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Sun | April 30, 2006
Getting Home
Her plan was to go to Hoboken, in the vain hope that the 1:32 train was delayed, as trains occasionally are. She waited for the Path at Christopher Street, awake again with an acquired commuter alertness, and a bit of survival instinct.
She looked at her cell phone and it read 1:50 am. The battery read low. When the train pulled into Hoboken she ran up the empty concrete stairs leading to NJ Transit. The digital clock read 2:14.
"There's no trains," a voice said. She looked over and saw three men standing aside. Two wore a flourescent orange vests with reflective stripes. The third wore a black shirt and a utility belt.
"The last train was at 1:50," the one in black said.
"Oh," she said, looking around for ideas.
"Where are you going?"
She wasn't sure she should tell him.
"I'm a New Jersey Transit employee," he said. He walked up to her. "Look at my badge." She looked.
"Chatham," she said.
"There's no trains."
"Okay." She walked away but then came back immediately. "Do you know if there's a cab I could call?"
"There's cabs on the street over there," he pointed, "right by the curb."
"Do you know how much it would cost?"
"To Chatham? Fifty bucks."
"That much?" She had checked her wallet on the Path-- twenty six dollars.
He shrugged. "I don't know, I'm guessing."
On the cold street the cab driver said, "sixty."
"I don't have it," she said. She turned back, thinking. She had already called everyone she knew who could possibly help her. She walked back to the NJ Transit area.
"I'll give you a ride," he said.
In the car they talked about his job as a train inspector. In the back of her mind she tried to reconcile the fact that none of her friends had come through, but this person she didn't know, had.
sketches | Posted by Lily at 11:52 AM
Fri | April 28, 2006
the PEN American Center
In NYU's Hemmerdinger Hall at 100 Washington Square East, a panel of academics and an audience of alleged intellectuals assembled for "Writing Faith," a part of the PEN American Center's Festival of International Literature.
A young Asian woman sat to the side, scribbling notes on a piece of paper. She wrote down some of the ideas tossed into the air by the panel, and also wrote notes about the room and her impressions of the people.
The six grey columns, she wrote, were positioned down the middle of the room like symbols on a playing card. The pointy shoes of the woman next to her, she wrote, were too trendy. No one that fashionable could maintain any sort of intellectual life.
Colm Toibin sat on the far right of the panel. A charcoal ring of hair circumscribed his head and his amber reading glasses dropped low on his nose. The PEN event boasted hundreds of illustrious writers, but this was the only one she had heard of, and read.
The next day, another group of intellectuals gathered at the Columbia University Faculty House. This time, the topic was "Translation and Globalization." Steve Wasserman, through geniality and intellect, anecdote and thought, did his best to make the atmosphere social as well as academic.
The girl inadvertently sat in the "reserved" section. She scribbled to pass the time. The woman behind her kicked her chair. It confirmed her suspicion that the audience was not comprised of intellectuals, but of individuals who had nothing better to do. She did not want to become one of them-- even though at the moment, she was.
She thought about the chair-kicker, and about the woman who had honked at her while she was crossing 116th.
The room on the second floor had a New England flavor, due to the two ceiling-high bookcases flanking the panel of academics, and the dark oil portrait pantings on the wall.
Perhaps there were individuals in the audience or on the panel who could have been helpful to the aspiring, and struggling, writer, but she had no way of knowing. They might as well have not been there.
journal | Posted by Lily at 05:34 PM
Thu | April 20, 2006
An Attractive Distance
At Pho on 32nd Street, the scent of cilantro and lemon filled the air. These ingredients, and platefuls of sprouts, were added to bowls of noodle soup. The restaurant's menu folded out in three panels, but everybody ordered pho.
Marie and Petra sat across from each other at an orange table for four, consuming these noodles. The conversation continually returned to Morris, Petra’s boyfriend of two months, who was supposed to have met them over half an hour ago. Morris often kept Petra waiting.
"Do you talk to him about it?" Marie asked.
"No," Petra said. "It only bothers him and it doesn't change anything." She proceeded to recount the instances that Morris had been late, and what she had said each time, and what Morris had said in return. Marie wondered what Petra meant by "not talking about it" because it seemed that they had done a lot of talking. Petra related how two days ago he had gone to play pool with his friend instead of hanging out with her.
A guy with spiked brown hair approached the table. Petra turned and greeted him with a kiss, and introduced him to Marie. They shook hands. He sat down next to Petra and put his arm around her waist.
"Where were you?" she asked.
"I got held up," he said.
"You couldn't call?"
"It would only have delayed me further," he said.
"By thirty seconds?"
