Sunday still life

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On Sunday

Lunch in a popular Union Square diner. I take a seat at the bar—that is, my proofreading job and I take a seat at the bar.

The bartender says, “I remember you.”

The last time I saw him, I also sat at the bar, also with a proofreading job, only without makeup and my hair in a disheveled bun. Everybody else looked chic, scrubbed, clean, and social, and I thought I would be left alone. But the bartender kept asking me about my proofreading. I said, “It’s a poorly written novel about a repressed Victorian who just discovered the handiness of a vibrator.”

He laughed. Later I tipped him ten dollars.

Today, he asks if this book is better. Yes, it is, I say. Much. It’s by Liv Ullman’s daughter, Linn. At first I couldn’t get into the voice, but now I’m swimming in it. I love it. I’m so happy to be reading this right now. It makes me feel calm, even though the story is anything but calm.

The bartender hands me a small glass with vanilla bubbles. “You like milkshakes?”

Do I ever.

When I pay the bill, I tip the guy ten dollars again, which he acts like he hasn’t noticed. He says, “When will you write your book?”

“This year,” I say. “It’s one of my resolutions.”

A fib. I have not made any resolutions this year. I have no plans of finishing any book. But I so desire to. I will simply be writing. I look forward to the writing.

The bartender has a small head with large round eyes and a wide smile. “You’ll let me read it?” he says.

“Of course.”

*

Later in the afternoon: the IFC Center, Still Life. I’d been waiting for this film to come back to New York since its debut at the Tribeca Film Festival. It ends its run on Tuesday, and G and I arranged to see it today.

For me, I’m writing about the Three Gorges Dam.

For G, her Chinese beau breezed through town recently, and she caught up with his coterie of scholars and writers and artists, a brilliant group, she says, though only one among them is completely prejudice-free (i.e., “I voted for Obama.”). For G, with all this Chinese-ness surrounding her, she brought up Still Life to me. So we made a date.

She sighs throughout the film. She is a sigher. I vow to myself (once again) not to go to movies with her.

I love her.

But I need my own movie experience, not hers.

She keeps leaning over me to whisper funny nothings. She’s not a very good whisperer.

After the film, she follows me into the bathroom, unwilling to break off her commentary about Still Life. The film is resonant of Antonioni’s Red Desert, but on a grander scale. She can’t get over it, she says. Her senses are fired up. She tries to assure me that these are different movies, that one’s not better than the other. I assure her that she doesn’t need to assure me of this.

She is Italian.

I am Chinese.

Our lives and our cultures keep intersecting.

We joke that being one is better than being the other.

But I tell her that she doesn’t have to assure me of every little thing. Our rivalry is a kid’s joke, G.

In the bathroom, I hang my things up on a hook while G drops her things all over the floor. I am squeamish.

I pee first, and for the first time in my life I am not self-conscious to pee in front of another woman. I’ve been holding it in for too long anyway.

Earlier that day, G showed me a postcard of a photograph by one of the Chinese artists she’d met. A naked woman lies on top of a naked man. The first words out of my mouth: “What a bush!”

In the bathroom I keep thinking about that photograph. I pull up my underwear and tights quickly.

It’s G’s turn. She continues her commentary about the difference between Antonioni and Jia Zhang-ke as she sits on the toilet. Antonioni was about doom, while Jia’s story ended on a hopeful note.

I say, “This is the way of many Chinese films today. Even though there’s devastation and loss, today a seasoned filmmaker like Jia is intent on showcasing his country’s resilience. It’s not propaganda by any means, but more a quiet, proud celebration.”

G’s eyes widen. Finally she pees. I’d been wondering if she’d peed silently and was just sitting there in contemplation of the film. There’s a line outside to the restroom. There are only two restrooms. She’d followed me in unexpectedly.

The first time she peed in front of me, I had looked at the walls, I looked at the mirror, I looked at the door. I hadn’t known she was going to pee in front of me. She’d pulled me into the bathroom because her boyfriend (now her ex) was acting crazy.

“He’s acting crazy!” she said over and over as she peed.

“Er, define crazy,” I said, looking at the sink.

Later, I told this story to another friend, who said, “I wouldn’t think twice about that at all. I pee in front of my friends all the time.”

Really?

Maybe I need to get out more.

*

Afterward, while waiting for the F, a man motions to me and opens his mouth and groans out a sound. He’s dressed in all black, with a black hat and a black duffel bag at his feet, and he’s handsome, with crooked teeth and unstable eyes.

I have a pencil and sheaf of paper in my hands, my most recent proofreading job, so this must be why he’s approached me.

I tell him I can’t understand him.

He takes my pencil and writes on page 202 of my proofreading job: “F Train Queens.”

I nod. He’s on the right platform.

He opens his mouth and groans again, another word that I can’t make out. Then he writes: “179 St.”

I tell him I don’t know the F that well, then walk a few steps to look up the information on the V plaque, then walk the other way to find the F plaque. I return to him nodding. “Yes, the F goes to 179th Street.”

“Last stop?” he groans, and slashes his hands in the air to sign “stop.”

“Yes, it’s the last stop.”

Then he says, “Broken,” and points to the tracks.

There’s a lot of subway construction going on this weekend; perhaps he’s complaining about an interruption in service that he’s experienced. I don’t know. He repeats the word and the gesture.

The F train arrives then, and we go into a car and sit together.

An announcement: “Due to construction, the uptown train will be making express stops. Next stop, 34th Street.”

So I write for the man: “Express stops on F today.”

He nods. Then he takes my pencil again and writes, “Call police,” and once more his hands gesture as though they’re breaking apart a stick: “Broken.”

A distraction saves me: Three boys and a boom box come in. Music is turned on and the boys start breakdancing. There are flips and shouts and claps, all from the boys, none from the passengers. One lady moves over a seat because the flips are too close for comfort.

The man in all black taps me on the arm. He rocks his folded arms back and forth in front of him. He mouths, “Baby.”

I wonder: Does he want me to have his baby?

He holds up three fingers.

He has three babies.

No, not babies. One is four, another is seven, and another is nine.

I give him a thumbs-up. He gives me a thumbs-up.

At my stop, I wave goodbye. He shakes my hand. I smile. I am friendly. I am more friendly than I care to admit. While heading up the street, I check all my pockets. Nothing’s missing. Everything’s there.

*

I do four loads of laundry that night. I clean out my closet and rearrange the clothes on hangers. I’ve bought another gray dress from H&M. J says, “It looks like your other dress.”

I say, “But this one has buttons.”

*

After all that laundry, J falls asleep. I am still awake at 2:00 a.m. It’s the caffeine. Too much lately. In my head are plans to clean up the apartment. I am nervous and calm at the same time. Something’s going to happen soon.

I look over the notes I’d made during Still Life:

• Relocation Office
• trucks with rocks
• not understanding accents on purpose
• trading liquor and cigarettes for information
• demolition work
• old regions on $ [not sure what this means]
• bench around table
• buy wife
• abandoned lockers

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