Heavy As Carved Whalebone
Shortly after that great day in the history of my most recent personal civil war, which ended with the installation of a gigantic window unit air conditioner (go Confederacy go), but should not in this time line be conflated with that side skirmish occurring only days ago and involving a ceiling fan (oh that Confederacy does love a good beat down), it turned cool here in New York (except for two days, and for those I was in Virginia in unexpected consultation with a Republican Christian Coalition) and the windows got opened up and the remote control put away. There have been nights in this mid June New York that were simply cold.
It is though heating up a little today and while I am not committed to shutting all the windows and will in any case be leaving the apartment soon, still feel it is in my best interest, after all this hullabaloo concerning the installation of an air cooling device, to actually use said device once in awhile.
It has now been on with several windows wide open for the last thirty minutes thereabouts and I'm feeling a little cool behind the collar so I'm going to reach over here for the remote, and turn it down a notch, or two.
Yesterday I was coming back from some important mission and out front the building on the opposite sidewalk stood Jimson and Julia Creed, with their newborn son, Elkhorn Scrimshaw. I was going to call out to them but they appeared to be discussing something important. When they finally saw me it was clear from even across the street that a light bulb was going off, a solution to their dilemma, and they asked me an easy one, would I mind carrying Scrimshaw up the three flights, on my way to five? Jimson was off to some business and this was afterall only a small favor. Of course I would be glad to, and was, and am in general, but that does not prevent me from saying this--that Elkhorn Scrimshaw is one heavy kid. Is it the name weighing him down perhaps? Or is some practical joker putting rocks in his pockets? I came up here to five huffing and puffing a little. Started thinking about an exercise regimen.
...more recent posts
Kit Lambert's Unrealized Exclamation
Kit Lambert was nervous behind the bar. Across the room was a wall of mirrors into which if squinting and fostering that lesser part of his imagination he could see himself twitch and sway and it seemed to him practically every nuanced movement was recorded in those mirrors and sent back to him enlarged and exaggerated.
Twenty people who drank little more than water sat watching two dancers shake frenetically. Later during the question answer comment portion of the evening a moderator asked for comments regarding that shaking part of the dance and he kept his eyes down, seriously contemplating the white bean dip. Opinions were expressed and counter opinions also but no one said anything about marionettes although one fellow said they looked like dancing skeletons, which Kit thought was pretty close to his marionette impression. He was happy being the bartender at moments like this, if not in general. Bartenders are not allowed the unsolicited opinion and other than what can I get ya are best at their job as mutes. Frieda Kahlo is popular and as a subject, much discussed and interpreted. Marionette! Kit should have shouted it out. Isometric Kit thought. Isometric Marionettes. Good one Kit, Kit thought.
Kit was a failed Webelos. Whatever the number of years that passed Kit still looked back to that day he dropped out of the Cub Scout organization, just at the cusp of Webelos, as the beginning of dreams gone unrealized. Oh where might I be now other than here behind this card table if only I had followed through to Webelos, daresay Eagle Scout? The badges that might have adorned me, Kit mused. He was being stared at. Oh sorry, what can I get you, said Kit.
Kit Lambert was nervous behind the bar. Across the room was a wall of mirrors into which if squinting and fostering that lesser part of his imagination he could see himself twitch and sway and it seemed to him practically every nuanced movement was recorded in those mirrors and sent back to him enlarged and exaggerated.
Twenty people who drank little more than water sat watching two dancers shake frenetically. Later during the question answer comment portion of the evening a moderator asked for comments regarding that shaking part of the dance and he kept his eyes down, seriously contemplating the white bean dip. Opinions were expressed and counter opinions also but no one said anything about marionettes although one fellow said they looked like dancing skeletons, which Kit thought was pretty close to his marionette impression. He was happy being the bartender at moments like this, if not in general. Bartenders are not allowed the unsolicited opinion and other than what can I get ya are best at their job as mutes. Frieda Kahlo is popular and as a subject, much discussed and interpreted. Marionette! Kit should have shouted it out. Isometric Kit thought. Isometric Marionettes. Good one Kit, Kit thought.