"Oh, hurry up and order," said Marie. "Let's get drinks, or dessert,” she said to Petra. They pointed to the smoothies at the next table and ordered "two of those." After considering the varieties of pho, Morris ordered "number five." A waitress with a long braid of black hair took their order.
They relaxed into a casual and rambling conversation, but Petra's discontent hung in the background. She carried the weight of previous grievances and dragged them around with her, ready to be unpacked at any moment.
"I want to live in a yellow house," Marie said irrelevantly, "not in rat-ridden New York."
"Morris's apartment has mice," Petra said.
"Oh bleh!" Marie said, looking at him playfully and shaking her head. He crossed his eyes. She noted that they were a greyish blue. He reminded her of the lifeguard at the pool where she had spent her childhood summers.
"There are droppings on the counter in the morning. And I've heard them at night," Petra continued.
"Ahh!" Marie squealed in imaginary terror, squeezing her eyes shut. For no reason, she giggled like a baby. The laughter was infectious. They all laughed, and an onlooker would have thought that something incredibly funny and clever had been said. It swept the sluggish thoughts away.
"Oh I'm so glad it's getting warmer," Marie said in another moment. She talked about the beach and conjured up images of iced tea and the ocean and saltwater. They told stories of summers past.
When they had filled themselves with broth and noodles, they sauntered, humming, out of the restaurant.
"What train are you taking?" Morris asked Marie.
"The 1/9," she said.
"That's my line," he said.
Petra's line was the N/R. She gave Marie an enthusiastic hug. She gave Morris a lingering kiss and then disappeared down the stairs.
Morris walked quickly away and Marie skipped to keep up with him. She half expected that they would talk about Petra, but he didn't mention her. She hardly knew what they talked about, and then they were at the 1/9 entrance.
"Want a smoke?" he asked, taking out a pack of cigarettes.
"I don't smoke," she said.
"Neither do I, really," he said, lighting up.
In the lamplight she looked at his face. She followed the lines of his brows and jawline. She didn't know if she breathed deeply from the brisk walk or from the intuition that floated towards the surface of her consciousness.
"I think I'm losing my hair," he said.
"Are you?" she asked. She extended her hand and tugged his hair above his forehead. "Well it's better to lose it from there than up here," she said, patting him on the top of his head.
They talked on, saying things that were forgotten as soon as they were said. In a few minutes they caught the 1, and in another few the train arrived at Christopher Street.
"Bye," Marie chirped.
She told herself not to look back as she darted out the train doors. But the thought was no match for the impulse, and she turned. He looked steadily at her. Locked in this gaze she answered, without wanting to, the question he had not asked.
sketches | Posted by Lily at 05:35 PM
Tue | April 18, 2006
Passengers
On a spring morning the 8:02 train came a minute early. Lara, twenty-six years old and in white sandals, darted up the crumbling concrete stairs to the platform and then onto the train. She settled into a seat-- a blue bench that was coated with grime. She leaned against the window and closed her eyes.
After four minutes she opened them as she felt the train slow down at the next station. She watched the commuters from Oakwood file into the car. A girl with surprised eyes got on, out of breath. She sat down next to Lara. She was not a stranger to her. They had sat together before.
"Was the train early?" she asked.
"Yeah," Lara said.
Lara secretly wanted to talk about work and how unhappy she was. She had recently been passed up for a promotion. It had gone to Vicky, who did nothing but strut around all day and exercise her jaw. It had seemed impossible when Lara first found out, but then it had started to make miserable sense.
"I like your pants," Lara said. The girl wore cropped trousers.
"Thanks," she said.
"Where did you get them?"
"Forever 21."
"Oh," said Lara. "Cool."
She turned back to the window and watched the wasteland mixed with marshland. She thought about how she spent her days moving from one confined place to another. It would never change. Most of all, all the work she had done seemed to have suddenly become worthless.
The previous night Lara had cried from depression. Now she sat pleasantly and quietly. When she walked into the office she would smile at whoever was there. Over the next half hour she would note who came in. She would remember what everyone was wearing so that she could tell who walked by without turning her head. Throughout the day her consolation would be the thought that she would leave. Not just for the day, but perhaps forever. In the afternoon she would close her eyes and take microscopic two-second naps. At five Zack would leave. And then she would watch the clock until six.
The electronic voice announced the train's arrival into New York.
"Have a nice day," Lara said to the girl as they disembarked.
