my face. I swallowed hard, could feel myself making a face that implied something bitter.
“Also you have someone to bring home cheap shit to," I said.
“Cheap shit?”
“How the hell is she gunna know it’s cheap. It’ll still be foreign.”
“You have a point.” He finished his beer, threw the empty cup at the DJ who was busy watching two people hump on the dance floor. Sean stood empty handed.
We stood and watched everyone dance. I thought I knew a song that played. I didn’t. Small white lights flashed across the ceiling, our faces. My eyes. I leaned close to him and said, “I’m a gypsy too.”
“She’s going to be my wife, I think.”
“You hate being in one place, too, right? That’s why you’re going to Mexico. It makes sense. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere and no one can find you.”
“Maybe she’ll visit me while I’m there .”
“I like places that smell like pine trees. I think that’s the next place I’ll go, somewhere with more pine trees. Big ones, like in Washington state--”
A song played and Sean knew it. He grabbed my hand and we walked to the middle of the crowd of gyrating people. Placing his hands on my waist, the music made the floor throb and he pulled me close. His hands running all over my back, I looked at his eyes looking through my clothes and then right through me. I could smell the beer on my shirt and I could no longer remember where I had placed all the bobby pins that until recently, were holding up sweaty strands of hair. His body moved with mine. The liquor made my skin numb. He leaned in, softly held his cheek against my own and pressed his hands into mine. His left hand toyed with the ring on my right hand. He pulled it from my finger, placed it on my ring finger, then my middle finger, then back to my ring finger. Songs played. He lay his head, heavy onto mine. She won’t leave you, I whispered loudly into his ear. He held me close and said something meaningful back, just before the rest of the night went black.
The next morning, I woke up on Sean’s couch, my friends strewn across the floor on a blowup mattress. Where they were all night, I didn’t know. Ana had her hand reached up under Sam’s shirt, softly snoring as Sam’s face was in the lower back of Azara and Lynn spooning. I looked at the clock blinking 8:32AM and woke up Ana. I used my foot to poke her.
“Up,” I said.
We gathered our things. I had a bruise on my arm I didn’t remember getting. I peed in the bathroom and wondered why there was toilet paper clinging to the sink. I fixed my hair, then hugged Sean goodbye and good luck. His flight was meant to leave that day but now his flight was switched to Thursday. Something about a family dinner he needed to attend. I told Azara, Sam and Lynn I’d see them back in New York. I waved from Ana’s car as we pulled out of Sean’s driveway. His house was salt washed, beige, with a large boat dumped in the front yard with a trailer attachment underneath. The name ROBERT E. LEE sprawled under the hull. My head throbbed and the car stung my eyes with heat.
“I’m cracking the windows,” I said. She said nothing and turned up the music. I pushed down on the window button and the smell of low tide rushed into the car. We were five minutes away from the beach, passing signs told me. I didn’t once see water. As we drove, small, squat pine trees belonging to the Pinelands National Reserve flew by the windows. I thought about last year and thought maybe if I breathed deep enough, I could smell ripe blueberries, bring out the sun and feel like I was being held. We drove along the turnpike and watched as the grey skies rolled over us, music filling the quiet. For a second I felt warm. The mind plays tricks like that.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
I'll Admit It.
If it’s time for me to start being brutally (and I mean, brutally) honest with myself, then honesty comes with a continental lemon, salt and a lofty price. The kind of price higher than any Anthropologie label hand-sewn dress all patch-worked together somewhere in the back of the store under the piano music and above the Indian floor cushions. The kind of price that today made me stare into the beautiful displays of clean white paper and plastic sculptured into a pristine, indoor, oil-heated winter and want only to lay in the display of fake snowballs and never get up again. I did lay in it. I laid in it and wondered why they would put out winter-related displays in August. I laid in it for what felt like hours, which in truth was about the time it took for my mother to purchase an overpriced sweater and the clothing store-bouncer to ask me what did I think I was doing, crushing someone’s artwork? My Mom pulled me up and rolled her eyes at me, motioning for me to follow her out the door. We walked out onto West Broadway and she told me I was being a dumbass. People take internships to create displays like that. I told her it sounds like they’re the dumbass for paying money to play with paper, then thought better because really, that’s what we’re all doing. Also it's Summer, I told her, it's their fault for having the wrong season indoors. You need to go visit your friends or something, she told me. Get out and have fun: I’m sick of you just going places and…laying on things. I texted Ana that night and she told me she was planning on visiting a friend in South Jersey; maybe it would be good for me to get out.
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