This story is true and was told to me by a customer. The names, dates and location have been radically altered to protect the original storyteller's identity and family.
Todd lived in a housing complex in Florida in the mid-early aughts. He had taken on the job of maintenance man and general person to settle disputes as a way to help augment his salary as a TA while completing his masters in engineering. The complex was pleasant but not at all luxurious: pipes often burst for no readily apparent reason; the painted stucco flaked and peeled; there were broken roof tiles and enough windows were hung with bed sheets and broken blinds to make the place feel slightly seedy. But the crumbling walls were a warm shade of butter and the grounds were kept neat. As long as Todd was in town, and not visiting his girlfriend in Massachusetts, all urgent issues were dealt with immediately: exterior hall lights were all lit, there were no busted locks, no broken door jambs. Adding to the general sense of well-being was a shared garden.
A few years back when a young couple with "vision" had moved in, the complex had come together "as a community" and planted the garden in a lozenge shaped plot of earth next to the pool. The wife was a botanist and landscape artist for wealthy clients in Boca Raton and had lent her expertise to the project. Most of the people in the complex had helped to plant and weed. Notable among these was a cantakerous old bible-thumper named Hank. Nobody liked Hank, but he had a green thumb and when the young couple left to have a baby and a "real" home no one doubted that the bulk of the responsibility for the garden would fall to him.
Hank spent a good deal of time harrasing the two young Guatemalan women, Anna and Tina, who lived on the first floor and worked for a commercial cleaning service. According to him, their clothes were skimpy, they were noisy, they had too many men over to their apartment, they were Catholic, they needed to learn to "speaka tha English", and they left roots behind as they lazily chatted and weeded on their days off. Hank harassed them often enough that they eventually left the complex and moved to a nearby trailerpark so Hank found himself with twice as much work tending the garden. But he wasn't sorry to see them go. It was his fervent wish that they would be deported back to "Meh-hee-co" and he had often threatened to call the INS when their after work beers with friends got too rowdy for his taste.
To be fair, Hank didn't like anyone in the complex. He had particularly hated Anna and Tina, but he also hated Todd. Hank had been the complex's caretaker before Todd - who as an engineer with years of carpentry in his dad's business behind him was more than equal to the task. Hank- who was responsible for both a pallette's worth of the shitty exterior paint that couldn't stand up to the humidity of south Florida, and the copious amounts of duct tape Todd found when he opened up a wall to fix yet another leak- thought Todd was a stuck up pin-head weasel; a snotty college brat spending thousands of dollars to learn how to do what any man should be born knowing. Hank would knock on Todd's door at all hours of the weekend while Todd was studying and preparing lesson plans.
"Hi, Hank. What's the problem?" Todd would answer the door wearily but always pleasantly.
"Oh, nothing, Todd. I was just wondering when you were planning on fixing Mrs. Lundquvist's air conditioning?"
"That's funny, I just saw her this morning... she didn't say anything was wrong..."
"Well she probably doesn't even notice the problem. Why would she? It's not her window that's getting covered in filthy water splatters. MINE is. My window is covered in a film of grime from her disgusting air conditioner, and I want to know what you plan to do about it!"
And so on. In spite of all this, Hank was not the most despised person in the complex. Larry was.
Larry lived by himself and if any apartment could be pointed to as being the one to bring down all the others it was his. All the apartments had two windows that faced the inner courtyard and two that faced the parking lot on the outside, like a motel. Larry's was on the end, so he got three more windows: 2 large ones and one tiny one in his bathroom that allowed unfortunate passersby to hear whatever was transpiring between Larry and his toilet.
Larry looked like a no-goodnick. He was quiet, and kept to himself but not in the way that makes you curious to know him or that invites sympathy or even pity. He was quiet in a seething, hate-filled, way. In a land of fat people, he was grotesque. He sweated a foul mix of raw onion, potato chips and coffee breath. His thick glasses were usually perched at the end of his nose so that he could always look down its pimply expanse. He was sickly pale, but covered in black hair from just above the ears to his toes: his crown was bald and scaling. He kept an overly long, filthy mustache and the rest of his jowls were usually covered in a layer of 10-o-clock shadow. He was a mouth breather. He burped loudly. He referred to women in general as "pieces" and rated their looks on scales of 1-10. Racist, sexist, xenophobic, vaguely libertarian in the least responsible sense of the word, and a slob. Todd dreaded getting called into Larry's apartment: one whole wall was covered in pages torn from porn magazines and if Todd so much as glanced at the wall, Larry would quietly leer at him. Kleenexs littered the floor as did piles of fast food trash. The recycling bin in the corner was overflowing with Red Bull (full sugar) and Arizona Ice Tea (diet) cans. It smelled. It was dark and depressing. Larry worked two nights a week at a movie theater as ticket taker and he supplemented his income with social security because his obesity was considered a disability.
Whenever someone pissed Larry off, he would threaten to call the cops on them. It was, perhaps his favorite thing to say to some stunned neighbor "I could get the cops here right away. My father was a cop, you know. They'd come. You'll see."
But he never called. It was understood that Larry's father, if the man were still alive, was not interested in helping his son with his connections. It struck everyone that the father probably didn't want anything to do with his asshole son.
******
2008 was an election year and this being Florida, everyone in the complex was pretty fired up. Everyone talked about Barak Obama and hope. Would this black golden boy be able to usurp the decrepit white veteran? Would the man who spoke of change with a folksy, unplaceable accent, overwhelm the attractive - but undeniably stupid - maverick and her noble father figure (who seemed to be getting a little senile in his lusty power grab)? Blue and red stickers bloomed all over the complex. Anna and Tina - before they left - wore "Si Se Puede" buttons on their uniforms. Hank grumbled about "colored" people in the White House and bringing Jesus back to the Constitution. Todd rejoiced and signed all kinds of MoveOn.org petitions, but mainly he just studied. Mrs. Lundquvist had a picture of Sarah Palin taped to her front door... Right next to a picture of Rosanne Barr. Larry, though, stuck posters for the local sherrif in his window. He said couldn't abide a Muslim in the White House, but other than that he didn't give a rat's ass who won. He was interested in the county sherrif race. Larry's father, it turned out, had provided one connection to his flatulent son and now that connection was running for public office.
This sherrif-to-be, Lance Steady, was no doubt the son Larry's dad might have wished for. If Larry was the portrait in the attic, Lance was Dorian Gray. Tall, handsome, well-spoken, if not all that smart, and he looked great in his police uniform. Even though he was 37 and had only left the county to go to Mardi Gras in New Orleans in 1998, he had the hard, but kindly, look of a man who has seen the uderbelly of the cruel world and perservered anyway. It made people believe him when he denied allegations of a coke-fueled rampage that left his girlfriend in a coma and a prostitute dead. When a drug dealer was dredged from the swamp near Lance's parents place 50 miles north of the county line with a police bullet in the back of his head, no one even mentioned Lance's name... the murder was a mystery. When the investigation was dropped, Larry seemed to walk around with a swaggering smirk on his face and he adopted a new habit of making a gun with his thumb and forefinger and shooting it at whoever he passed. Lance and Larry went to strip clubs together as they had done since high school. Lance would get the girls to come over, and Larry would provide dollar bills from his social security- they joked that at least the government was good for something...never mind that Lance worked for the government and was now more overtly seeking public office. When Larry said "my buddy" everyone knew he meant Lance.
The elections came.
Lance, with his easy jokes and his ability to throw and catch a football, won the seat handily. He celebrated with a tasteful barbeque at a country club that struck the right tone of "dude-ness" so that he could project a "working man" persona but not come off as a redneck. When he was grilled by a nosy reporter about the allegations of battery and possible homicide, Lance put on his most manly expression and said "I arrest wife-beaters. I sincerely hope that whatever happened to Annabella never happens to anyone's daughter. Now, let me be clear: I bear Annabella no ill will for her false allegations against me, but as an upholder of the law I do take responsibility for not getting her the help she needed sooner. And this is my burden to bear as I support her in her efforts to overcome addiction. Of course, if- no, when- we find the bast-, the fiend who so brutally beat her, lets just say, I'll have a few choice words for him. That's all I have to say about that." And the people gathered cheered. The reporter felt a chill in the damp air and left.
Larry wasn't invited to the celebration, but he heard about it later. He smirked and called Lance a "sly dog."
At the complex, Hank fumed continuously about the new president and his family. Mrs. Lundquvist seemed to forget the picture of Sarah Palin on her front door as it warped and bleached in the sun. Todd watched the innauguration with tears in his eyes while studying for finals. Every couple of days an article featuring something the new sherriff had done would be taped to Larry's front door: a drug bust, finding an 8 year old girl (dead) who'd been missing for months, the bust up of a prostitution ring, and the closing of one night club after another for sale of illegal drugs. Amazingly, Lance and Larry's favorite strip joint escaped this crack down, though not a single stripper could recall seeing Lance there since his election.
******
In the days leading up to his finals, Todd spent more and more time at the library letting problems at the complex slide. He would come home to find half a dozen notes slipped under his door: requests for repairs, complaints about noises from neighbors, questions about security deposit deductions. He threw them on the kitchen counter and stumbled to bed. One night, there was a pounding on the door, and he could hear Hank muttering and cussing. Todd looked at his bedside clock: it was 2 am. He pulled a pillow over his head, and let Hank pound.
"Todd!" Hank shouted. "Wake up! I know you're in there! Get up you pussy! We've got a problem!" Todd ignored him and managed to fall back asleep. At some later point, he didn't know when, he thought he heard something like an endless cascade of spoons falling. Falling and falling. But he didn't even open his eyes and just willed himself back to sleep while the spoons kept clashing and tinkling.
At six, Todd's coffee pot alarm went off. He poured himself a cup and stumbled out to his car. He vaguely noted something amiss, but didn't stop to consider what it was. He even ignored the white van with a logo advertising chain link fences that was parked next to his car in an illegal spot. As he pulled out of the lot, he realized two things: 1) he had left his cell phone on the counter and 2) he could see Hank in his rearview mirror, arms thrown up in the air in an expression of angry supplication.
********
When the young couple had first planted the garden, it had been in a spirit of community-building: a way to bring the disparate neighbors together in wholesome endeavor. It might have been that in the beginning, but over the years, first one person, then another took on primary custodial responsibility. First it had been the couple, then, for a short time, a tall young man majoring in environmental science, then Anna and Tina, then Hank. Larry, however, had never expressed any interest in the garden at all. He hadn't noticed the roping trumpet flowers, the birds of paradise shooting up behind frothing alstomemeria and seeming to look longingly at the thicket of short palms as though wishing to alight at the base of their leathery leaves. Larry wasn't a man who noticed the world outside the dark, enclosed places he inhabited: his apartment, the local dive bar, the strip clubs.
********
When Todd returned home that evening, his door was covered with angrily scrawled notes that weren't Hank's hadwriting. His phone, on the counter where he'd left it, was buzzing with messages. He opened the first note, and his eyes went wide. He looked out the window that faced the pool and the garden, and he saw what the note described: Larry had annexed most of the garden by erecting a chain link fence that extended from his door to one whole end of the lozenge and back around. It was as wide as his apartment and blocked part of the walkway that went around the back of the building. Todd noted that no effort had been made to integrate the fence with it's surroundings... he shook his head sharply: had he expected there would be? Did he expect the kind of person who would build a fence in the middle of the night to claim part of a communal garden he had no part in building or maintaining to worry about the esthetics of the thing? Absurd.
Todd went storming out to the courtyard.
"Ah! So now you're pissed huh?" Hank, intercepted him. "Where were you last night, when I was pounding on your door, when you could have done something to stop him? Huh? Where were you then, pin head?" Hank spat. Todd pushed past Hank and ran around the far end of the fence to Larry's bathroom window.
"Larry! Larry! What the shit?" Todd heard the toilet flush and winced. "LARRY! What the fuck did you do?"
"Hold on a sec," was the calm, muffled reply. Todd heard water running as Larry washed his hands. He heard the heavy man move through his apartment. Todd ran around to the door, which was blocked by the fence. The door opened and Larry stood there, expressionless, looking down his nose through his grimed glasses.
"What's the problem, Todd?" Larry's lower lip hung, forgotten, from his gums.
Todd leveled a stern look at Larry, and threw his arms wide, to encompass the whole fence.
"I got nothing to say about that, Todd." Larry started to close the door.
"Are you crazy?! You can't build a fence in the middle of the property!" Todd shouted.
"Says who?" Larry replied.
"Says the lease agreement! Says county regulations! Says all your fellow tennants! Says any normal human being!"
"Doesn't say anything about fences in my lease agreement. Does it say anything in yours, Hank?"
Hank started hollering and didn't stop for some time.
"Yeah, well," said Larry. "It doesn't mention fences in my lease, so ah, if you'll excuse me."
"I'll tear it down myself, Larry," said Todd.
Larry stopped short and looked angry for the first time.
"Don't you touch a damn thing on that fence or I'll break your shitty little fingers!" He snarled. "It's my fence! I spent money on it! And it's my private property. I'm part owner in this place, you know, and I'm entitled to my bit of private property!"
Todd punched the chain link - which hurt him badly - in frustration and then turned and went to the utility shed. He found the chainsaw and rushed out with the blade already whining. He ran to the end of the garden. Larry lumbered as fast as his elephant limbs would let him to where Todd, with sparks flying, was attacking a post.
"I'll get the sherrif down here, you twerp!" Larry thundered.
"Good!" Todd screamed back. Larry exhaled through his nostrils like a bull getting ready for another charge.
"I said, I'll get the sheriff down here! My buddy, Sheriff Lance Steady! Here! He'll come here!" Larry stared down at Todd's reedy frame bracing the chainsaw.
Todd looked at Larry, his lips pressed tight. He shut the saw down. He dropped his arms and leaned back, cantilevering himself against the weight of the machine. He had been so absorbed in the presidential race and finals that he'd utterly forgotten the county sheriff's race.
"Lance won the election?" he asked, though he knew the answer.
Larry scowled. "Of course he did, jerkoff! Of course he won!"
Todd looked up at the sky and thought about his paper that was due the following day and the pile of tests he still had to grade. For the first time, Larry's threats about calling the cops held some weight.
Todd had once seen Lance and his girlfriend leaving Larry's apartment and he'd been struck by how tiny and frail the girl looked. She was too young, maybe 19 if he was being generous, with unfortunately huge breasts. She looked like a bird you'd handle gently or risk popping. He couldn't imagine Lance's huge hand crushing her windpipe, punching her delicate face to fracture her jaw, breaking that twig of a collar bone as he'd been accused. The broken girl had dropped the assault charges, but there was a restraining order against the sherrif, and after the media frenzy had died down, the she had disappeared. The killer of the prostitute and the drug dealer was still at large, and no one thought it was worth it to spend any more of the county's money to find the murderer.
Larry snorted in victory. "Don't touch my fence, douche bag."
Todd looked at the birds of paradise that had been trampled by the workmen. Their purple and orange heads were mashed into the dirt. Half of a carolina coralbead had been torn from it's twisty, skinny trunk. An unused bag of concrete lay like a dead body among the periwinkle informing Todd that the fence was built to stay put.