Kit was a failed Webelos. Whatever the number of years that passed Kit still looked back to that day he dropped out of the Cub Scout organization, just at the cusp of Webelos, as the beginning of dreams gone unrealized. Oh where might I be now other than here behind this card table if only I had followed through to Webelos, daresay Eagle Scout? The badges that might have adorned me, Kit mused. He was being stared at. Oh sorry, what can I get you, said Kit.
Christ The Quandaries
Walking through the hay ticks looking for purchase the sun came slow. The day still cool before the heat the mountains beginning to haze. There would be just enough time to accomplish whatever there was time to accomplish. Rabbits as big as deer hopped across the bordering grass wet with dew. Birds chirped hey its not hot yet, rejoice. Sun coming up the cemetery fence on fire. There is a cement pond to his left, pumps inclined to mechanically engage any minute. After we are gone the gears will freeze. The chirping slows it comes too quick. That's a garden hose not a snake. Telephone messages from the butts of men. Garbled speech clinking glasses. Disinterest. A flock unidentified. Run for the hills, no the hollows. Over and over again. Basking or basting? Tiny flying insects or spots before his eyes. If I could walk that way I wouldn't need a doctor. Sister in San Francisco behind home plate. The pig at the reunion was a big hit but not for the pig. On the cusp of clammy he begins to notice the change. A doe and her fawn wander, wonder why it all tastes so bitter. Arsenic in chicken really? A yellow bird too far away flies. A butterfly waiting for its bush to flower. Hey you rabbits enough already. With a bypass loper he snips a wire and the sound ceases. No more fear. No more crying out. Someone else's future mystery. Seriously, rabbits as big as men are a threat to normalcy. I thought they were as big as deer. No, I never said that he said. If it were a dream he said, I would be asleep. Hunger, what's with that? The mockingbird chased the squirrel. The squirrel danced closer. He had a spoon nearby coated with last night's two-can bean dinner. He would throw it at a squirrel who came closer and that would answer that if the question was why are there no more spoons. But the important questions never get asked. Anyhow, that squirrel knows better and the pressure of a day beginning takes precedence. Why haven't those pumps engaged? Time and space. Christ the quandaries. The inhalation of a bug is the crack of a starting gun.
Walking through the hay ticks looking for purchase the sun came slow. The day still cool before the heat the mountains beginning to haze. There would be just enough time to accomplish whatever there was time to accomplish. Rabbits as big as deer hopped across the bordering grass wet with dew. Birds chirped hey its not hot yet, rejoice. Sun coming up the cemetery fence on fire. There is a cement pond to his left, pumps inclined to mechanically engage any minute. After we are gone the gears will freeze. The chirping slows it comes too quick. That's a garden hose not a snake. Telephone messages from the butts of men. Garbled speech clinking glasses. Disinterest. A flock unidentified. Run for the hills, no the hollows. Over and over again. Basking or basting? Tiny flying insects or spots before his eyes. If I could walk that way I wouldn't need a doctor. Sister in San Francisco behind home plate. The pig at the reunion was a big hit but not for the pig. On the cusp of clammy he begins to notice the change. A doe and her fawn wander, wonder why it all tastes so bitter. Arsenic in chicken really? A yellow bird too far away flies. A butterfly waiting for its bush to flower. Hey you rabbits enough already. With a bypass loper he snips a wire and the sound ceases. No more fear. No more crying out. Someone else's future mystery. Seriously, rabbits as big as men are a threat to normalcy. I thought they were as big as deer. No, I never said that he said. If it were a dream he said, I would be asleep. Hunger, what's with that? The mockingbird chased the squirrel. The squirrel danced closer. He had a spoon nearby coated with last night's two-can bean dinner. He would throw it at a squirrel who came closer and that would answer that if the question was why are there no more spoons. But the important questions never get asked. Anyhow, that squirrel knows better and the pressure of a day beginning takes precedence. Why haven't those pumps engaged? Time and space. Christ the quandaries. The inhalation of a bug is the crack of a starting gun.
The Hardheaded Peoples Concert
The windows are open now and the sky is clear and the air is cool and dry. This in NYC. But two days ago coming back from Brooklyn over the Manhattan Bridge the sky was a thick grey wet smelly wool blanket. You could see the new Gehry residence tower downtown but everything else competed for distinction under the haze. Midtown was almost invisible. People all across the city were singing in sad concert the ballad Straight to Summer from Winter.