"You too," she said.
sketches | Posted by Lily at 12:55 AM
Sat | April 08, 2006
new cell phone
I got a new cell phone about a week ago. Or two. It is my first flip phone. I finally have a hook for a lanyard. I got a hello kitty lanyard. The phone says "be safe. be courteous." while it turns on or off. I find it kind of annoying. What if I don't want to be safe, or courteous? or maybe it is because I am so safe, and so courteous, that to have something tell me to be safe and courteous seems like an insult.
| Posted by Lily at 10:10 PM
Tue | April 04, 2006
A Disturbing Event
It was a drizzly night, and the dampness seeped into the subway station. There, below the ground, a few people waited in the grime for the train. The sound of roaring trains passing on other tracks filled the tunnels.
Anthony, an artist, kicked the vertical metal beam. Under layers of threadbare clothing, his last reserves of fat burned away. He had gone to a party simply to eat their snacks for dinner. He had even eaten the leftover crusts of a girl's pizza. He had eaten around the bite marks until he could not tell which were his and which were hers. To hell with it, he thought, and ate it all.
Now he was hungry again, as he was always hungry, in the middle of the night. As an assistant in an office, he made barely enough to pay the rent. He bought only enough food to stay alive; he spent the rest of his income on art supplies. He thought of his latest project, an industrial sculpture of torn paper, burnt metal, and cracked glass.
A large man sat on the bench. He filled the middle seat and overflowed on either side, so that no one could sit there. Anthony looked at the large man, and how his head sank into his neck, which flowed into his torso.
The man got up to look for the train. He was drunk, and so fat he did not see his own feet; he overstepped the yellow line. He fell with a sudden wail into the pit.
For a second Anthony did not believe what he saw. He looked around to see the reactions of others around him. A young woman with sleek hair remained impassive. A salty old black man had paused and resumed his pacing. A woman with tattered hair twitched her mouth.
"Ooof," the voice of the man came up from below, and Anthony saw him get up confusedly. The man turned about, evidently disoriented.
"Over here," Anthony called. The man hobbled over and stretched his arms up to the edge. Although his head rose above the level of the platform, it was clear he would not be able to pull himself up.
Anthony didn't feel capable of lifting the large man out of the tracks, yet he did not want to see a train collide with this corpulent body. He went over to the man. He hoped to hear someone say, "you cannot lift him," or even better, offer to help. No one moved.
As he arrived at the edge, it occurred to him that he could be dragged into the pit. He hesitated in his mind at this thought of his own death and yet there was no disruption in his motion as he instinctively met the hand that reached for his.
One pudgy hand grasped Anthony's bony fingers and the other grasped his forearm. Every muscle and bone in Anthony's body suddenly tensed and strained to prevent himself from being pulled in. He let go of the hand and pried his arm loose, falling back.
He had lifted the man up a few inches so that the man had gotten his elbows on the platform and was now struggling to pull himself further up.
"I see a light," someone said. It was the salty black man.
"Help me pull him up," Anthony said to him.
The black man leaned over, looked at the conductor inside the oncoming train, and made a stopping motion with his hand. He made that motion with one hand and pointed down at the man with the other and shook his head.
The train stopped.
The conductor got out. The large man had fallen, and stumbled, in the commotion, and stood just under the platform.
"There's someone on the tracks," the black man said.
"I saw em," the conductor said. "Where is he now?" Seeing the motion below, he called out, "Stay right there. You hear me?"
"Yes," said the large man.
"Stay coo, stay coo," the conductor said. "Watch out for that metal track."
The conductor directed the man to the end of the platform where there were a few steps. In a few minutes the man was on the platform. His shirt was drenched with sweat. He struggled to breathe.
"Thank you sir," he exhaled at the conductor between breaths. "You saved my life. Thank you," he said, nodding to Anthony.
"Thank him also," said Anthony, gesturing at the black man. "He stopped the train."
"Thank you," said the man.
The conductor went back to the train and the people got on. As Anthony sat on the plastic seat he noticed the people inside the train who had stood indifferently on the platform. "What if it were you that were down there?" he wanted to say.
"I would have been able to pull myself back up," the svelte woman would say.
"I have a mind to shove you onto the tracks! See how you like it!"
"It's not my business. And he was a pig," another might say.
"So you wouldn't care if he were hit by a train? You could stand there and watch him get run over?"
They sat on the train in silence.
"I don't see why you're so upset." the woman with the matted hair would say in a hoarse voice. "The train stopped; he was saved."
Another would add, "he is not the type of person to help others. He would not have moved a muscle to save you."
The woman who had posed indifferently got off at Spring Street. Anthony looked at her as she walked away: artfully dressed, exposing toned arms and gams, all for nothing but show.
"And you are rich, and I have no money!"
As Anthony walked away from the station he had to deliberately command his legs to move. At home he lay in his bed and stared through the darkness at the bolted door. He thought that if a burgular were to come through that door, there would be no reasoning with him.
He felt sick, and his teeth chattered. In a cold fever, he fell asleep.