Hank stared at Todd, and for the first time in Todd's memory, looked at a loss. Mrs. Lundquvist had come out to stand on the balcony to see what the noise was about. A few of the other tennants were staring at Todd and Larry facing off through the absurd fence. The bigger man was so clearly a loser in everything except this one battle. The lithe, competent figure: smarter, stronger, kinder - the better man in every way - beaten. In spite of his many resources as a person, he was totally without recourse. Who could he call? Was the law truly on his side, as he assumed? When was the last time he'd read the lease agreement? Did it explicitly say anything about fences? And after all, the garden had merely been the idea of people who weren't even there anymore. They had left, gone on to larger, better housing complexes, places where the ideas of "community" had already taken root and where ideals like theirs would be understood and encouraged. This complex, just one step up from a Katrina trailer park - full of students, immigrants , old people shunted from their families and waiting for time to pass - was an impermanent place. The only thing that remained unchanged about the building was Larry. No one, not even Hank, could remember a time before Larry. His blinds had always hung haphazardly. His wall had always been covered in porn. He had always claimed connections to important people, seizing on his noble father's reputation for power. A man without human connection and therefore without morals. There was no appealing to reason. Todd would be graduating in a couple of months and taking a job in California. Did he really want to wind up in a swamp with a police bullet in the back of his head for defending the integrity of a housing complex in south Florida? He did not. He turned back to the tool shed and the tennants booed, as though they were watching a tv show. Hank, now having a clear target for his anger shouted "you college boys are always cowards when push comes to shove!"
Todd didn't bother to respond, He put the saw back in it's appointed place. When he came back out, Larry was still standing by the slightly mangled post. He cocked his thumb and his forefinger and fired.
Monday, September 10, 2012
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Lost Boys
DUMBO: Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. A tiny neighborhood just down the street from Vinegar Hill and some of the worst projects in New York City.
One morning last summer, I opened the store early, while DUMBO was still pretty much asleep. The artists, filmmakers and designers who work in the neighborhood usually don't really get going until about noon. The yuppies who live in the luxury condos were already at work in lower Manhattan. A fresh breeze coming off the East River made the usually reeking air pleasant; the light was bright and clear. DUMBO felt weirdly clean. I left the door to the store open, allowing the crash and rumble of the N train soaring overhead to rattle the store and sprinkle its fine layer of soot on all the pretty objects I was fruitlessly dusting. The Supremes were playing and I was singing along when a man walked who, at first blush, looked to be about 55 or so. It's cliche to say so, but he was built like a brick... A brick with a beach ball glued to its midsection. His face was a shade of red I associate with fishing off a pier and lots and lots of beer. His face shone, his hair was bleached blonde, like a professional wrestler's, and his eyes were a washed out blue. He was sweating and his thick hands kept running themselves over the front of his tent-sized grey t-shirt, like an expectant mother already caressing the baby inside.
"Hiya," he said, and that word alone was enough to establish the fact of his Brooklyn origin. He smiled to reveal a shocking thousand-watt smile.
"Boy has dis place changed! Wow!" He said.
"Yeah," I agreed. "I credit the Jehova's Witnesses."
"Oh yeah, yeah!" he cried. "Doze guys really turned it aroun' huh? Geeze.. I remember this place when it was just the fishing hub."
"Really?" I said with surprise.
"Oh yeah.. It used to be all wooden along the water, like in that movie wit Bando?"
"'On the Waterfront?'"
"Yeah! It was where da whole city got da fish."
"Really? I thought that was the Fulton Fish market.. Now it's at Hunt's Point, right?"
"Oh yeah, but dis was before dat even."
I wasn't sure I believed him. The waterfront in DUMBO is full of converted brick warehouses and factories. The steel stars on their walls, marking the ends of heavy cross beams, dated those buildings to decades before this guy was born. But he went on to talk about what the neighborhood was like when he was a kid and it turned out he was actually in his late seventies- and like my grandfather, he used the word "copasetic" more than once- and his dad, and his dad before him, had all been fishermen. He said it was a little fishing community until the factories came in. He said his parents moved to Canarsie which is where he mostly grew up. In his twenties he moved to Long Island with his wife who is just as byootiful now as she was then. He loves Long Island. He goes fishing out there and goes to the beach most days in the summer. He worked for the city for almost forty years he said, and smiled.
"It's not so bad workin for da city. Dey take care a ya." He patted his enormous belly and smiled wider.
We chatted some more about the nature of changing neighborhoods. He talked frankly about the projects.
"It's not right what dey do to people in dose houses," he said with a frown referring to the Farragut Houses on the hill. The buildings tower over DUMBO, like a decimated chateau in winter, but in the summer they form a reasonably cheerful red edifice. Cycling past them in the spring, the grounds are leafy with sugar maples and community gardens; almost lush. I imagine some of the apartments must have pretty spectacular views of the bridges and the harbor beyond but that does little to make up for the buildings' isolation and decrepitude. A quick look shows windows stuffed with broken blinds and house plants that resemble a starved to death Audrey II. Other windows are draped in stained sheets and plastic insulation. Poverty, we agreed, is crueler and more intractable than the combined luxuries of TV, fast food, trees and Playstations can compensate for. Frank- that was the rotund fisherman's name- and I contemplated the shortcomings of NYCHA and talked for a bit about drug abuse. We thanked our lucky stars we'd never had to deal with that, but...
"My fatha was a terrible drunk," Frank sighed. "Terrible."
We were silent for a moment.
"I tell ya, the more things change, the more they stay the same," he said sagaciously. I nodded at this non-sequitous cliche. "Anyway, nice chattin' witcha. Take it easy, yeah?"
"Yeah, take care," I said, which is something else my grandfather always said.
*************************************
In late summer, a group of young boys from the projects, between 8 and 13, started coming into the store. They were all black except for one white kid. They had first gathered on the stoop outside, using the three steps and iron railing as makeshift monkey bars. One of the younger boys, his head like a bowling ball, peered in. I smiled at him.
"OH SHIT!" he shouted excitedly to the other boys. He waved them over and they pressed their faces to the glass. While some of them unsuccessfully tried to blow condensation circles onto the warm window and scrawl their names, the first boy poked his head in the door.
"Um, can we come in?" he asked, eyes darting all around trying to see everything at once.
"Sure," I said. There were a bunch of customers in the store, and I thought, 'what could possibly go wrong? They're just boys.' (And, yes, I had this thought in spite of having been an after school teacher for two years and watching one of my favorite students try to visciously strangle and stomp the head of his best friend as I pried them apart.)
The boys swarmed in- more of them than I'd realized- rambunctious, loud, but basically sweet. Shouts of "yo, son, look at this! Miss, yo miss! What's this? What's that? Aw, miss! Can I have this?"
"You got five bucks?"
"No."
"Then no dice. Sorry."
"But miss-"
"Yo miss, I could...can I work here?"
"What are your qualifications?"
"My what?"
"What skills do you have that would make you a good employee?"
"Aw shit, he can't do anything. He's in special ed!"
The boys all burst into laughter. Some of them started to wander away from the toy section and I called them back; they came, but reluctantly. There were two boys who seemed to dominate, the white boy and a shockingly skinny boy who towered over the others, but if either of them exerted too much power, the others felt free to punch them. Some of them sheepishly attempted to steal, but were so obvious I just looked at them and jerked my head. "Put it back."
"I di'n't do nuthiiinnn!" one boy whined as his tiny hand struggled to conceal a bright orange hackey sack. I glared at him. He smiled. I smiled back.
"Yo, miss, is this a knife?" I whirled around. The white kid was holding a corkscrew with the little lable knife extended. He made a jabbing motion at the air. "Could you stab someone with this?" His eye glinted at the special ed boy. "Could you kill someone with this?"
I thought as quickly as I could. When in doubt, I let the truth work for me: I trust that a child of 11 will have a basic understanding of right and wrong, and more importantly, I believe that kids that age are really good at sniffing out lies and condescension.. or that's what I told myself as I scrambled to avert disaster.
"That's what's called a sommelier corkscrew. A sommelier is a wine expert who says stupid things like 'this fine grande dame has a nose that hints about chestnut while whispering secrets of butter, but hollers a full bodied flavor imbued with cherries and warm chocolate from Machu Picchu, but with a clean finish like a morning in late October on Lake Superior with a fire just lit by a scullery maid named Laura' (okay, I didn't say that, but it would have been funny if I had... anyway.) That tiny little knife is for cutting labels on wine bottles. You couldn't kill someone with it if you wanted to." He looked at me sideways. I was glad I wasn't lying... I couldn't have stood up to that discerning glare. "Kid, the blade isn't even an inch long. The worst you could do is poke someone and just make them madder." He looked at the little, very sharp blade in his hand and decided this was true. Besides, he'd just spotted the $80 lighters. I didn't bother with words, I just walked over and snatched it out of his hands.
I showed the boys how to play with one of the pop-up toys. I explained to them how analogue cameras- which they'd never seen before- work. They charmed me by asking if I made all this stuff.
"Ok, fellas," I said after about half an hour. "It's been pleasant, but I think it's time for you to get a move on." The boys allowed themselves to be hearded out the door, as I pried various small objects out of their fingers and joked with them about getting jobs and overpriced keychains. I returned to the store smiling, but exhausted. A few customers complimented me on handling so many boys without incident. I appreciated the compliment, but smugly thought "Jesus, they're just kids."
The boys came back every few weeks, descending on the store as a jumble of skinny arms and tee-shirts. They all had that peculiar bad breath I learned to associate with children who eat cafeteria lunches and not much else: an odor more appropriate to old people with chronic heartburn. I'd become familiar with the smell at the schools where I taught. I had tried to grow accustomed to it, to not feel my own stomach churn when some sweet, shy child would whisper in my ear that coming to after school art class was her favorite part of the day. But it's a stench so closely related to poverty- unwashed hair, unbrushed teeth, antibacterial gel, embedded cigarette smoke, roach spray- that I could not bring myself to feel good in the presence of that smell. The boys, some of them approaching puberty also carried the sweet sweat smell I used to love when I went to my brother's basketball games.
Each time they arrived, they pushed the boundaries a little more, and my impatience increased. I came to dread their visits, but once they came in, I found myself smiling and laughing, enjoying their jokes and admiring their chutzpah, even as it drove me crazy. Some of them succeeded in stealing a key ring here, a button there. I didn't freak out. I thought, "they have so little, I can buy 'em a few odds and ends." I guessed at the objects they stole and paid for them with my employee discount. I never once saw a parent with them and they never mentioned any. As the days got shorter, they'd be roaming around after dark, and I had the absurd thought they should think of the store as a safe place. I thought, "maybe they trust me. Maybe they like me."
Then two things happened that made me aware of precariousness of the situation.
The first incident involved an old man, who's name I forget every time I hear it, but you'll know who I mean when I say he's called the Mayor of DUMBO. He was born in rural South Carolina in the 1930s and moved with his family to Harlem as a little boy. He became a musician, got married and when he wasn't touring with big band orchestras and jazz players, lived in the projects on the hill which, he says, were never all that nice, but nicer than they are now. His wife raised their daughter and granddaughters and he's hazy on the details of his role in their lives. He walks with a cane he carved himself, is never without a hat- usually it's a straw boater or a fedora- he wears round, rose tinted glasses. He's a dapper guy, an artist and a musician and a terrific bragger. He stops in every so often to shoot the breeze and pretend to look for gifts for his granddaughter. When I see him coming, I set Pandora to Thelonius Monk and impress him with my totally made up knowledge of jazz: I simply read the descriptions off the computer and he seems impressed. I don't feel too bad about being a fraud since he insists that's him on most of the sax solos and all the clarinet solos. But, really,it could be him. Who knows? I certainly don't.
Anyway, it was just me and the boys in the store one afternoon- the other customers had fled- and most of them were being good, but the white boy, who's name was Sean, had gotten to the lighters before I could and was showing his friends how high the flame could go. I was walking toward him to take it away when Mayor walked in clearly believing he was coming to my rescue.
"Go on!" He shouted. "Get on outta here! What are you boys doing in here? This is a place of business! Don't you be botherin this girl!"
"It's okay-" I started to say, but the damage had been done. Sean puffed out his chest and got less than a foot away from the Mayor.
"Fuck you, old man. Get the fuck outta my face," he said. The Mayor was justifiably frightened and he raised his cane a little. The other boys started randomly cursing and I was reminded of a school of piranhas gathering around a bit of chum.
"Hey!" I shouted in my best strict teacher voice. "That is NOT how you talk to ANYone, let alone the Mayor! Get out. All of you. Put everything down- I said put it down Sean!" I commanded, thanking heaven that I remembered his name. He was startled enough to do as I said. "Mark! Rashawn! That's right!" I said, ever so proud of myself for remembering ALL their names. "Put it back where you found it and march out of here! Amadou! Put it BACK! Do NOT make me tell you again!" The Mayor was threatening to call the police on them and I cursed under my breath, but the boys were out the door. They made a few lewd gestures at the Mayor, but they wandered toward the park and I sighed heavily. The Mayor asked if I was alright and I told him I was fine and I was sorry he'd done that.
"That's not right!" He said. "They shouldn't be in here when you're trying to run a business." He had a point and I said so, but I also felt he would not have come in hollering if the boys had all been white. From my vantage point as an outsider, The Mayor strikes me as a member of the older black generation who grew up with segragation and being a part of the civil rights movement while still maintaing the odd belief that white people should be shielded from seeing black people as full people. That is, he seems to think that black people should always be seen as model citizens: solicitous, pleasant, cheerful and polite. Like a middle class housewife of the 1950s. He kept chatting, wanting to rehash the scene again, discuss what kind of beating the boys deserved, what kind of beating he would have received, and so on, but I was plummeting off the adrenaline rush and made as if I had back-stock I had to arrange.
"Well alright. But you call the po-lice when you see those rascals! They need a lesson!" He frowned as he left muttering to himself. I did busy work for a while and when customers came in, I had a smile, like rigor mortis, on my face again: ready to sell, sell, sell.
I struggled to figure out how to behave around the boys to keep that balance of relaxation and command. I wasn't sure that I even could, given the threats from the Mayor. They sometimes came in when my boss was in, and while they made her nervous she has the best child control weapon I know of: unflappability. I, on the other hand, am totally flappable. I'm generally pretty good-natured when it comes to kids, but they can bulldoze right over that. A total lack of perturbability, on the other hand, thwarts their most violent passions and reduces a pack of roving pre-pubescent boy-beasts to mere children. As I was wondering at my boss's ability to herd cats, the second event occurred.
I was alone in the store, dusting, when they tapped on the glass and asked permission to enter which, because they'd asked, I granted. But they were accompanied by older boys. Boys in their mid teens who affected a domineering, mature role, telling the younger ones not to touch, to shut the fuck up before they got popped, etc. But there was little actual difference between the younger boys and the older boys. The older boys asked the same idiotic questions, marveled over the same products and prices. The only real difference was that the older boys were bolder and more sly in their stealing methods, and the younger ones took note. Luckily, they were more responsive to my requests and demands, and when I said it was time for them to go, the older boys punched and kicked the littler ones out the door.
A few hours later, the younger boys came back without the older boys, full of bravado and looking to prove themselves. There was a yuppie mother and her little tow-headed girl, both in white dresses and eating candy, having an evening of mother-daughter treats. The boys spread out all over the store, cursing, randomly putting things in their pockets and finding all things sharp and flammable. The mother let out a little cry "Hey!" She turned to me and said "that boy just stole something!"She turned to him and told him to put it back. He looked at me with an expression that was half "can I?" and half "I didn't do nothing!"