Up here on the fifth floor of a Lower East Side tenement building I was after being helped with the lugging of it unwrapping the new purchase. Sweat dripped from my nose onto the cardboard and styrofoam. My wet fingerprints dotted the instruction manual.
Oh we fight about many things Bernadette and I. The sky is blue one of us says, no it's not the boneheaded combatant responds. Fire is hot the other one says, and you've got no clue the comeback king or queen retorts. The fight or I should say endless meandering going nowhere but straight to hell discussion regarding would we or wouldn't we bring in an air conditioner to this fifth floor, southern exposed, heavily windowed apartment has finally ended after almost five years. Nope, there were no winners, just less sweaty losers.
Where's the remote for the AC ? Bernadette asks me. I tell her it's in my pocket. Can I see it? she asks me. Nope. Why not? I'm keeping it. For how long? Five years.
Later tonight I'm going to broach the subject of putting a swimming pool on one half of the roof. Covered. And heated. And a heliport on the other half. And a helicopter of course, with a margarita machine.
The windows are open now and the sky is clear and the air is cool and dry. This in NYC. But two days ago coming back from Brooklyn over the Manhattan Bridge the sky was a thick grey wet smelly wool blanket. You could see the new Gehry residence tower downtown but everything else competed for distinction under the haze. Midtown was almost invisible. People all across the city were singing in sad concert the ballad Straight to Summer from Winter.
Up here on the fifth floor of a Lower East Side tenement building I was after being helped with the lugging of it unwrapping the new purchase. Sweat dripped from my nose onto the cardboard and styrofoam. My wet fingerprints dotted the instruction manual.
Oh we fight about many things Bernadette and I. The sky is blue one of us says, no it's not the boneheaded combatant responds. Fire is hot the other one says, and you've got no clue the comeback king or queen retorts. The fight or I should say endless meandering going nowhere but straight to hell discussion regarding would we or wouldn't we bring in an air conditioner to this fifth floor, southern exposed, heavily windowed apartment has finally ended after almost five years. Nope, there were no winners, just less sweaty losers.
Where's the remote for the AC ? Bernadette asks me. I tell her it's in my pocket. Can I see it? she asks me. Nope. Why not? I'm keeping it. For how long? Five years.
Later tonight I'm going to broach the subject of putting a swimming pool on one half of the roof. Covered. And heated. And a heliport on the other half. And a helicopter of course, with a margarita machine.
The Blank Page
I hear a gentle breeze. If only I could feel it. I can in my mind smell bacon dipped in brown sugar. I can see it in the oven. Too hot for an oven. Turn the oven off. Open the freezer door and stick your head inside. Bat your eyelashes against the ice cube trays. Talk to the cat all seriously now, no baby talk. Would you like me to shave off your fur? Might the mice ostracize you? Decisions are not easy.
A hammer pounding a nail goes crack then echo echo echo. Hunger begins. I drink water pretending it is steak. I am not a vegetarian. I rarely pretend the water is asparagus although I enjoy asparagus. Enjoy may be awkward. The asparagus coated in olive oil and salt sizzles under the broiler next to the bubbling bacon dipped in brown sugar.
A man wants to be careful about sounding experimental.
I hear a gentle breeze. If only I could feel it. I can in my mind smell bacon dipped in brown sugar. I can see it in the oven. Too hot for an oven. Turn the oven off. Open the freezer door and stick your head inside. Bat your eyelashes against the ice cube trays. Talk to the cat all seriously now, no baby talk. Would you like me to shave off your fur? Might the mice ostracize you? Decisions are not easy.
A hammer pounding a nail goes crack then echo echo echo. Hunger begins. I drink water pretending it is steak. I am not a vegetarian. I rarely pretend the water is asparagus although I enjoy asparagus. Enjoy may be awkward. The asparagus coated in olive oil and salt sizzles under the broiler next to the bubbling bacon dipped in brown sugar.
A man wants to be careful about sounding experimental.