"Look, you guys, if you want to hang out, you can hang out, but only around the toys. If you steal, if you break stuff, if you curse, you're not welcome here," I said.
"Bitch," Sean muttered. I wasn't sure who he was referring to, but before I could say anything, the mother began to splutter.
"That is very disrespectful! You need- you need to show some respect! Very bad! That's a very bad thing to say! You're a bad boy!" I sympathized with her, if it wasn't her stammering in rage, it would have been me, but I wished she would shut up. She was right to be enraged- lord knows I was- but she was scolding them like they were dogs. "Bad boys! Bad!" She shouted again and the boys saw a rich white lady with a mouth full of candy talking down to them in front of her priveledged little girl who was going to go home with all the things they would not go home with.
"Suck my dick!" Sean said. Then he lit a tall flame on the fancy lighter that he produced from nowhere. I snatched it out of his hand, but not before he played keep away for a second. The mother was flabbergasted. She was speechless. And then she said:
"That's it! You can't get away with this! I'm going to blog about this! You're going to be on my blog. The parents in this neighborhood won't stand for this kind of behavior!"
It was my turn to be speechless. I just stared at her slackjawed. She was going to BLOG about this? Oh. Well that's... just... great. *
"That's it! All of you out! Out!" I shouted. Most of the boys moved to the door, but Rashawn dodged right and tried to make me chase him around the table. "I'm not chasing you" I said as I siezed Mark by the shoulder and pushed him out the door.
"Yo! Get off me! I didn't do nuthin!" He shouted angrily.
Rashawn, apart from his friends looked nervous, but smiled slyly.
"He has something in his hand!" the mother shouted as her daughter absently picked gummy bears from her teeth.
"Rashawn." I said, not sure if I was pleading or commanding. He dodged past me and out the door.
"He's stealing! He's stealing!" The mother shouted. I didn't care. I just wanted him out. I stood in the door. The boys were standing on the stoop ready for a fight. It was chilly out. They were all in in t-shirts. I was furious and they were too.
"Well, that was fun while it lasted," I said. "Don't come back. You're not welcome here anymore." I said. The boys whined a little. Some of them even said "I'm sorry" or "it's not fair!" or "that's racist!" I'm pretty sure it was Sean who said that.
"Look," I said. "You know better than this. If you can't fucking behave like normal human beings, then you can't come here, so stop whining."
"Yo! Yo miss!" Sean shouted at me as I was closing the door.
"What?" I said, knowing it wouldn't be good.
"Have you ever had a dick up your ass?" He asked, his face a sneering mask of angry.
"No," I replied, cool as a cucumber. "Have you?"
The other boys tittered. Sean smiled a little and then his face clouded again.
"No!" he said.
"Well good, I hope it stays that way for both of us," I said and shut the door.
As they walked past the windows they pounded on the glass, displaying the items they had stolen and cursing up a storm, enamored with this new idea of dicks in asses. The mother stood there red-faced and unhappy.
"That was UNbelieveable," she said.
"Blog?" I replied.
She didn't hear me. She told her daughter it was time to go, and after wishing me luck and telling me she thought I should lock the door, they left. I didn't lock the door, but I was afraid. It was because I was afraid that I refused to lock the door. I wasn't going to be bullied by a bunch of little kids, and I wasn't going to let them be bullies. Half an hour later I closed the shop and headed home, looking over my shoulder. I half hoped to see the boys following, but of course, they weren't.
*I recognize the irony, but I hope it's clear that my goal in blogging about this is not to set up a sort of "wealthy white people's neighborhood watch" but to observe the gentrification and the behavior of packs of boys... which is pretty much the same everywhere.
One morning last summer, I opened the store early, while DUMBO was still pretty much asleep. The artists, filmmakers and designers who work in the neighborhood usually don't really get going until about noon. The yuppies who live in the luxury condos were already at work in lower Manhattan. A fresh breeze coming off the East River made the usually reeking air pleasant; the light was bright and clear. DUMBO felt weirdly clean. I left the door to the store open, allowing the crash and rumble of the N train soaring overhead to rattle the store and sprinkle its fine layer of soot on all the pretty objects I was fruitlessly dusting. The Supremes were playing and I was singing along when a man walked who, at first blush, looked to be about 55 or so. It's cliche to say so, but he was built like a brick... A brick with a beach ball glued to its midsection. His face was a shade of red I associate with fishing off a pier and lots and lots of beer. His face shone, his hair was bleached blonde, like a professional wrestler's, and his eyes were a washed out blue. He was sweating and his thick hands kept running themselves over the front of his tent-sized grey t-shirt, like an expectant mother already caressing the baby inside.
"Hiya," he said, and that word alone was enough to establish the fact of his Brooklyn origin. He smiled to reveal a shocking thousand-watt smile.
"Boy has dis place changed! Wow!" He said.
"Yeah," I agreed. "I credit the Jehova's Witnesses."
"Oh yeah, yeah!" he cried. "Doze guys really turned it aroun' huh? Geeze.. I remember this place when it was just the fishing hub."
"Really?" I said with surprise.
"Oh yeah.. It used to be all wooden along the water, like in that movie wit Bando?"
"'On the Waterfront?'"
"Yeah! It was where da whole city got da fish."
"Really? I thought that was the Fulton Fish market.. Now it's at Hunt's Point, right?"
"Oh yeah, but dis was before dat even."
I wasn't sure I believed him. The waterfront in DUMBO is full of converted brick warehouses and factories. The steel stars on their walls, marking the ends of heavy cross beams, dated those buildings to decades before this guy was born. But he went on to talk about what the neighborhood was like when he was a kid and it turned out he was actually in his late seventies- and like my grandfather, he used the word "copasetic" more than once- and his dad, and his dad before him, had all been fishermen. He said it was a little fishing community until the factories came in. He said his parents moved to Canarsie which is where he mostly grew up. In his twenties he moved to Long Island with his wife who is just as byootiful now as she was then. He loves Long Island. He goes fishing out there and goes to the beach most days in the summer. He worked for the city for almost forty years he said, and smiled.
"It's not so bad workin for da city. Dey take care a ya." He patted his enormous belly and smiled wider.
We chatted some more about the nature of changing neighborhoods. He talked frankly about the projects.
"It's not right what dey do to people in dose houses," he said with a frown referring to the Farragut Houses on the hill. The buildings tower over DUMBO, like a decimated chateau in winter, but in the summer they form a reasonably cheerful red edifice. Cycling past them in the spring, the grounds are leafy with sugar maples and community gardens; almost lush. I imagine some of the apartments must have pretty spectacular views of the bridges and the harbor beyond but that does little to make up for the buildings' isolation and decrepitude. A quick look shows windows stuffed with broken blinds and house plants that resemble a starved to death Audrey II. Other windows are draped in stained sheets and plastic insulation. Poverty, we agreed, is crueler and more intractable than the combined luxuries of TV, fast food, trees and Playstations can compensate for. Frank- that was the rotund fisherman's name- and I contemplated the shortcomings of NYCHA and talked for a bit about drug abuse. We thanked our lucky stars we'd never had to deal with that, but...
"My fatha was a terrible drunk," Frank sighed. "Terrible."
We were silent for a moment.
"I tell ya, the more things change, the more they stay the same," he said sagaciously. I nodded at this non-sequitous cliche. "Anyway, nice chattin' witcha. Take it easy, yeah?"
"Yeah, take care," I said, which is something else my grandfather always said.
*************************************
In late summer, a group of young boys from the projects, between 8 and 13, started coming into the store. They were all black except for one white kid. They had first gathered on the stoop outside, using the three steps and iron railing as makeshift monkey bars. One of the younger boys, his head like a bowling ball, peered in. I smiled at him.
"OH SHIT!" he shouted excitedly to the other boys. He waved them over and they pressed their faces to the glass. While some of them unsuccessfully tried to blow condensation circles onto the warm window and scrawl their names, the first boy poked his head in the door.
"Um, can we come in?" he asked, eyes darting all around trying to see everything at once.
"Sure," I said. There were a bunch of customers in the store, and I thought, 'what could possibly go wrong? They're just boys.' (And, yes, I had this thought in spite of having been an after school teacher for two years and watching one of my favorite students try to visciously strangle and stomp the head of his best friend as I pried them apart.)
The boys swarmed in- more of them than I'd realized- rambunctious, loud, but basically sweet. Shouts of "yo, son, look at this! Miss, yo miss! What's this? What's that? Aw, miss! Can I have this?"
"You got five bucks?"
"No."
"Then no dice. Sorry."
"But miss-"
"Yo miss, I could...can I work here?"
"What are your qualifications?"
"My what?"
"What skills do you have that would make you a good employee?"
"Aw shit, he can't do anything. He's in special ed!"
The boys all burst into laughter. Some of them started to wander away from the toy section and I called them back; they came, but reluctantly. There were two boys who seemed to dominate, the white boy and a shockingly skinny boy who towered over the others, but if either of them exerted too much power, the others felt free to punch them. Some of them sheepishly attempted to steal, but were so obvious I just looked at them and jerked my head. "Put it back."
"I di'n't do nuthiiinnn!" one boy whined as his tiny hand struggled to conceal a bright orange hackey sack. I glared at him. He smiled. I smiled back.
"Yo, miss, is this a knife?" I whirled around. The white kid was holding a corkscrew with the little lable knife extended. He made a jabbing motion at the air. "Could you stab someone with this?" His eye glinted at the special ed boy. "Could you kill someone with this?"
I thought as quickly as I could. When in doubt, I let the truth work for me: I trust that a child of 11 will have a basic understanding of right and wrong, and more importantly, I believe that kids that age are really good at sniffing out lies and condescension.. or that's what I told myself as I scrambled to avert disaster.
"That's what's called a sommelier corkscrew. A sommelier is a wine expert who says stupid things like 'this fine grande dame has a nose that hints about chestnut while whispering secrets of butter, but hollers a full bodied flavor imbued with cherries and warm chocolate from Machu Picchu, but with a clean finish like a morning in late October on Lake Superior with a fire just lit by a scullery maid named Laura' (okay, I didn't say that, but it would have been funny if I had... anyway.) That tiny little knife is for cutting labels on wine bottles. You couldn't kill someone with it if you wanted to." He looked at me sideways. I was glad I wasn't lying... I couldn't have stood up to that discerning glare. "Kid, the blade isn't even an inch long. The worst you could do is poke someone and just make them madder." He looked at the little, very sharp blade in his hand and decided this was true. Besides, he'd just spotted the $80 lighters. I didn't bother with words, I just walked over and snatched it out of his hands.
I showed the boys how to play with one of the pop-up toys. I explained to them how analogue cameras- which they'd never seen before- work. They charmed me by asking if I made all this stuff.
"Ok, fellas," I said after about half an hour. "It's been pleasant, but I think it's time for you to get a move on." The boys allowed themselves to be hearded out the door, as I pried various small objects out of their fingers and joked with them about getting jobs and overpriced keychains. I returned to the store smiling, but exhausted. A few customers complimented me on handling so many boys without incident. I appreciated the compliment, but smugly thought "Jesus, they're just kids."
The boys came back every few weeks, descending on the store as a jumble of skinny arms and tee-shirts. They all had that peculiar bad breath I learned to associate with children who eat cafeteria lunches and not much else: an odor more appropriate to old people with chronic heartburn. I'd become familiar with the smell at the schools where I taught. I had tried to grow accustomed to it, to not feel my own stomach churn when some sweet, shy child would whisper in my ear that coming to after school art class was her favorite part of the day. But it's a stench so closely related to poverty- unwashed hair, unbrushed teeth, antibacterial gel, embedded cigarette smoke, roach spray- that I could not bring myself to feel good in the presence of that smell. The boys, some of them approaching puberty also carried the sweet sweat smell I used to love when I went to my brother's basketball games.
Each time they arrived, they pushed the boundaries a little more, and my impatience increased. I came to dread their visits, but once they came in, I found myself smiling and laughing, enjoying their jokes and admiring their chutzpah, even as it drove me crazy. Some of them succeeded in stealing a key ring here, a button there. I didn't freak out. I thought, "they have so little, I can buy 'em a few odds and ends." I guessed at the objects they stole and paid for them with my employee discount. I never once saw a parent with them and they never mentioned any. As the days got shorter, they'd be roaming around after dark, and I had the absurd thought they should think of the store as a safe place. I thought, "maybe they trust me. Maybe they like me."
Then two things happened that made me aware of precariousness of the situation.
The first incident involved an old man, who's name I forget every time I hear it, but you'll know who I mean when I say he's called the Mayor of DUMBO. He was born in rural South Carolina in the 1930s and moved with his family to Harlem as a little boy. He became a musician, got married and when he wasn't touring with big band orchestras and jazz players, lived in the projects on the hill which, he says, were never all that nice, but nicer than they are now. His wife raised their daughter and granddaughters and he's hazy on the details of his role in their lives. He walks with a cane he carved himself, is never without a hat- usually it's a straw boater or a fedora- he wears round, rose tinted glasses. He's a dapper guy, an artist and a musician and a terrific bragger. He stops in every so often to shoot the breeze and pretend to look for gifts for his granddaughter. When I see him coming, I set Pandora to Thelonius Monk and impress him with my totally made up knowledge of jazz: I simply read the descriptions off the computer and he seems impressed. I don't feel too bad about being a fraud since he insists that's him on most of the sax solos and all the clarinet solos. But, really,it could be him. Who knows? I certainly don't.
Anyway, it was just me and the boys in the store one afternoon- the other customers had fled- and most of them were being good, but the white boy, who's name was Sean, had gotten to the lighters before I could and was showing his friends how high the flame could go. I was walking toward him to take it away when Mayor walked in clearly believing he was coming to my rescue.
"Go on!" He shouted. "Get on outta here! What are you boys doing in here? This is a place of business! Don't you be botherin this girl!"
"It's okay-" I started to say, but the damage had been done. Sean puffed out his chest and got less than a foot away from the Mayor.
"Fuck you, old man. Get the fuck outta my face," he said. The Mayor was justifiably frightened and he raised his cane a little. The other boys started randomly cursing and I was reminded of a school of piranhas gathering around a bit of chum.
"Hey!" I shouted in my best strict teacher voice. "That is NOT how you talk to ANYone, let alone the Mayor! Get out. All of you. Put everything down- I said put it down Sean!" I commanded, thanking heaven that I remembered his name. He was startled enough to do as I said. "Mark! Rashawn! That's right!" I said, ever so proud of myself for remembering ALL their names. "Put it back where you found it and march out of here! Amadou! Put it BACK! Do NOT make me tell you again!" The Mayor was threatening to call the police on them and I cursed under my breath, but the boys were out the door. They made a few lewd gestures at the Mayor, but they wandered toward the park and I sighed heavily. The Mayor asked if I was alright and I told him I was fine and I was sorry he'd done that.
"That's not right!" He said. "They shouldn't be in here when you're trying to run a business." He had a point and I said so, but I also felt he would not have come in hollering if the boys had all been white. From my vantage point as an outsider, The Mayor strikes me as a member of the older black generation who grew up with segragation and being a part of the civil rights movement while still maintaing the odd belief that white people should be shielded from seeing black people as full people. That is, he seems to think that black people should always be seen as model citizens: solicitous, pleasant, cheerful and polite. Like a middle class housewife of the 1950s. He kept chatting, wanting to rehash the scene again, discuss what kind of beating the boys deserved, what kind of beating he would have received, and so on, but I was plummeting off the adrenaline rush and made as if I had back-stock I had to arrange.
"Well alright. But you call the po-lice when you see those rascals! They need a lesson!" He frowned as he left muttering to himself. I did busy work for a while and when customers came in, I had a smile, like rigor mortis, on my face again: ready to sell, sell, sell.
I struggled to figure out how to behave around the boys to keep that balance of relaxation and command. I wasn't sure that I even could, given the threats from the Mayor. They sometimes came in when my boss was in, and while they made her nervous she has the best child control weapon I know of: unflappability. I, on the other hand, am totally flappable. I'm generally pretty good-natured when it comes to kids, but they can bulldoze right over that. A total lack of perturbability, on the other hand, thwarts their most violent passions and reduces a pack of roving pre-pubescent boy-beasts to mere children. As I was wondering at my boss's ability to herd cats, the second event occurred.
I was alone in the store, dusting, when they tapped on the glass and asked permission to enter which, because they'd asked, I granted. But they were accompanied by older boys. Boys in their mid teens who affected a domineering, mature role, telling the younger ones not to touch, to shut the fuck up before they got popped, etc. But there was little actual difference between the younger boys and the older boys. The older boys asked the same idiotic questions, marveled over the same products and prices. The only real difference was that the older boys were bolder and more sly in their stealing methods, and the younger ones took note. Luckily, they were more responsive to my requests and demands, and when I said it was time for them to go, the older boys punched and kicked the littler ones out the door.
A few hours later, the younger boys came back without the older boys, full of bravado and looking to prove themselves. There was a yuppie mother and her little tow-headed girl, both in white dresses and eating candy, having an evening of mother-daughter treats. The boys spread out all over the store, cursing, randomly putting things in their pockets and finding all things sharp and flammable. The mother let out a little cry "Hey!" She turned to me and said "that boy just stole something!"She turned to him and told him to put it back. He looked at me with an expression that was half "can I?" and half "I didn't do nothing!"
"Look, you guys, if you want to hang out, you can hang out, but only around the toys. If you steal, if you break stuff, if you curse, you're not welcome here," I said.
"Bitch," Sean muttered. I wasn't sure who he was referring to, but before I could say anything, the mother began to splutter.
"That is very disrespectful! You need- you need to show some respect! Very bad! That's a very bad thing to say! You're a bad boy!" I sympathized with her, if it wasn't her stammering in rage, it would have been me, but I wished she would shut up. She was right to be enraged- lord knows I was- but she was scolding them like they were dogs. "Bad boys! Bad!" She shouted again and the boys saw a rich white lady with a mouth full of candy talking down to them in front of her priveledged little girl who was going to go home with all the things they would not go home with.
"Suck my dick!" Sean said. Then he lit a tall flame on the fancy lighter that he produced from nowhere. I snatched it out of his hand, but not before he played keep away for a second. The mother was flabbergasted. She was speechless. And then she said:
"That's it! You can't get away with this! I'm going to blog about this! You're going to be on my blog. The parents in this neighborhood won't stand for this kind of behavior!"
It was my turn to be speechless. I just stared at her slackjawed. She was going to BLOG about this? Oh. Well that's... just... great. *
"That's it! All of you out! Out!" I shouted. Most of the boys moved to the door, but Rashawn dodged right and tried to make me chase him around the table. "I'm not chasing you" I said as I siezed Mark by the shoulder and pushed him out the door.
"Yo! Get off me! I didn't do nuthin!" He shouted angrily.
Rashawn, apart from his friends looked nervous, but smiled slyly.
"He has something in his hand!" the mother shouted as her daughter absently picked gummy bears from her teeth.
"Rashawn." I said, not sure if I was pleading or commanding. He dodged past me and out the door.
"He's stealing! He's stealing!" The mother shouted. I didn't care. I just wanted him out. I stood in the door. The boys were standing on the stoop ready for a fight. It was chilly out. They were all in in t-shirts. I was furious and they were too.
"Well, that was fun while it lasted," I said. "Don't come back. You're not welcome here anymore." I said. The boys whined a little. Some of them even said "I'm sorry" or "it's not fair!" or "that's racist!" I'm pretty sure it was Sean who said that.
"Look," I said. "You know better than this. If you can't fucking behave like normal human beings, then you can't come here, so stop whining."
"Yo! Yo miss!" Sean shouted at me as I was closing the door.
"What?" I said, knowing it wouldn't be good.
"Have you ever had a dick up your ass?" He asked, his face a sneering mask of angry.
"No," I replied, cool as a cucumber. "Have you?"
The other boys tittered. Sean smiled a little and then his face clouded again.
"No!" he said.
"Well good, I hope it stays that way for both of us," I said and shut the door.
As they walked past the windows they pounded on the glass, displaying the items they had stolen and cursing up a storm, enamored with this new idea of dicks in asses. The mother stood there red-faced and unhappy.
"That was UNbelieveable," she said.
"Blog?" I replied.
She didn't hear me. She told her daughter it was time to go, and after wishing me luck and telling me she thought I should lock the door, they left. I didn't lock the door, but I was afraid. It was because I was afraid that I refused to lock the door. I wasn't going to be bullied by a bunch of little kids, and I wasn't going to let them be bullies. Half an hour later I closed the shop and headed home, looking over my shoulder. I half hoped to see the boys following, but of course, they weren't.
*I recognize the irony, but I hope it's clear that my goal in blogging about this is not to set up a sort of "wealthy white people's neighborhood watch" but to observe the gentrification and the behavior of packs of boys... which is pretty much the same everywhere.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Christmas Dolls
My first retail experience began when I was 15 at a funky little boutique in Northern Westchester called Nonesuch. The store was owned by two very sweet, totally disorganized former party girls. Well, one of them was a former party girl; the other one had continued partying long after everyone had gone home, slept off the cocktails, showered, dressed and gone to work. She was now a full blown alcoholic, and the store was in shambles. I was hired, at first, to just clean the piles of clothes that lay about in people high heaps. Empty tequila bottles were nestled in these stacks staining the lace collars yellow and matting velvet sleeves into sticky-hard bundles. The bottles lay dormant everywhere and I found them like a trail of depressing Easter eggs throughout the tiny shop: in the piles of empty boxes in the storage room, behind the desk in unsold handbags, under hats decorated with flowers and feathers, in the middle of circular racks and in deli plastic bags hanging at the back of the wall racks. The dust was inches thick, and the jewlry was a tangled mass in the glass case which was itself sticky with spilled drinks and grime. The store was the physical embodiment of ten pounds of shit violently shoved into a one pound bag. My first job was to, in my boss, Lynn's words: "just get everything off the floor."
Much happened in the first few months: Lynn finally bought Kristin's share of the store and they fought bitterly; Lynn dated several men, but always stuck with her explosive and violent boyfriend, who I had to call the cops on twice; I met Lynn's two suprisingly good kids and occasionally babysat for them; I got my driver's license; Lynn took me on a buying trip to the Javitz Center where I saw more pink carpet than I ever thought possible; and I got everything, everything off the floor. By the time Christmas rolled around, I was running the store. Lynn, a competative bodybuilder, aerobics teacher and single mom, trusted me with writing checks, placing orders, handling cash deposits and organizing all the paperwork for her accountant. It was kind of crazy, but I took it for granted that this was a typical highschool job. For $8 an hour. Lynn came in less and less and usually it was to cry about some new terrible thing Antonio, her dickhead boyfriend, had done. She told me I was so mature, that I was the most mature person she knew, and either out of cockiness or a simple recognition of the truth, I believed her. I was really happy there. I felt so grown up driving to work after my half day of school, opening the store at noon and staying there, selling, cleaning, organizing, doing paperwork and doing my homework until it was time to close at 8.
Lynn was a big fan of holiday decorations: at Halloween half a dozen glitterey jack-o-lanterns, a shrieking witch, a couple of motion sensing, yowling black cats, streamers of black and orange, and the piece de resistance: a gargoyle encrusted fountain with dry ice smoke making tacky whisps over the most godawful Halloween sweaters. I was forever trying to reign her in, fantasizing about the clean, nearly empty stores I saw in Soho on the weekends. But when Christmas rolled around, there was no stopping her. It was Christmas music for eight hours a day for every day between Thanksgiving and Christmas. I liked the lights in the window, but I would have liked to burn some of the Victorian cut outs plastered on the walls and windows. Lynn had reluctantly asked me to work Christmas Eve, and was elated when I told her I didn't care: I'm Jewish.
The town of Katonah is always picturesque. A tiny little main street with a mix of stores catering to the extremely wealthy and the handful of blue collar folks who's families had been in the area since the railroad had been built to create a suburb for wealthy Manhattanites. During Christmastime, the town takes on the aura of a Currier and Ives print and makes everyone feel like wearing thick sweaters and fuzzy mittens. The snow lays in drifts a few feet high, sticking to pine trees, reflecting softer versions of the brightly colored lights. Everyone is happy and shopping and so.. Christian! They sing carols, say prayers in school, and then, in an insultig nod to the three or four Jewish kids, teach everyone how to play driedle(which is essentially gambling)and then add a sneering "happy Hannukka" so our famously legal race won't get up in arms and sue. Amid all this cheeriness and good will, it seemed perfectly natural for me to wear torn fishnet stockings a pair of worn black granny boots, a red velvet sleevless dress that was little more than a t-shirt, and a thin black velvet jacket with more black eye makeup than a football player. Nothing says holiday spirit like a giant ankh, black hair and a Twinkie fueled eating disorder.
So there it was, 4pm on Christmas Eve day, and the town was mostly shut down. It was the town's ability to completely empty itself of all signs of life that always made my stomach lurch. I hated knowing that 99% of the people in that town were sitting down to huge family dinners and being all happy and Christian. I was pouting and drawing when the bells on the door tinkled and there stood a youngish man, one of the bazillion commuters in the town, brushing snow off his long wool coat. At first I just rolled my eyes, not wanting my sulking to be interrupted by some asshole republican business man (my powers of perception and classification were not so well honed back then: you were either a liberal or a republican and one could tell one from the other by whether the subject was wearing a suit or not.)He smiled and apologized for getting snow on some of the novelty sweaters next to the door.
"No biggie," I said
He started to nervously wander around the store looking for all the world like a rat lost in a display of plastic cheese. Finally, I deigned to speak to the suited drone.
"Can I help you?" I asked.
"Ah. No. Actually. Maybe you could." He pulled out a shapeless, unattractive dress and held it out. "You seem to have a pretty cool sense of style. What do you think of this dress?"
"Who's it for?"
"My wife." I balked. If I were a fellow's wife, and he brought something like that home for my Christmas present, I wouldn't say anything, I would just punch him. Or I would have when I was 16, anyway.
"Um..." I said, and he got the message. "What size is she?"
He blushed deeply. "I don't know." He gave me an appraising look that made me uncomfortable. I sat down. "Oh! I'm sorry, I'm just trying to figure out if you're about the same size."
"I doubt it," I said. "I'm probably taller than her." At 16 I was already 5'10".
"Well, yes, much taller, but, you look.. your wrist looks about the same size." That was possible. I was skinny then.
"She's probably a six or four," I said. "I wear an 8 because I'm tall."
He smiled and snapped his fingers. "That sounds right."
"What color hair? Eyes?" I asked.
"Actually," he shifted uncomfortably. "She's very similar to your coloring." I looked at him suspiciously. Was he trying to hit on me? I was at least half his age and I was pretty sure that he was an evil corporate exec and his wife was some sort of bulemic trophy wife. "Here," he said correctly interpreting my very obvious glare. He pulled out a picture of his wife and daughter. She was lovely. She could have been my older, prettier, shorter, less gothy sister. We did look very similar. I relaxed then and thus began a three hour shopping extravaganza.
I pulled out dresses and seperates, earrings, neclaces, scarves, belts and hats. I made outfits on a mannequin, pulling out all of the clothes I would have bought for myself if I could afford it. He gave a thumbs up to almost everything, but that meant nothing to me, since he clearly had no idea what would look good on his wife. I would put a frilly skirt with an oversize sweater and a thick belt, a scarf, and a beret and he'd look excited and say "wow! that looks terrif-" but I would cut him off to say it would be too much fabric on his wife's small frame and he would nod and marvel at my sagacious knowledge.
He got four full outfits, earrings, scarves, bracelets, everything. And when we were done with his wife's closet, we began on his daughter's. She was seven and a little easier to pick out clothes for. I was on a crazy high. It was like dressing paper dolls, but better. We had some toys in the store that I had picked out at market, and he bought his daughter one of each.
When all was said and done, when I thought the jovial laughter couldn't be any more enjoyable, I felt him looking at me. "You really are talented, you know." He said. I blushed.
"I just really like clothes. Not that I'm materialistic or anything." As if.
"Let me pay for this and I'll leave you to do the wrapping while I get a cup of coffee, if that's okay," he said.
He'd spent over a thousand dollars. I was shocked. I felt bad, like I had wronged him. He smiled. "I don't really do presents most of the time, so every year I go crazy at Christmas." For some reason I didn't believe him. I thought he had probably done something shitty and was trying to buy his wife and daughter's love back. Or, I thought, maybe they're dead. Maybe they died at Christmas years ago in a car accident, and every year he goes berzerk and buys a trousseau's worth of clothes, and then he sits alone, miserably surrounded by these terrible reminders of all of the gifts they will never be able to accept. I wondered if maybe the accident had been his fault. Was his house empty except for dozens of boxes, neatly wrapped, containing fabric and jewels, rich in texture and hue, locked away until he finally dies and the executors of the estate begin to sob when they open the boxes, ribbons and paper flying willy nilly, and realize the terrible burden this poor man has lived with his whole adult life? Or did he give the clothes to charities after the new year, and resume his daily duties of making money and feeding himself, maybe dating every so often? Either way, I was beginning to fall in love with his tragedy a little bit and I wrapped each box with special flourishes, touches I hoped would look more cheerful than the usual staid bow.
He returned an hour later. It was nearly eight o clock, awfully late for Christmas Eve. He apologized for keeping me late (I had been hoping to close at six.) I looked at him with pity, until he handed me a cup of hot chocolate. That was awesome. I hadn't even realized how hungry I was (I had been trying to forget eating as much as possible at the time, but it never really worked) and I sucked the sweet drink down before I finished wrapping his presents. He smiled and he asked what I was doing that night.
"Nothing. I'm Jewish. There isn't even anything on TV."
"You could come to my house if you want." That's it, I thought, either he's a total creep or they're dead and he can't face another lonely night.
"Uh, no." I said.
He saw he'd overstepped. "I just meant, you really saved my life tonight. I thought I was going to be in big trouble, and, I dunno. I thought you might like to see your handiwork. I mean, really, Jen (his wife) and Alicia (his daughter) are going to LOVE all this. I've never given such good gifts in my life. I'm sure they're going to want to meet you."
I still thought he was being a total creep, but I was flattered. I declined his offer again, but thanked him. Finally, the gifts were all wrapped and safely in bags. We shook hands and he wished me a happy hannukka. I told him it had ended weeks ago... I was tactful like that.
"Merry Christmas?" I said
"Thanks," he smiled.
He crammed on a handsom fedora that I hadn't noticed before and the bells jingled on the way out.
I closed the store and drove home feeling pleasant in spite of myself.