Bird
The Caretaker's Grueling Efforts
He doesn't see raindrops falling he sees dollar signs. He's got the blades sharpened and the tank full of gas that he stole from me. Later in the day the sky will open, the driveway will become a stream and then an etched dry creek bed. Some kind of animal died in the basement, in the bathtub down there, looks like a pretty good while ago. I can't even tell what it is but I am hoping it is not that lady's cat from across the road. Looks like an inflated stuffed animal with all the air let out of it. I could justify not cleaning it up by saying I have much else to do, which is true, but unless someone moseys onto the property today whom I can bribe with cash to do it I will have to do it myself. I don't want to though. I hope I have made that clear. What? Oh the stinkbugs seem a minor nuisance compared to that dead animal but they really have gotten out of hand up at the Bighouse. And are of course a longer term problem. I googled how to and then the letter e and google knew from that just what I wanted. How to eradicate stink bugs it filled in for me. So I got some product on order and I'll spray it around when it gets here. Looking for a dry spell in the day and then I'll off load those limbs on the trailer to the brush pile. Had to cut down that big willow by the pond. The original willow, not the four or five that have been planted since. It had been dying slowly over the last couple of years but this year it turned up just completely dead, hovering over the pond, so it is in its cut up entirety piled high on the trailer with the bottom eight feet of heavy stump cut up into manageable pieces and sitting in the back of the Polaris utility vehicle. I'm eating the last of that granola now, still eating it dry because I would have to leave the property to get milk. I fold the edges of the gallon Ziplock bag outward in a rolling fashion and I just stick my face down into the now shallower bag and then push up from the bottom forcing the good granola bits into my mouth. It's pretty much gone now. No walnuts or almonds left that's for sure. I'm going to have a second cup of coffee. I can hear cars going by behind me out there on Main Street. So somebody is out there doing something. Not everybody is just sitting around drinking coffee. Yesterday I called a air and heat guy for one last hey what the hell and if you can't come out and finish thanks for the years of service anyway but I'll need to call in someone else. And I did call someone else and they were ready to come out and the other guy called and said he would come out so I had to call the second guy back and say sorry to waste your time but thank you for being so ready and eager. I am hoping that takes care of my calling for awhile but I know it won't because I must call the pool guy today and dammit my sister who just wants to check in and have a simple brief conversation is that so hard for you to understand. Just call your sister. Why you gotta make every simple thing so damn hard? I used 23 of my 300 cell phone minutes and 10 of my 300 text messages last month. Now I'm pretty sure 13 or more of those minutes were me listening to my few messages but I can't account for the other 5 or ten minutes. Well my sister is in CA so I can't call her this early. She doesn't want to talk to me that much.
He doesn't see raindrops falling he sees dollar signs. He's got the blades sharpened and the tank full of gas that he stole from me. Later in the day the sky will open, the driveway will become a stream and then an etched dry creek bed. Some kind of animal died in the basement, in the bathtub down there, looks like a pretty good while ago. I can't even tell what it is but I am hoping it is not that lady's cat from across the road. Looks like an inflated stuffed animal with all the air let out of it. I could justify not cleaning it up by saying I have much else to do, which is true, but unless someone moseys onto the property today whom I can bribe with cash to do it I will have to do it myself. I don't want to though. I hope I have made that clear. What? Oh the stinkbugs seem a minor nuisance compared to that dead animal but they really have gotten out of hand up at the Bighouse. And are of course a longer term problem. I googled how to and then the letter e and google knew from that just what I wanted. How to eradicate stink bugs it filled in for me. So I got some product on order and I'll spray it around when it gets here. Looking for a dry spell in the day and then I'll off load those limbs on the trailer to the brush pile. Had to cut down that big willow by the pond. The original willow, not the four or five that have been planted since. It had been dying slowly over the last couple of years but this year it turned up just completely dead, hovering over the pond, so it is in its cut up entirety piled high on the trailer with the bottom eight feet of heavy stump cut up into manageable pieces and sitting in the back of the Polaris utility vehicle. I'm eating the last of that granola now, still eating it dry because I would have to leave the property to get milk. I fold the edges of the gallon Ziplock bag outward in a rolling fashion and I just stick my face down into the now shallower bag and then push up from the bottom forcing the good granola bits into my mouth. It's pretty much gone now. No walnuts or almonds left that's for sure. I'm going to have a second cup of coffee. I can hear cars going by behind me out there on Main Street. So somebody is out there doing something. Not everybody is just sitting around drinking coffee. Yesterday I called a air and heat guy for one last hey what the hell and if you can't come out and finish thanks for the years of service anyway but I'll need to call in someone else. And I did call someone else and they were ready to come out and the other guy called and said he would come out so I had to call the second guy back and say sorry to waste your time but thank you for being so ready and eager. I am hoping that takes care of my calling for awhile but I know it won't because I must call the pool guy today and dammit my sister who just wants to check in and have a simple brief conversation is that so hard for you to understand. Just call your sister. Why you gotta make every simple thing so damn hard? I used 23 of my 300 cell phone minutes and 10 of my 300 text messages last month. Now I'm pretty sure 13 or more of those minutes were me listening to my few messages but I can't account for the other 5 or ten minutes. Well my sister is in CA so I can't call her this early. She doesn't want to talk to me that much.