* * * *
A few days after the New Year, I was taking down the Kris Kringle decorations and sighing over the box of doilies and hearts that Lynn had just dropped off. I hadn't stopped thinking about "Moneybags", as I'd named him. I was wondering what charity he'd given all the gifts to. Or, if his pretty wife was still alive and he really didn't do gifts on the other holidays, did that mean he did't give her anything on Valentine's Day? Personally, I hated Valentine's Day. But then I wasn't married. I wondered if I'd get into Valentines's Day if I was married and if I did, would I expect chocolates and flowers? I thought I might, but only black roses and 3 Musketeers bars. The door bell tinkled and in front of me stood a family silouhetted by the glaring snow outside.
"Hi Jess, I wanted to introduce you to Jen and Alicia!" It was Moneybags here to prove me morbid.
"Jess! Andy couldn't stop singing your praises, and I can't thank you enough!" Jen stepped toward me smiling beautifully. I felt big and bulky next to her petite frame. She was wearing one of the outfits I'd put together for her. It fit perfectly. She looked wonderful. She even had on the earrings I had picked out. "How in the world did you know?" She asked beaming.
"Um, he, uh, he showed me your picture. I figured you'd wear what you thought looked good for a family portrait and, um..." she smiled at my cleverness. "And, um, I picked out stuff I like." She laughed.
"Daddy! Look, there's my bear!" Alicia spotted the twin of one of the bears Moneybags had bought for her a week earlier. She too was dressed, head to toe, in the clothes I had picked for her. I was pleased with how mother and daughter looked, but for some reason I was terribly embarrassed and I wished they would leave. They were so sweet, so good looking, so happy, so warm and so pleased. I wanted to curl up and hide in a corner of the store, but I stood there and blushed as they happily chatted and looked around at other merchandise. They spent the better part of the afternoon talking and laughing, praising outfits I picked for the other infrequet customers who came and went. By four o clock, it was nearly dark and I'd learned that Jen and Andy were from Colorado and had come east to work work for two different non-profits, I don't remember which ones. The overcoat Andy wore was over twenty years old, a highschool graduation present given to him by his grandfather. Jen had started a feminist club in highschool. Alicia liked spiders. They were clearly not the conservative Wall Street people I'd assumed they were. They were vegetarians! They didn't believe in hyper consumerism, but they made an exception for Christmas so Alicia wouldn't feel like a freak in school(a consideration I deeply appreciated)and, because, well, sometimes, stuff is fun. I had a crush on the family unit by the time they left.
Andy and Jen stopped in with Alicia now and then but, true to their anti-consumerist stance, they never bought anything else.
Much happened in the first few months: Lynn finally bought Kristin's share of the store and they fought bitterly; Lynn dated several men, but always stuck with her explosive and violent boyfriend, who I had to call the cops on twice; I met Lynn's two suprisingly good kids and occasionally babysat for them; I got my driver's license; Lynn took me on a buying trip to the Javitz Center where I saw more pink carpet than I ever thought possible; and I got everything, everything off the floor. By the time Christmas rolled around, I was running the store. Lynn, a competative bodybuilder, aerobics teacher and single mom, trusted me with writing checks, placing orders, handling cash deposits and organizing all the paperwork for her accountant. It was kind of crazy, but I took it for granted that this was a typical highschool job. For $8 an hour. Lynn came in less and less and usually it was to cry about some new terrible thing Antonio, her dickhead boyfriend, had done. She told me I was so mature, that I was the most mature person she knew, and either out of cockiness or a simple recognition of the truth, I believed her. I was really happy there. I felt so grown up driving to work after my half day of school, opening the store at noon and staying there, selling, cleaning, organizing, doing paperwork and doing my homework until it was time to close at 8.
Lynn was a big fan of holiday decorations: at Halloween half a dozen glitterey jack-o-lanterns, a shrieking witch, a couple of motion sensing, yowling black cats, streamers of black and orange, and the piece de resistance: a gargoyle encrusted fountain with dry ice smoke making tacky whisps over the most godawful Halloween sweaters. I was forever trying to reign her in, fantasizing about the clean, nearly empty stores I saw in Soho on the weekends. But when Christmas rolled around, there was no stopping her. It was Christmas music for eight hours a day for every day between Thanksgiving and Christmas. I liked the lights in the window, but I would have liked to burn some of the Victorian cut outs plastered on the walls and windows. Lynn had reluctantly asked me to work Christmas Eve, and was elated when I told her I didn't care: I'm Jewish.
The town of Katonah is always picturesque. A tiny little main street with a mix of stores catering to the extremely wealthy and the handful of blue collar folks who's families had been in the area since the railroad had been built to create a suburb for wealthy Manhattanites. During Christmastime, the town takes on the aura of a Currier and Ives print and makes everyone feel like wearing thick sweaters and fuzzy mittens. The snow lays in drifts a few feet high, sticking to pine trees, reflecting softer versions of the brightly colored lights. Everyone is happy and shopping and so.. Christian! They sing carols, say prayers in school, and then, in an insultig nod to the three or four Jewish kids, teach everyone how to play driedle(which is essentially gambling)and then add a sneering "happy Hannukka" so our famously legal race won't get up in arms and sue. Amid all this cheeriness and good will, it seemed perfectly natural for me to wear torn fishnet stockings a pair of worn black granny boots, a red velvet sleevless dress that was little more than a t-shirt, and a thin black velvet jacket with more black eye makeup than a football player. Nothing says holiday spirit like a giant ankh, black hair and a Twinkie fueled eating disorder.
So there it was, 4pm on Christmas Eve day, and the town was mostly shut down. It was the town's ability to completely empty itself of all signs of life that always made my stomach lurch. I hated knowing that 99% of the people in that town were sitting down to huge family dinners and being all happy and Christian. I was pouting and drawing when the bells on the door tinkled and there stood a youngish man, one of the bazillion commuters in the town, brushing snow off his long wool coat. At first I just rolled my eyes, not wanting my sulking to be interrupted by some asshole republican business man (my powers of perception and classification were not so well honed back then: you were either a liberal or a republican and one could tell one from the other by whether the subject was wearing a suit or not.)He smiled and apologized for getting snow on some of the novelty sweaters next to the door.
"No biggie," I said
He started to nervously wander around the store looking for all the world like a rat lost in a display of plastic cheese. Finally, I deigned to speak to the suited drone.
"Can I help you?" I asked.
"Ah. No. Actually. Maybe you could." He pulled out a shapeless, unattractive dress and held it out. "You seem to have a pretty cool sense of style. What do you think of this dress?"
"Who's it for?"
"My wife." I balked. If I were a fellow's wife, and he brought something like that home for my Christmas present, I wouldn't say anything, I would just punch him. Or I would have when I was 16, anyway.
"Um..." I said, and he got the message. "What size is she?"
He blushed deeply. "I don't know." He gave me an appraising look that made me uncomfortable. I sat down. "Oh! I'm sorry, I'm just trying to figure out if you're about the same size."
"I doubt it," I said. "I'm probably taller than her." At 16 I was already 5'10".
"Well, yes, much taller, but, you look.. your wrist looks about the same size." That was possible. I was skinny then.
"She's probably a six or four," I said. "I wear an 8 because I'm tall."
He smiled and snapped his fingers. "That sounds right."
"What color hair? Eyes?" I asked.
"Actually," he shifted uncomfortably. "She's very similar to your coloring." I looked at him suspiciously. Was he trying to hit on me? I was at least half his age and I was pretty sure that he was an evil corporate exec and his wife was some sort of bulemic trophy wife. "Here," he said correctly interpreting my very obvious glare. He pulled out a picture of his wife and daughter. She was lovely. She could have been my older, prettier, shorter, less gothy sister. We did look very similar. I relaxed then and thus began a three hour shopping extravaganza.
I pulled out dresses and seperates, earrings, neclaces, scarves, belts and hats. I made outfits on a mannequin, pulling out all of the clothes I would have bought for myself if I could afford it. He gave a thumbs up to almost everything, but that meant nothing to me, since he clearly had no idea what would look good on his wife. I would put a frilly skirt with an oversize sweater and a thick belt, a scarf, and a beret and he'd look excited and say "wow! that looks terrif-" but I would cut him off to say it would be too much fabric on his wife's small frame and he would nod and marvel at my sagacious knowledge.
He got four full outfits, earrings, scarves, bracelets, everything. And when we were done with his wife's closet, we began on his daughter's. She was seven and a little easier to pick out clothes for. I was on a crazy high. It was like dressing paper dolls, but better. We had some toys in the store that I had picked out at market, and he bought his daughter one of each.
When all was said and done, when I thought the jovial laughter couldn't be any more enjoyable, I felt him looking at me. "You really are talented, you know." He said. I blushed.
"I just really like clothes. Not that I'm materialistic or anything." As if.
"Let me pay for this and I'll leave you to do the wrapping while I get a cup of coffee, if that's okay," he said.
He'd spent over a thousand dollars. I was shocked. I felt bad, like I had wronged him. He smiled. "I don't really do presents most of the time, so every year I go crazy at Christmas." For some reason I didn't believe him. I thought he had probably done something shitty and was trying to buy his wife and daughter's love back. Or, I thought, maybe they're dead. Maybe they died at Christmas years ago in a car accident, and every year he goes berzerk and buys a trousseau's worth of clothes, and then he sits alone, miserably surrounded by these terrible reminders of all of the gifts they will never be able to accept. I wondered if maybe the accident had been his fault. Was his house empty except for dozens of boxes, neatly wrapped, containing fabric and jewels, rich in texture and hue, locked away until he finally dies and the executors of the estate begin to sob when they open the boxes, ribbons and paper flying willy nilly, and realize the terrible burden this poor man has lived with his whole adult life? Or did he give the clothes to charities after the new year, and resume his daily duties of making money and feeding himself, maybe dating every so often? Either way, I was beginning to fall in love with his tragedy a little bit and I wrapped each box with special flourishes, touches I hoped would look more cheerful than the usual staid bow.
He returned an hour later. It was nearly eight o clock, awfully late for Christmas Eve. He apologized for keeping me late (I had been hoping to close at six.) I looked at him with pity, until he handed me a cup of hot chocolate. That was awesome. I hadn't even realized how hungry I was (I had been trying to forget eating as much as possible at the time, but it never really worked) and I sucked the sweet drink down before I finished wrapping his presents. He smiled and he asked what I was doing that night.
"Nothing. I'm Jewish. There isn't even anything on TV."
"You could come to my house if you want." That's it, I thought, either he's a total creep or they're dead and he can't face another lonely night.
"Uh, no." I said.
He saw he'd overstepped. "I just meant, you really saved my life tonight. I thought I was going to be in big trouble, and, I dunno. I thought you might like to see your handiwork. I mean, really, Jen (his wife) and Alicia (his daughter) are going to LOVE all this. I've never given such good gifts in my life. I'm sure they're going to want to meet you."
I still thought he was being a total creep, but I was flattered. I declined his offer again, but thanked him. Finally, the gifts were all wrapped and safely in bags. We shook hands and he wished me a happy hannukka. I told him it had ended weeks ago... I was tactful like that.
"Merry Christmas?" I said
"Thanks," he smiled.
He crammed on a handsom fedora that I hadn't noticed before and the bells jingled on the way out.
I closed the store and drove home feeling pleasant in spite of myself.
* * * *
A few days after the New Year, I was taking down the Kris Kringle decorations and sighing over the box of doilies and hearts that Lynn had just dropped off. I hadn't stopped thinking about "Moneybags", as I'd named him. I was wondering what charity he'd given all the gifts to. Or, if his pretty wife was still alive and he really didn't do gifts on the other holidays, did that mean he did't give her anything on Valentine's Day? Personally, I hated Valentine's Day. But then I wasn't married. I wondered if I'd get into Valentines's Day if I was married and if I did, would I expect chocolates and flowers? I thought I might, but only black roses and 3 Musketeers bars. The door bell tinkled and in front of me stood a family silouhetted by the glaring snow outside.
"Hi Jess, I wanted to introduce you to Jen and Alicia!" It was Moneybags here to prove me morbid.
"Jess! Andy couldn't stop singing your praises, and I can't thank you enough!" Jen stepped toward me smiling beautifully. I felt big and bulky next to her petite frame. She was wearing one of the outfits I'd put together for her. It fit perfectly. She looked wonderful. She even had on the earrings I had picked out. "How in the world did you know?" She asked beaming.
"Um, he, uh, he showed me your picture. I figured you'd wear what you thought looked good for a family portrait and, um..." she smiled at my cleverness. "And, um, I picked out stuff I like." She laughed.
"Daddy! Look, there's my bear!" Alicia spotted the twin of one of the bears Moneybags had bought for her a week earlier. She too was dressed, head to toe, in the clothes I had picked for her. I was pleased with how mother and daughter looked, but for some reason I was terribly embarrassed and I wished they would leave. They were so sweet, so good looking, so happy, so warm and so pleased. I wanted to curl up and hide in a corner of the store, but I stood there and blushed as they happily chatted and looked around at other merchandise. They spent the better part of the afternoon talking and laughing, praising outfits I picked for the other infrequet customers who came and went. By four o clock, it was nearly dark and I'd learned that Jen and Andy were from Colorado and had come east to work work for two different non-profits, I don't remember which ones. The overcoat Andy wore was over twenty years old, a highschool graduation present given to him by his grandfather. Jen had started a feminist club in highschool. Alicia liked spiders. They were clearly not the conservative Wall Street people I'd assumed they were. They were vegetarians! They didn't believe in hyper consumerism, but they made an exception for Christmas so Alicia wouldn't feel like a freak in school(a consideration I deeply appreciated)and, because, well, sometimes, stuff is fun. I had a crush on the family unit by the time they left.
Andy and Jen stopped in with Alicia now and then but, true to their anti-consumerist stance, they never bought anything else.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
A Real Artist
"I love this," she murmured. A second later: "Oh, I just love this!" Another moment passed. "Uh! This is just so great! Isn't that clever! That's so clever. Mm! mm! mm!" She continued around the store picking up objects and putting them back. "You have wonderful taste... if you're the buyer," she called to me.
"No, I'm not the buyer, but I'm glad you're enjoying yourself!" I said.
"Oh," she sniffed, and I realized I was no longer worthy of attention. "The buyer is a designer herself, so she has a terrific eye," I continued. I pointed out the locally designed products and artworks.
"Do you do anything in here?" she sneered. Her tan made her pale blue eyes look almost white.
"Yes," I said and she looked disappointed. "Those drawings on the wall there."
"Huh." She said, barely glancing at the three drawings that collectively represented almost six solid months of my life: black and white narratives painstakingly drawn with ultra fine pens, a magnifying glass and the sacrificial blood and tears most people reserve for their children. "Well, I guess I'll take these things." She said happily dropping a few kitschy knick knacks on the counter.
"Would you like to wear the ring?" I asked pointing to the giant novelty ring she had gushed over.
"Oh, god, no! I'm meeting a client!" she exclaimed and even I was unsure how I could have been so stupid.
"And what do you do, if I can be nosy?" I asked.
"I'm a financial planner," she said. "But I'm actually an artist... on the side." Ah. Now I understood.
"Really?" I said. "How cool."
"Yes," she ran her chicken feet fingers through her short dark hair. "I work with fine crystals... real Swarovsky crystals." She sniffed again. I wondered if she might need a tissue "I also work in shells as a medium. I make picture frames and, you know, little mirrors." She paused again as I nodded and let the gravity of this information process in my pea brain. "I made this bracelet for example." She held out her thin wrist adorned with a greenish brass bangle with rhinestone medallions hot-glued all around it.
"Oh! Yes, I see!" I said. "And did you make your necklace as well?"
"Oh, yes! This is one of my pieces. I loved it so much I just had to keep it for myself, even though so many people wanted it." She fingered the blue, genuine Swarovsky crystals at her throat. "You can see the color is really unique."
I nodded.
"Well," she said. "These are certainly impulse buys!" She beamed at her purchases, the novelty ring and an ice tray that made ice cubes shaped like jewels. I smiled.
"Well enjoy your impulses," I said. She didn't respond. "Thanks for stopping in." She didn't even look at me. "Have a great day!" She walked out the door without saying thank you or goodbye.
"No, I'm not the buyer, but I'm glad you're enjoying yourself!" I said.
"Oh," she sniffed, and I realized I was no longer worthy of attention. "The buyer is a designer herself, so she has a terrific eye," I continued. I pointed out the locally designed products and artworks.
"Do you do anything in here?" she sneered. Her tan made her pale blue eyes look almost white.
"Yes," I said and she looked disappointed. "Those drawings on the wall there."
"Huh." She said, barely glancing at the three drawings that collectively represented almost six solid months of my life: black and white narratives painstakingly drawn with ultra fine pens, a magnifying glass and the sacrificial blood and tears most people reserve for their children. "Well, I guess I'll take these things." She said happily dropping a few kitschy knick knacks on the counter.
"Would you like to wear the ring?" I asked pointing to the giant novelty ring she had gushed over.
"Oh, god, no! I'm meeting a client!" she exclaimed and even I was unsure how I could have been so stupid.
"And what do you do, if I can be nosy?" I asked.
"I'm a financial planner," she said. "But I'm actually an artist... on the side." Ah. Now I understood.
"Really?" I said. "How cool."
"Yes," she ran her chicken feet fingers through her short dark hair. "I work with fine crystals... real Swarovsky crystals." She sniffed again. I wondered if she might need a tissue "I also work in shells as a medium. I make picture frames and, you know, little mirrors." She paused again as I nodded and let the gravity of this information process in my pea brain. "I made this bracelet for example." She held out her thin wrist adorned with a greenish brass bangle with rhinestone medallions hot-glued all around it.
"Oh! Yes, I see!" I said. "And did you make your necklace as well?"
"Oh, yes! This is one of my pieces. I loved it so much I just had to keep it for myself, even though so many people wanted it." She fingered the blue, genuine Swarovsky crystals at her throat. "You can see the color is really unique."
I nodded.
"Well," she said. "These are certainly impulse buys!" She beamed at her purchases, the novelty ring and an ice tray that made ice cubes shaped like jewels. I smiled.
"Well enjoy your impulses," I said. She didn't respond. "Thanks for stopping in." She didn't even look at me. "Have a great day!" She walked out the door without saying thank you or goodbye.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Reflections on the word "True(ish)"
Let me start by saying this: I stammer when I'm flustered.
So for those handful of you who read these entries, understand that when I say "I said" what I really mean is: "after stammering and sweating, and maybe saying a few things that I've ommited here for the sake of brevity (and there's not much of that on this blog) and a story that doesn't drown in "ums","ands", and "uhs", I finally squeezed these words out, in more or less this order." I don't have a history of levelheadedness, and if I sound cool, calm, and collected in these stories, which do come from my semi-distant past, it is totally because I want you to think I was, even if I wasn't.
I also compress multiple interactions into one or two key encounters. Again, this is so I don't have to bog everyone down with "and then the next day... and then the day after that... and after the 16th time.." This makes it seem like I can just intuit motives and attitudes in other people after just one or two casual meetings. I usually can't. Though I will say this: you can tell a LOT about people by how they dress. Don't tell me that isn't true, because it is. Maybe that's especially true in New York, but trust me. People want to be known and if they don't you can tell that by how they dress.
So when I say "true(ish)" what I mean is this: these people exist, I worked in these places for the reasons I give, the observations of the settings are true to my memory and what I don't remember, I do a little research to make sure it's true. The encounters are real, but they probably didn't go as smoothly as I make it out and the endings were not the neat little packages I turn them into. And also, I sweat a lot when I'm nervous, so if it feels more honest to you to imagine me sweating when I tell someone off, go right ahead.
Just thought I'd give folks a heads up, in case you were thinking "that can't possibly be true, I know Jess and she is NOT that articulate." I am if you cut out the fat.
So for those handful of you who read these entries, understand that when I say "I said" what I really mean is: "after stammering and sweating, and maybe saying a few things that I've ommited here for the sake of brevity (and there's not much of that on this blog) and a story that doesn't drown in "ums","ands", and "uhs", I finally squeezed these words out, in more or less this order." I don't have a history of levelheadedness, and if I sound cool, calm, and collected in these stories, which do come from my semi-distant past, it is totally because I want you to think I was, even if I wasn't.
I also compress multiple interactions into one or two key encounters. Again, this is so I don't have to bog everyone down with "and then the next day... and then the day after that... and after the 16th time.." This makes it seem like I can just intuit motives and attitudes in other people after just one or two casual meetings. I usually can't. Though I will say this: you can tell a LOT about people by how they dress. Don't tell me that isn't true, because it is. Maybe that's especially true in New York, but trust me. People want to be known and if they don't you can tell that by how they dress.
So when I say "true(ish)" what I mean is this: these people exist, I worked in these places for the reasons I give, the observations of the settings are true to my memory and what I don't remember, I do a little research to make sure it's true. The encounters are real, but they probably didn't go as smoothly as I make it out and the endings were not the neat little packages I turn them into. And also, I sweat a lot when I'm nervous, so if it feels more honest to you to imagine me sweating when I tell someone off, go right ahead.
Just thought I'd give folks a heads up, in case you were thinking "that can't possibly be true, I know Jess and she is NOT that articulate." I am if you cut out the fat.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
It's Not Asking Too Much
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The Barista. An often maligned creature: too hipster, too snotty, too cool, a fashion victim at a fashion show, inattentive, rude, slow, money grubbing, plays the music too loud, gets the order wrong, forgets the order altogether, gossips loudly about other customers, looks pained when you ask for extra foam, tells you "this is what a cappuccino looks like" as if you don't know what a cappuccino looks like which you do and what s/he has just handed you is not it, sneers at Starbucks and lectures you about going vegan, handles food without gloves, sneezes in your coffee and does not say thank you when you leave a perfectly reasonable tip.
Hating baristas, for some people, is a sport. Luckily for me and the legions of college-educated, broke twenty and now thirty-somethings who meant to follow their passions and somehow ended up working in a coffee shop, there are more people who love their local baristas. I would like to put in a kind word for the barista, and a few nasty ones for the cafe customers who suck at being customers as much as any barista has ever sucked at being a servant. Pardon me, I mean "a member of the service industry."
If you work the morning shift in a small cafe, that means you get up between 4 and 5 am so you can travel to work, and you work hard. Don't let anyone tell you different. It's not highly skilled labor- except the actual espresso making part, but even that, once you get the hang of it, becomes routine- but it is definitely labor. Usually your customers are what make the day fun, and a good number of my friends are former cafe customers.
The deluge begins with a dribble around dawn: one or two perky, early risers in their gym gear, pulling out an ear bud to talk to you about the prospective weather; other members of the service industry- city workers, construction workers, home healthcare aides- come in the first hour as well. I called the hour between 6:30 and 7:30 the blue collar hour. Mostly pleasant folks, tired and god fearing. They don't tip more than a nickle, but I never blamed them: they're a hard working lot with families to support on meager incomes. Coffee is one of those rare items that gets classified as a luxury (because of such things as frappuccinos and caramel ventis) and financial planners always tell people to cut expensive coffee drinks out of their routines, but I think that's unfair. The combination of coffee, sugar and froth really is a necessity for most of the people who keep things running smoothly for the rest of us.
At about 7:45 the flood begins with the teachers. They arrive bitching about every goddamn thing under the sun. The principal is a cunt, the math department thinks the english department doesn't need books more than the math department needs calculators, the board of ed is out of touch and totally corrupt, and the kids... well, those teachers are no racists, but it's hard not to be when x, y or z just happened... and have you heard how they talk? They're like animals! Just kidding! And, oh my god, did you hear that student accused that teacher of misconduct?! Unbelievable! I mean, it's probably true, but, well, the kid probably deserved to be punched in the face. Ha ha. They don't acknowledge the existence of the people around them and even worse, they never know what they want, even though they all get the same thing every day. This one is paying for both, no, all three of those guys... oh. Wait. She forgot her wallet, can I ring them all separately? Did I get the order for the bagel with cream cheese? No? Sheesh. What kind of bagel? What kind do you have? Well, do you have blueberry bagels? No? Wait, what kind of bagels do you have again? I'll have an everything. Not cream cheese! Butter! I said butter! Yes I did. You should get blueberry bagels. Toasted. Is the coffee ready yet? No? What are you guys doing back there? Sleeping? Ha ha. And so on.
On the heels of the teachers come the business people. Folks who stick out like a sore thumb in a neighborhood full of hipsters and Teach for America do-gooders-turned-bitter. But I like these people as customers: on the weekends they will happily lounge around talking about Blade Runner and paintball before going to the office for some overtime. They tip well, are pleasant and brusque and never think to use a reusable cup. They just don't have time for such things.
Behind the yuppies, in the line that is now snaking out the door, are the art yuppies: designers, architects, commercial artists, game developers, animators, tv and film producers. These are the worst of what hipsterism has to offer: they make lots of money and come from lots of money, but claim to be broke all the time which explains jeans that cost $160, artfully worn sweaters worth $200, shoes in the neighborhood of $500, a $4 iced latte and a tip of 25 cents. They are obsessed with "professionalism" having recently discovered it, and constantly say things like "that client was sounprofessional!" They drop the names of their alma maters- RISD, Parsons, SVA, the New School- as often as they do celebrity designers and arty-farty design magazines that have a circulation of exactly three people and cost $25 per issue. And these people are so passive agressive it's hard to believe Jane Austen didn't model her characters on a bunch of Williamsburg art yuppies. They want to be gritty and they think the people behind the counter are just like them, but even though we're usually white (if more than one of us wasn't they probably wouldn't come in) and mostly artists of one kind or another, we are nothing alike...at least not as a labor force. A barista makes between $2-9 an hour, they make between $20-90 an hour. Baristas do not get overtime, sick days, vacation days or benefits of any kind. They do. Most baristas are paid off the books and are lead to believe this is for our own benefit so we won't have taxes taken out of our paychecks, but we are left without recourse if we get laid off, hurt on the job, or treated unfairly. They have private accountants to handle their paperwork and taxes. Baristas regularly work 12 hour shifts on our feet. Art yuppies work long hours too, but in ergonomic chairs in carefully calibrated temperatures. And they have onsite yoga classes. Baristas haul trash, boxes, and slop-filled buckets, we wash dishes, clean bathrooms, cook food, clean spills, get scalded, do laundry, sweep and mop floors, hose the encrusted dirt and food off heavy rubber mats even in the middle of winter, empty the humane (if I'm working there) and inhumane (if I'm not) mouse traps of bodies, lug back stock up and down basement steps, scrub refrigerators, scrape grills, wash windows, unclog drains, scrub coffee stained urns, handle unruly customers, and, oh yeah, make fancy coffee drinks. Of course a barista does way more than that but that's just the stuff that requires a bit of muscle and a strong stomach. Art yuppies... don't do any of that. And a barista must be friendly and cheerful all the time. Irritability in an art yuppie is considered an asset.
I hate art yuppies as much as I sometimes aspire to be one.
So these are my sweeping generalizations of a typical Brooklyn coffee shop. Of course there are exceptions to every case listed above- and I haven't mentioned the young parents, the burlesque dancers, the bank tellers, the art tourists, the students, the homeless junkies, the parents of students grateful for a normal looking coffee shop in the midst of the 99 cent stores and botanicas, the owners of those stores, and the old timers who look absolutely shell shocked by the yuppie diaspora that has settled in their once poverty stricken neighborhood- but I'm setting a scene. Imagine- against the backdrop of little sleep, many customers- each with their own sigh and caffeine headache, complaints about clients, students, boyfriends, weather, the hour- and a seething class war that no one acknowledges, the following scene unfolds.
Two black women who seem friendly enough, walk in and try, at first to cut the line by asking, "this the line for coffee?" No, it's the line for my book signing. One looks like a bank teller, chubby and wearing the cheap black slacks and chunky jewelry of TJ Maxx. The other is short and built. She has long salt and pepper dreads and she is dressed in a linen suit, tailored like a Don Johnson special. She has sunglasses perched on her head and she's a pretty good looking woman. When they're turn finally comes, Miami Vice comes up to the counter, pushes her sport coat back and puts her hands in her pockets. Very suave.
"Hiya! What can I get you?" I ask, all smiles.
Bank Teller asks for a caramel latte. I nod and look at Miami Vice, ready to take her order. She smiles all cool like and says "It's okay. Go ahead and make her drink, I'm gonna decide." So I make the latte. I do latte art, and I make a little rosetta leaf in the foam. This makes Bank Teller giggle and Miami Vice looks impressed. All is going swimmingly.
"Let me ask you something," she says. "You got a bacon and egg sandwhich?"
She had been studying the menu the whole time I'd been making the latte and somehow had not noticed that there is no bacon and egg sandwich listed. No, I apologize, we do not have any bacon and egg sandwiches.
"Can't you just make me one? With the ingredients you have?"
The line is long, people are restless and my coworker is frantically making cappuccinos.
"We don't have bacon or eggs," I say getting annoyed in double time.
"You don't have bacon and eggs?! What kind of place serves breakfast but doesn't have eggs?" She speaks in an even tone, more like she is reciting a set up for a joke.
"This place," I snap with a smile. "Can I get you something else. Something that's on the menu, perhaps?"
"Hmmm..." she says. "How about you make me a ham and cheese on the health bread."
"The prosciutto sandwich comes on the ciabatta-"
"I know, but I just want the ham and some cheddar cheese on the health bread. How about you just make that for me. With mayo on one side. Butter on the other. And lettuce. And tomato." She's leaning against the counter and has assumed the air of a person casually waiting.
"No. I can't make that for you. I have a line out the door, and no time to make you a sandwich we don't have pre-made. But I do have a ham and cheese croissant. Would you like me to heat one of those up for you?"
"Naw, just go ahead and make the sandwhich. Thanks."
Is my mouth not saying what I think it is saying?
"I can't make you a sandwhich right now. The place next door makes breakfast sandwhiches. You can get what you want there. Is there anything else I can get you?"
"I don't want anything else-"
"Okay, then," I cut her off. "Next!"
The people behind her are about to revolt and my coworker is in a state of abject fury.
"Now hold on!" She says, and her suave calm cracking.
"What?" I glare at her as I began an iced americano for the next person.
"Why did you take his order over mine?"
"Because you weren't ordering and he had been waiting a long time while you didn't order."
"But I did order."
"You didn't order anything we have or are able to make at this moment. I offered you an alternative and you- $4.25 please, thanks Mike- said no. Next!"
"It'll take you two seconds! It's just a couple slices of ham, a couple slices of cheese, mayo, butter, lettuce, tomato. Done!"
"Medium coffee, black" huffs the next person in line, an unfriendly fellow who comes in every day.
"Medium coffee, black" I hand him his cup, take his dollar and quarter and note that he doesn't leave a tip like he usually does.