Hard Top
Twice in two days, that is once one day and then once again a separate succeeding day. Two convertibles come up this rain washed gravel driveway. Sightseers. Nothing to see folks, move along. The second convertible was a hard top. You push an unassuming button on the console between the seats. The trunk opens up and there is the imagined whirring of gears and machinery, cranks and levers operated manually by thousands of miniature bad children, those children who did not do what their parents said they ought. Occasionally there is the lopped off finger of the daydreamer. I am sitting in the drivers seat with the door open. Nothing is happening. Mr BC is out on the passenger side, doors and windows closed and he is giving me detailed instructions of which I hear not a peep. Finally I get out and say Hello? Do you not understand that when you buy this German engineering there are costs? You can't stand out there talking and think someone inside can hear you like they could if this were a 1972 Chevy Nova. No, not even if they have their door open on the opposite side. I did not hear a word you said. Perhaps your son could get in here and show us how it works. And he did and the top came down and Mr. BC climbed into the back seat with the agility of a grown man climbing into the back seat of a convertible. I have at least temporary full rotation of the neck and waist and so am able to twist around and move out from under his feet the hard hat and 20 pounds of Nikon camera. Driving around Rappahannock County, driving slow after eating that pizza, not so good but which I am now finishing for breakfast, looking for that opportunity to see what happens when you...go 20 to 70 in was that two seconds? I have a grand idea. After we gas up I am, instead of driving myself home and bidding BC and son adieu, going to keep driving. Hey dad would you tell this guy I have school tomorrow. The sun is just setting. Highway signs are whizzing by. There is no direction only forward momentum. No really Jim, I have that seminar in Florida tomorrow afternoon, we can do this another time. So there aren't airports in Chicago? Relax. Let's break this baby in. You don't even have any beer stains on these leather seats yet.
The second convertible, this the one on the second day, comes up spinning gravel in a way that means trouble. I wait for it to quickly leave so I don't have to use cuss words. To quote the famous Irish philosopher, ewww people. But it was Mr. BC, having made the driveway loop up at the Bighouse now parked down the hill in my driveway. I haven't seen him in awhile. Hey, when'd you get that? Couple of days ago he answered.
Twice in two days, that is once one day and then once again a separate succeeding day. Two convertibles come up this rain washed gravel driveway. Sightseers. Nothing to see folks, move along. The second convertible was a hard top. You push an unassuming button on the console between the seats. The trunk opens up and there is the imagined whirring of gears and machinery, cranks and levers operated manually by thousands of miniature bad children, those children who did not do what their parents said they ought. Occasionally there is the lopped off finger of the daydreamer. I am sitting in the drivers seat with the door open. Nothing is happening. Mr BC is out on the passenger side, doors and windows closed and he is giving me detailed instructions of which I hear not a peep. Finally I get out and say Hello? Do you not understand that when you buy this German engineering there are costs? You can't stand out there talking and think someone inside can hear you like they could if this were a 1972 Chevy Nova. No, not even if they have their door open on the opposite side. I did not hear a word you said. Perhaps your son could get in here and show us how it works. And he did and the top came down and Mr. BC climbed into the back seat with the agility of a grown man climbing into the back seat of a convertible. I have at least temporary full rotation of the neck and waist and so am able to twist around and move out from under his feet the hard hat and 20 pounds of Nikon camera. Driving around Rappahannock County, driving slow after eating that pizza, not so good but which I am now finishing for breakfast, looking for that opportunity to see what happens when you...go 20 to 70 in was that two seconds? I have a grand idea. After we gas up I am, instead of driving myself home and bidding BC and son adieu, going to keep driving. Hey dad would you tell this guy I have school tomorrow. The sun is just setting. Highway signs are whizzing by. There is no direction only forward momentum. No really Jim, I have that seminar in Florida tomorrow afternoon, we can do this another time. So there aren't airports in Chicago? Relax. Let's break this baby in. You don't even have any beer stains on these leather seats yet.