"It won't take two seconds, I don't have meat, cheese or tomatos sliced. And we don't have lettuce at all. Go next door to get what you want or come back in two hours when this line has disappeared. Next, please!"
"I have been waiting forever!" sneers Designer Bitch, as though this were my fault and an act of insubordination on my part. "Oh, I know it's not your fault, hon, it's just that this is so unprofessional. I'll have cappuccino, extra foam. And please make sure it's hot. Last time it was, like, only luke warm. Tha-anks!" she singsongs. I want to leap across the counter and smack her head into Miami Vice's face, but I make a cappucino instead. I burn the milk, but that's what Designer Bitch wants, what can I do? The customer is always right, no matter how wrong they are.
She too, does not leave a tip. And Miami Vice is still standing there.
"Next, please!"
"I'll have a ham and cheese on health bread, mayo on one side, butter on the other. And lettuce. And tomato. Toasted." That's new.
"Sir, what can I get for you sir?" The tall kid in the Ramones shirt looks baffled.
"Uh, she was here before me," he says, apparently oblivious to everything that isn't on his iPhone.
"Don't worry about, what would you like?" I say.
"Um," he looks terribly uncomfortable and hesitates, as if I'm pressuring him to swipe a pack of cigarettes from sweet old lady Stinson's pharmacy. What is going on? I briefly fantasize that maybe this is some kind of performance art designed to make a barista's head explode? I imagine this exact same scenario playing out at coffee shops all across the city at this exact same moment. I indulge in a small hope that, in the next moment, everyone might suddenly burst into song and we can all have a good laugh. Alas.
"I'll have an iced mocha?" says Ramones, hesitantly. Iced mochas are my specialty. I make them super sweet (which some people don't like as much as they should) but they always look beautiful and I take care to make them just right. His order comes as a minor relief.
"And when you're done with that, I'll just have a ham and cheese sandwhich on health bread. Mayo on one side-"
"Get out," my co-worker says and I smile. Why hadn't I thought of that?
"Excuse me?" Miami Vice says with a dangerous note in her voice.
"Get out," he says it so casually he actually shrugs as he says it. "We can't help you. Leave."
All this time, Bank Teller has been happily dissociating, sipping her caramel latte, snorting and chortling in a sugary, milky joy trance. But when she hears my co-worker tell Miami Vice to get out, a switch is flipped.
"Excuse me? Are you telling us to get out?"
My co-worker rolls his eyes and sighs loudly. "Yes, we don't have time for this. We have people waiting and your friend is causing trouble after my co-worker has been polite and honest."
"What do you mean by 'you people'? You mean black people?" says Miami Vice.
Oh no she did not.
"What the hell are you talking about?" I say, astounded at this intentional mis-hearing.
"And now you're cussin at me?" she sputters. Hell is a curse word? On what planet?
"Just get out" I say.
"You heard what this white boy said to me?" Miami Vice appeals to Ramones.
"Uh, I don't think he-"
"He said 'you people' and then she cussed me out."
That's it. I've had it. I lean across the counter and look Miami Vice in the eye.
"I don't know what the hell you think you're doing, but let me just tell you, you're talking to a gay white boy and a Jewish white girl and you're surrounded by our regular customers who know us and know we don't even think that way. I don't think you want to play this game because once you get that ball rolling, you do not know where it will stop. So shut your mouth, and get the fuck out of this cafe, since you clearly hate it so much." I'm shaking and my co-worker's jaw is on the floor. But Miami Vice just smiles.
"You know what I do?" She asks.
"Get. Out."
"I'm a detective."
"Fantastic. Get out."
"You can't talk to me like that."
"You don't get special privleges because you're a detective, Detective." That last word is an expletive as far as I am concerned.
"Just make me the sandwich."
"You're batshit."
"Make me the sandwich."
"I heard what you said," Bank Teller chimes in.
Our regulars, the fucking cowards that they are, remain silent. No one stands up for us. No one says, "he didn't say any such thing." No one says anything. No one wants to touch this with a ten foot pole.
"It's not asking too much. Just make me a sandwich. No one here minds waiting, do you?" She looks around at the cowed and guilty gentrifyers. No one says a word.
What can I do? I cave. I have to. It's a test of wills with potentially nasty repercussions. My co-worker makes all the drinks while I make the fucking sandwich. And goddamn if she doesn't watch me the whole time and when I put on the butter say "could you put a little more on please? Thanks, sweetie." I leave off the lettuce, because we don't have any, but she doesn't complain. All the customers are curiously calm, no impatiently craning necks. I hate every one of them as I hand the greasy wrapper to Miami Vice.
"How much do I owe you," she asks.
"Ten, no, make it twelve dollars" I say. The most expensive item on our menu is $7.25.
"Okay then." She hands me a $20. I gave her back four singles and 16 quarters. She stuffs $2 in the tip jar. I pull it back out and throw it on the counter.
"I want you to know that neither I or my co-worker is a racist. But I'll tell you something: I fucking hate cops, and you are exactly the reason why. Keep your fucking tip and don't come back here."
.....
But of course she comes back. She comes back to complain to our bosses. And you know what happens? They throw her out too.
The Barista. An often maligned creature: too hipster, too snotty, too cool, a fashion victim at a fashion show, inattentive, rude, slow, money grubbing, plays the music too loud, gets the order wrong, forgets the order altogether, gossips loudly about other customers, looks pained when you ask for extra foam, tells you "this is what a cappuccino looks like" as if you don't know what a cappuccino looks like which you do and what s/he has just handed you is not it, sneers at Starbucks and lectures you about going vegan, handles food without gloves, sneezes in your coffee and does not say thank you when you leave a perfectly reasonable tip.
Hating baristas, for some people, is a sport. Luckily for me and the legions of college-educated, broke twenty and now thirty-somethings who meant to follow their passions and somehow ended up working in a coffee shop, there are more people who love their local baristas. I would like to put in a kind word for the barista, and a few nasty ones for the cafe customers who suck at being customers as much as any barista has ever sucked at being a servant. Pardon me, I mean "a member of the service industry."
If you work the morning shift in a small cafe, that means you get up between 4 and 5 am so you can travel to work, and you work hard. Don't let anyone tell you different. It's not highly skilled labor- except the actual espresso making part, but even that, once you get the hang of it, becomes routine- but it is definitely labor. Usually your customers are what make the day fun, and a good number of my friends are former cafe customers.
The deluge begins with a dribble around dawn: one or two perky, early risers in their gym gear, pulling out an ear bud to talk to you about the prospective weather; other members of the service industry- city workers, construction workers, home healthcare aides- come in the first hour as well. I called the hour between 6:30 and 7:30 the blue collar hour. Mostly pleasant folks, tired and god fearing. They don't tip more than a nickle, but I never blamed them: they're a hard working lot with families to support on meager incomes. Coffee is one of those rare items that gets classified as a luxury (because of such things as frappuccinos and caramel ventis) and financial planners always tell people to cut expensive coffee drinks out of their routines, but I think that's unfair. The combination of coffee, sugar and froth really is a necessity for most of the people who keep things running smoothly for the rest of us.
At about 7:45 the flood begins with the teachers. They arrive bitching about every goddamn thing under the sun. The principal is a cunt, the math department thinks the english department doesn't need books more than the math department needs calculators, the board of ed is out of touch and totally corrupt, and the kids... well, those teachers are no racists, but it's hard not to be when x, y or z just happened... and have you heard how they talk? They're like animals! Just kidding! And, oh my god, did you hear that student accused that teacher of misconduct?! Unbelievable! I mean, it's probably true, but, well, the kid probably deserved to be punched in the face. Ha ha. They don't acknowledge the existence of the people around them and even worse, they never know what they want, even though they all get the same thing every day. This one is paying for both, no, all three of those guys... oh. Wait. She forgot her wallet, can I ring them all separately? Did I get the order for the bagel with cream cheese? No? Sheesh. What kind of bagel? What kind do you have? Well, do you have blueberry bagels? No? Wait, what kind of bagels do you have again? I'll have an everything. Not cream cheese! Butter! I said butter! Yes I did. You should get blueberry bagels. Toasted. Is the coffee ready yet? No? What are you guys doing back there? Sleeping? Ha ha. And so on.
On the heels of the teachers come the business people. Folks who stick out like a sore thumb in a neighborhood full of hipsters and Teach for America do-gooders-turned-bitter. But I like these people as customers: on the weekends they will happily lounge around talking about Blade Runner and paintball before going to the office for some overtime. They tip well, are pleasant and brusque and never think to use a reusable cup. They just don't have time for such things.
Behind the yuppies, in the line that is now snaking out the door, are the art yuppies: designers, architects, commercial artists, game developers, animators, tv and film producers. These are the worst of what hipsterism has to offer: they make lots of money and come from lots of money, but claim to be broke all the time which explains jeans that cost $160, artfully worn sweaters worth $200, shoes in the neighborhood of $500, a $4 iced latte and a tip of 25 cents. They are obsessed with "professionalism" having recently discovered it, and constantly say things like "that client was sounprofessional!" They drop the names of their alma maters- RISD, Parsons, SVA, the New School- as often as they do celebrity designers and arty-farty design magazines that have a circulation of exactly three people and cost $25 per issue. And these people are so passive agressive it's hard to believe Jane Austen didn't model her characters on a bunch of Williamsburg art yuppies. They want to be gritty and they think the people behind the counter are just like them, but even though we're usually white (if more than one of us wasn't they probably wouldn't come in) and mostly artists of one kind or another, we are nothing alike...at least not as a labor force. A barista makes between $2-9 an hour, they make between $20-90 an hour. Baristas do not get overtime, sick days, vacation days or benefits of any kind. They do. Most baristas are paid off the books and are lead to believe this is for our own benefit so we won't have taxes taken out of our paychecks, but we are left without recourse if we get laid off, hurt on the job, or treated unfairly. They have private accountants to handle their paperwork and taxes. Baristas regularly work 12 hour shifts on our feet. Art yuppies work long hours too, but in ergonomic chairs in carefully calibrated temperatures. And they have onsite yoga classes. Baristas haul trash, boxes, and slop-filled buckets, we wash dishes, clean bathrooms, cook food, clean spills, get scalded, do laundry, sweep and mop floors, hose the encrusted dirt and food off heavy rubber mats even in the middle of winter, empty the humane (if I'm working there) and inhumane (if I'm not) mouse traps of bodies, lug back stock up and down basement steps, scrub refrigerators, scrape grills, wash windows, unclog drains, scrub coffee stained urns, handle unruly customers, and, oh yeah, make fancy coffee drinks. Of course a barista does way more than that but that's just the stuff that requires a bit of muscle and a strong stomach. Art yuppies... don't do any of that. And a barista must be friendly and cheerful all the time. Irritability in an art yuppie is considered an asset.
I hate art yuppies as much as I sometimes aspire to be one.
So these are my sweeping generalizations of a typical Brooklyn coffee shop. Of course there are exceptions to every case listed above- and I haven't mentioned the young parents, the burlesque dancers, the bank tellers, the art tourists, the students, the homeless junkies, the parents of students grateful for a normal looking coffee shop in the midst of the 99 cent stores and botanicas, the owners of those stores, and the old timers who look absolutely shell shocked by the yuppie diaspora that has settled in their once poverty stricken neighborhood- but I'm setting a scene. Imagine- against the backdrop of little sleep, many customers- each with their own sigh and caffeine headache, complaints about clients, students, boyfriends, weather, the hour- and a seething class war that no one acknowledges, the following scene unfolds.
Two black women who seem friendly enough, walk in and try, at first to cut the line by asking, "this the line for coffee?" No, it's the line for my book signing. One looks like a bank teller, chubby and wearing the cheap black slacks and chunky jewelry of TJ Maxx. The other is short and built. She has long salt and pepper dreads and she is dressed in a linen suit, tailored like a Don Johnson special. She has sunglasses perched on her head and she's a pretty good looking woman. When they're turn finally comes, Miami Vice comes up to the counter, pushes her sport coat back and puts her hands in her pockets. Very suave.
"Hiya! What can I get you?" I ask, all smiles.
Bank Teller asks for a caramel latte. I nod and look at Miami Vice, ready to take her order. She smiles all cool like and says "It's okay. Go ahead and make her drink, I'm gonna decide." So I make the latte. I do latte art, and I make a little rosetta leaf in the foam. This makes Bank Teller giggle and Miami Vice looks impressed. All is going swimmingly.
"Let me ask you something," she says. "You got a bacon and egg sandwhich?"
She had been studying the menu the whole time I'd been making the latte and somehow had not noticed that there is no bacon and egg sandwich listed. No, I apologize, we do not have any bacon and egg sandwiches.
"Can't you just make me one? With the ingredients you have?"
The line is long, people are restless and my coworker is frantically making cappuccinos.
"We don't have bacon or eggs," I say getting annoyed in double time.
"You don't have bacon and eggs?! What kind of place serves breakfast but doesn't have eggs?" She speaks in an even tone, more like she is reciting a set up for a joke.
"This place," I snap with a smile. "Can I get you something else. Something that's on the menu, perhaps?"
"Hmmm..." she says. "How about you make me a ham and cheese on the health bread."
"The prosciutto sandwich comes on the ciabatta-"
"I know, but I just want the ham and some cheddar cheese on the health bread. How about you just make that for me. With mayo on one side. Butter on the other. And lettuce. And tomato." She's leaning against the counter and has assumed the air of a person casually waiting.
"No. I can't make that for you. I have a line out the door, and no time to make you a sandwich we don't have pre-made. But I do have a ham and cheese croissant. Would you like me to heat one of those up for you?"
"Naw, just go ahead and make the sandwhich. Thanks."
Is my mouth not saying what I think it is saying?
"I can't make you a sandwhich right now. The place next door makes breakfast sandwhiches. You can get what you want there. Is there anything else I can get you?"
"I don't want anything else-"
"Okay, then," I cut her off. "Next!"
The people behind her are about to revolt and my coworker is in a state of abject fury.
"Now hold on!" She says, and her suave calm cracking.
"What?" I glare at her as I began an iced americano for the next person.
"Why did you take his order over mine?"
"Because you weren't ordering and he had been waiting a long time while you didn't order."
"But I did order."
"You didn't order anything we have or are able to make at this moment. I offered you an alternative and you- $4.25 please, thanks Mike- said no. Next!"
"It'll take you two seconds! It's just a couple slices of ham, a couple slices of cheese, mayo, butter, lettuce, tomato. Done!"
"Medium coffee, black" huffs the next person in line, an unfriendly fellow who comes in every day.
"Medium coffee, black" I hand him his cup, take his dollar and quarter and note that he doesn't leave a tip like he usually does.
"It won't take two seconds, I don't have meat, cheese or tomatos sliced. And we don't have lettuce at all. Go next door to get what you want or come back in two hours when this line has disappeared. Next, please!"
"I have been waiting forever!" sneers Designer Bitch, as though this were my fault and an act of insubordination on my part. "Oh, I know it's not your fault, hon, it's just that this is so unprofessional. I'll have cappuccino, extra foam. And please make sure it's hot. Last time it was, like, only luke warm. Tha-anks!" she singsongs. I want to leap across the counter and smack her head into Miami Vice's face, but I make a cappucino instead. I burn the milk, but that's what Designer Bitch wants, what can I do? The customer is always right, no matter how wrong they are.
She too, does not leave a tip. And Miami Vice is still standing there.