The second convertible, this the one on the second day, comes up spinning gravel in a way that means trouble. I wait for it to quickly leave so I don't have to use cuss words. To quote the famous Irish philosopher, ewww people. But it was Mr. BC, having made the driveway loop up at the Bighouse now parked down the hill in my driveway. I haven't seen him in awhile. Hey, when'd you get that? Couple of days ago he answered.
The Tagger
I was coming back from a shopping spree. I had from over at the Chinese grocery on Ludlow two bags of pine nugget cat litter and from the Essex Market I had picked up vegetables for juicing, a bag of coffee, over-priced toilet paper, some sliced mangos, and a carton of half and half. In total my purchases weighed between 12 and 14 pounds. I was carrying them in three plastic bags, two in one hand, one in the other and they dangled swaying from my claws a matter of inches or several hundred feet above the topography that was a gum spotted sidewalk or freshly mown field where mice scurried.
Bernadette's sister, Magdalena, was preparing to clean from the window glass in front of the building a white marker tag measuring about two by five inches. Hello Magdalena, I said. I released from my one claw the heavier bags and dug into my front pocket for the front door key. While Magdalena descended into the basement for more cleaning supplies I traced my index finger over the tag, thinking perhaps that I might discern something meaningful from the feel of it, the texture of the ink; that I might in fact crack this case of the persistent New York tagger, the ticker tape parade in my honor going down as one for the ages, the New York Post celebrating me with an uncharacteristically straightforward headline--jimlouis, not a fuckup, anymore.
Instead I am flanked by two well meaning newly trained shiny and I mean shiny New York City cops. The shiniest one addresses me while the just moving towards pudginess shiny one stays hidden to my right side periphery, judging, in this case correctly, that he is to the side of my bad eye. Excuse me sir, the lead cop says to get my attention. Just him being a cop got my attention but the excuse me sir I have to admit was a very nice touch. The polite introduction implies that he is clearly, by himself, prepared to play good cop and bad cop. While the cop to my flank plays the quiet, baton-fingering menace. I have been in the past so impressed by a good good cop routine that I have now at this time forgotten all about the particular misdeameanor or minor felony and can only recall the cop and his finesse in the field of human interaction.
The cop is clearly interested in the rather unremarkable scribbled grafitti. He motions towards it. I follow his lead and am looking in the correct general direction when he utters--what is that?
Oh now I know where he is going with this and I must say I am a little taken aback. I retort, perhaps too quickly--my good sir, I am not "a knave, a rascal, an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-liver'd, action-taking knave; a whoreson, glass-gazing,
superserviceable, finical rogue; a one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch..." And I will have you know that the number of years passed since last I have been spoken to in such a manner, with such implication by one of your profession is no short interlude. While I will not demand an apology I must still suggest strongly that you be on your way and waste no bit of yourself looking back.
Or in fact I did not say that but only wished for a place to insert that nifty insult from Act 2 Scene 2 King Lear which I was fortunately able to attend with Yonder Fair Maiden a few nights ago in Brooklyn.
I said in petulant voice (let's face it a little hurt by the accusation soon coming)--that's a tag.
The cop nodded a triumphant yet reserved Ah Ha and then asked me, did you just do that?
Did I just tag my own building, I said, dissmissively, and feeling that rising tone of anger best not reserved for cops or other humans I was then luckily interrupted by the returning Magdalena coming up from the basement saying (and picking up right where my tone had left off) Nooo, he didn't...and this followed quickly by the appearance of Bernadette bringing into clarity for these young cops how a simple grafitti bust can turn into a one act you don't really need to attend entitled Two Women Not to Mess With.
And no sooner had they arrived they were off. And now these days later gazing out the window at the Shenandoah peak known as The Peak all I can think about is damn I wish I had those vegetables and the juicer here and, is it a bad thing to eat nothing but homemade granola cereal for three days. Shouldn't I add some milk this time instead of drinking it dry, from a highball glass?
I was coming back from a shopping spree. I had from over at the Chinese grocery on Ludlow two bags of pine nugget cat litter and from the Essex Market I had picked up vegetables for juicing, a bag of coffee, over-priced toilet paper, some sliced mangos, and a carton of half and half. In total my purchases weighed between 12 and 14 pounds. I was carrying them in three plastic bags, two in one hand, one in the other and they dangled swaying from my claws a matter of inches or several hundred feet above the topography that was a gum spotted sidewalk or freshly mown field where mice scurried.
Bernadette's sister, Magdalena, was preparing to clean from the window glass in front of the building a white marker tag measuring about two by five inches. Hello Magdalena, I said. I released from my one claw the heavier bags and dug into my front pocket for the front door key. While Magdalena descended into the basement for more cleaning supplies I traced my index finger over the tag, thinking perhaps that I might discern something meaningful from the feel of it, the texture of the ink; that I might in fact crack this case of the persistent New York tagger, the ticker tape parade in my honor going down as one for the ages, the New York Post celebrating me with an uncharacteristically straightforward headline--jimlouis, not a fuckup, anymore.
Instead I am flanked by two well meaning newly trained shiny and I mean shiny New York City cops. The shiniest one addresses me while the just moving towards pudginess shiny one stays hidden to my right side periphery, judging, in this case correctly, that he is to the side of my bad eye. Excuse me sir, the lead cop says to get my attention. Just him being a cop got my attention but the excuse me sir I have to admit was a very nice touch. The polite introduction implies that he is clearly, by himself, prepared to play good cop and bad cop. While the cop to my flank plays the quiet, baton-fingering menace. I have been in the past so impressed by a good good cop routine that I have now at this time forgotten all about the particular misdeameanor or minor felony and can only recall the cop and his finesse in the field of human interaction.
The cop is clearly interested in the rather unremarkable scribbled grafitti. He motions towards it. I follow his lead and am looking in the correct general direction when he utters--what is that?
Oh now I know where he is going with this and I must say I am a little taken aback. I retort, perhaps too quickly--my good sir, I am not "a knave, a rascal, an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-liver'd, action-taking knave; a whoreson, glass-gazing,
superserviceable, finical rogue; a one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch..." And I will have you know that the number of years passed since last I have been spoken to in such a manner, with such implication by one of your profession is no short interlude. While I will not demand an apology I must still suggest strongly that you be on your way and waste no bit of yourself looking back.
Or in fact I did not say that but only wished for a place to insert that nifty insult from Act 2 Scene 2 King Lear which I was fortunately able to attend with Yonder Fair Maiden a few nights ago in Brooklyn.
I said in petulant voice (let's face it a little hurt by the accusation soon coming)--that's a tag.
The cop nodded a triumphant yet reserved Ah Ha and then asked me, did you just do that?
Did I just tag my own building, I said, dissmissively, and feeling that rising tone of anger best not reserved for cops or other humans I was then luckily interrupted by the returning Magdalena coming up from the basement saying (and picking up right where my tone had left off) Nooo, he didn't...and this followed quickly by the appearance of Bernadette bringing into clarity for these young cops how a simple grafitti bust can turn into a one act you don't really need to attend entitled Two Women Not to Mess With.
And no sooner had they arrived they were off. And now these days later gazing out the window at the Shenandoah peak known as The Peak all I can think about is damn I wish I had those vegetables and the juicer here and, is it a bad thing to eat nothing but homemade granola cereal for three days. Shouldn't I add some milk this time instead of drinking it dry, from a highball glass?
Sky