"Next, please!"
"I'll have a ham and cheese on health bread, mayo on one side, butter on the other. And lettuce. And tomato. Toasted." That's new.
"Sir, what can I get for you sir?" The tall kid in the Ramones shirt looks baffled.
"Uh, she was here before me," he says, apparently oblivious to everything that isn't on his iPhone.
"Don't worry about, what would you like?" I say.
"Um," he looks terribly uncomfortable and hesitates, as if I'm pressuring him to swipe a pack of cigarettes from sweet old lady Stinson's pharmacy. What is going on? I briefly fantasize that maybe this is some kind of performance art designed to make a barista's head explode? I imagine this exact same scenario playing out at coffee shops all across the city at this exact same moment. I indulge in a small hope that, in the next moment, everyone might suddenly burst into song and we can all have a good laugh. Alas.
"I'll have an iced mocha?" says Ramones, hesitantly. Iced mochas are my specialty. I make them super sweet (which some people don't like as much as they should) but they always look beautiful and I take care to make them just right. His order comes as a minor relief.
"And when you're done with that, I'll just have a ham and cheese sandwhich on health bread. Mayo on one side-"
"Get out," my co-worker says and I smile. Why hadn't I thought of that?
"Excuse me?" Miami Vice says with a dangerous note in her voice.
"Get out," he says it so casually he actually shrugs as he says it. "We can't help you. Leave."
All this time, Bank Teller has been happily dissociating, sipping her caramel latte, snorting and chortling in a sugary, milky joy trance. But when she hears my co-worker tell Miami Vice to get out, a switch is flipped.
"Excuse me? Are you telling us to get out?"
My co-worker rolls his eyes and sighs loudly. "Yes, we don't have time for this. We have people waiting and your friend is causing trouble after my co-worker has been polite and honest."
"What do you mean by 'you people'? You mean black people?" says Miami Vice.
Oh no she did not.
"What the hell are you talking about?" I say, astounded at this intentional mis-hearing.
"And now you're cussin at me?" she sputters. Hell is a curse word? On what planet?
"Just get out" I say.
"You heard what this white boy said to me?" Miami Vice appeals to Ramones.
"Uh, I don't think he-"
"He said 'you people' and then she cussed me out."
That's it. I've had it. I lean across the counter and look Miami Vice in the eye.
"I don't know what the hell you think you're doing, but let me just tell you, you're talking to a gay white boy and a Jewish white girl and you're surrounded by our regular customers who know us and know we don't even think that way. I don't think you want to play this game because once you get that ball rolling, you do not know where it will stop. So shut your mouth, and get the fuck out of this cafe, since you clearly hate it so much." I'm shaking and my co-worker's jaw is on the floor. But Miami Vice just smiles.
"You know what I do?" She asks.
"Get. Out."
"I'm a detective."
"Fantastic. Get out."
"You can't talk to me like that."
"You don't get special privleges because you're a detective, Detective." That last word is an expletive as far as I am concerned.
"Just make me the sandwich."
"You're batshit."
"Make me the sandwich."
"I heard what you said," Bank Teller chimes in.
Our regulars, the fucking cowards that they are, remain silent. No one stands up for us. No one says, "he didn't say any such thing." No one says anything. No one wants to touch this with a ten foot pole.
"It's not asking too much. Just make me a sandwich. No one here minds waiting, do you?" She looks around at the cowed and guilty gentrifyers. No one says a word.
What can I do? I cave. I have to. It's a test of wills with potentially nasty repercussions. My co-worker makes all the drinks while I make the fucking sandwich. And goddamn if she doesn't watch me the whole time and when I put on the butter say "could you put a little more on please? Thanks, sweetie." I leave off the lettuce, because we don't have any, but she doesn't complain. All the customers are curiously calm, no impatiently craning necks. I hate every one of them as I hand the greasy wrapper to Miami Vice.
"How much do I owe you," she asks.
"Ten, no, make it twelve dollars" I say. The most expensive item on our menu is $7.25.
"Okay then." She hands me a $20. I gave her back four singles and 16 quarters. She stuffs $2 in the tip jar. I pull it back out and throw it on the counter.
"I want you to know that neither I or my co-worker is a racist. But I'll tell you something: I fucking hate cops, and you are exactly the reason why. Keep your fucking tip and don't come back here."
.....
But of course she comes back. She comes back to complain to our bosses. And you know what happens? They throw her out too.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Mental Health
Among the many pervy and kinky people who came into Object (the sex shop I worked at in Baltimore in the late 90's) none were so stealthily maladjusted as Tina.
Tina was a white woman in her late forties, with a messy, dark bob, dark eyes and thin lips. She looked like an academic which is exactly what she was: just a few months shy of her doctorate in psychology she happily prattled on about her burgeoning sex therapy practice and all the latest studies debunking ideas of what is normal and abnormal in the full spectrum of human sexuality.
As a customer, Tina was fun. She was bawdy and joyful, extremely complimentary to the point of flattery. She loved Object as an aesthetic and as a place where both the employees and the customers were friendly and open. She adored gay men and often declared that she wished she had been born a gay man, because, she said, then she could just be open about her sex life and instead of people being incensed they would just laugh and say "you go girl!". She made the usual outraged claim that a double standard exists in sexual expression: men are applauded for their sexual lives, but women are supposed to be innocent of their own desires. Nothing new and nothing to find fault with there. So why write about Tina? What's so special about a sex positive therapist frequenting a classy shop with folks who generally share her views? Well, Tina was an exhibitionist who was doing a bang up job of screwing up her kid.
Tina idolized Annie Sprinkle, a sex worker turned performance artist, turned angry-sex-worker-performance-artist, who specialized in water sports. Annie Sprinkle's shows are heartbreaking and revolting and if you've never seen her perform, prepare yourself to see youth and joy and romance nearly obliterated. Tina was working up an extremely kinky burlesque show around corsets, golden showers and live sex, wishing to put back some of the mystery and charm that Annie Sprinkle metaphorically clobbers to death with a rancid fish carcass. Whatever, as Dan Savage would say, lifts your luggage. But not long after Tina first discovered Object, she did something strange: she brought her twelve year old daughter, Zoe, into the store. Tina had no qualms with either exposing Zoe to the weird items and odd people found in such a place and encouraged Zoe to talk to people about their kinks and lifestyle choices. Amazingly, some obliged, but most just stared at Tina as if she were insane, which she was. Some just fled at the mere sight of the young girl. But Tina clucked her tongue at these people and hoped that Zoe would never be so ashamed.
As if this were not enough, Tina enthusiastically talked about her show and her kinks in front of Zoe. She also discussed her limp-dick ex husband, her own sexual abuse at the hands of her brothers and father, her inability to have an orgasm until she was 39, and finally she tried to give Zoe a lesson in Sex Toys 101.
Now, it is, of course, illegal for a minor, even accompanied by a guardian, to be in a sex shop, and we made that clear to Tina. When we first told her that Zoe was not allowed in the store, she was incredulous.
"But I'm with her! " Tina said.
"Doesn't matter," I said. "No one under 18 is allowed in a sex shop. You know that." As I said this, a stripper, herself barely 18 strolled in with an infant in a snuggly. Tina raised an eyebrow and I sighed.
"This is absurd! This is the kind of puritanical bullshit that a repressed society comes up with! Ridiculous to tell a human being that she is too young to know about her own body! There's nothing on display here that is unnatural or that she won't someday encounter!" I shot a glance at the wall of porn videos and my eyes rested on a video called "Anal Alice: White Trash Slut" that had a picture of a bleached blond looking pretty worn and spreading her ass cheeks in the general direction of a Natty Bo tall boy. I thought it was a pretty unlikely that Zoe would ever have a chance encounter with that, but it's true that, really, you never know.
"Tina, there's a difference. This place is for people who are already fucked in the head" Tina couldn't help smiling at this. "Zoe will go bonkers in her own good time and she won't need your help to do it."
"Jess, you're forgetting I'm a shrink," Tina said as if this would settle the issue.
"No, Tina, I am not. You people are notorious for screwing up your kids."
I thought then that we'd reached an amicable understanding, but instead, Tina dug in her heels. I don't know what battle exactly she thought she was fighting, but Tina started arriving at the store with Zoe and then making a big show of having her stand outside while she shopped and kibbitzed. Baltimore, at that time was not a safe place anywhere, at any time of day, for a 12 year old white girl to just be hanging out on a stoop, particularly one in front of a sex shop. So, of course, we let Zoe. We made her hang out with one of the employees at the cash register, which, in spite of the display of lubes, thongs for men and poppers, we thought was somewhat less bizarre to a preteen than other areas in the store. We would try to make small talk with her, but her mother would butt in and give us a rundown of Zoe's social life and when the girl looked like she would melt into tears, we all made sure to point out that her mother was crazy and to ignore her. Stupid advice, but we weren't in the business of counseling 12 year olds. Her mother was.
Eventually, my boss put his foot down. He told Tina she was a nutcase who was putting her shit on her daughter and putting his business at risk. One snowy afternoon, they started shouting at each other. Tina was banned and she stormed out hollering "I've never been treated so disrespectfully in my life!" which was so patently false I imagine she must have grimaced after saying it, but I couldn't know for sure because she was already out the door.
For what it's worth, Tina wasn't doing what she was doing to Zoe because she was sadistic or compulsive. Just the opposite. She was trying to spare her daughter the horrors of her own life. And I can't say I blamed Tina for wanting Zoe to be knowledgeable. Most kids who are sexually abused are the victims of someone they know and trust, and don't even know that what's happening is wrong- if you're a kid and a grownup tells you to do something, you do it and just assume that this is how people behave. By giving Zoe an early and semi levelheaded introduction to sex she was showing her what consenting adults do and that there are many ways to behave...as a consenting adult. The other thing that she was showing Zoe, and what might be more to the point, is that sex is meant to be pleasurable! I mean, what a rip off sex has been to so many women for so long, and particularly for Tina. After 35 years of joyless sex Tina eventually found that she could enjoy it and moreover, she enjoyed kinks! I imagine her first orgasm must have been so full of... anger! To suddenly know that it was supposed to be enjoyable must have made all the other experiences that much worse. Tina, understandably and not unlike most parents, wanted her daughter's life to be better than her own.
I write all this as if I could just look at her and have these wonderful insights, but I'm not that intuitive. My guesses come from the long conversations Tina and I had before she was banned from the store. In her early 40s she had got (sexy) Jesus and now she was a proselytizer, a missionary of anything but missionary. I'm pretty sure a lot of what she told me was part of her show, and though she invited me to see it multiple times, I had no interest in watching Tina do... anything. Ultimately, I didn't like Tina, because for all her good will and intentions, she was damaging Zoe, at least judging by the girl's pained looks and general air of silence and misery. It wasn't fair to Zoe to have a mother who was an exhibitionist. Tina was working out her childhood through her child, which is the sign of a narcissist and an unhealthy psyche. And since, at the time, I identified with Zoe way more than I identified with Tina, I hated Tina.
At one point, I briefly considered calling child services. I thought what Tina was doing might amount to emotional abuse, but then I thought of Zoe in foster care in Baltimore and decided that was far worse than whatever poor judgement Tina might have. But I relished visions of the police storming in on one of Tina's shows. I imagined a basement cabaret, a dusty red curtain fringed with gold, smokey tables obscuring furtive onlookers, Tina in the spotlight wearing one of the leather corsets she liked so much, and pissing into the mouth of a willing member of the audience when the agents burst in. They would stand there, in their cheap suits, forms and documents in hand. I imagined their surprise, their jaws dropping, and then quickly closing again.
Tina was a white woman in her late forties, with a messy, dark bob, dark eyes and thin lips. She looked like an academic which is exactly what she was: just a few months shy of her doctorate in psychology she happily prattled on about her burgeoning sex therapy practice and all the latest studies debunking ideas of what is normal and abnormal in the full spectrum of human sexuality.
As a customer, Tina was fun. She was bawdy and joyful, extremely complimentary to the point of flattery. She loved Object as an aesthetic and as a place where both the employees and the customers were friendly and open. She adored gay men and often declared that she wished she had been born a gay man, because, she said, then she could just be open about her sex life and instead of people being incensed they would just laugh and say "you go girl!". She made the usual outraged claim that a double standard exists in sexual expression: men are applauded for their sexual lives, but women are supposed to be innocent of their own desires. Nothing new and nothing to find fault with there. So why write about Tina? What's so special about a sex positive therapist frequenting a classy shop with folks who generally share her views? Well, Tina was an exhibitionist who was doing a bang up job of screwing up her kid.
Tina idolized Annie Sprinkle, a sex worker turned performance artist, turned angry-sex-worker-performance-artist, who specialized in water sports. Annie Sprinkle's shows are heartbreaking and revolting and if you've never seen her perform, prepare yourself to see youth and joy and romance nearly obliterated. Tina was working up an extremely kinky burlesque show around corsets, golden showers and live sex, wishing to put back some of the mystery and charm that Annie Sprinkle metaphorically clobbers to death with a rancid fish carcass. Whatever, as Dan Savage would say, lifts your luggage. But not long after Tina first discovered Object, she did something strange: she brought her twelve year old daughter, Zoe, into the store. Tina had no qualms with either exposing Zoe to the weird items and odd people found in such a place and encouraged Zoe to talk to people about their kinks and lifestyle choices. Amazingly, some obliged, but most just stared at Tina as if she were insane, which she was. Some just fled at the mere sight of the young girl. But Tina clucked her tongue at these people and hoped that Zoe would never be so ashamed.
As if this were not enough, Tina enthusiastically talked about her show and her kinks in front of Zoe. She also discussed her limp-dick ex husband, her own sexual abuse at the hands of her brothers and father, her inability to have an orgasm until she was 39, and finally she tried to give Zoe a lesson in Sex Toys 101.
Now, it is, of course, illegal for a minor, even accompanied by a guardian, to be in a sex shop, and we made that clear to Tina. When we first told her that Zoe was not allowed in the store, she was incredulous.
"But I'm with her! " Tina said.
"Doesn't matter," I said. "No one under 18 is allowed in a sex shop. You know that." As I said this, a stripper, herself barely 18 strolled in with an infant in a snuggly. Tina raised an eyebrow and I sighed.
"This is absurd! This is the kind of puritanical bullshit that a repressed society comes up with! Ridiculous to tell a human being that she is too young to know about her own body! There's nothing on display here that is unnatural or that she won't someday encounter!" I shot a glance at the wall of porn videos and my eyes rested on a video called "Anal Alice: White Trash Slut" that had a picture of a bleached blond looking pretty worn and spreading her ass cheeks in the general direction of a Natty Bo tall boy. I thought it was a pretty unlikely that Zoe would ever have a chance encounter with that, but it's true that, really, you never know.
"Tina, there's a difference. This place is for people who are already fucked in the head" Tina couldn't help smiling at this. "Zoe will go bonkers in her own good time and she won't need your help to do it."
"Jess, you're forgetting I'm a shrink," Tina said as if this would settle the issue.
"No, Tina, I am not. You people are notorious for screwing up your kids."
I thought then that we'd reached an amicable understanding, but instead, Tina dug in her heels. I don't know what battle exactly she thought she was fighting, but Tina started arriving at the store with Zoe and then making a big show of having her stand outside while she shopped and kibbitzed. Baltimore, at that time was not a safe place anywhere, at any time of day, for a 12 year old white girl to just be hanging out on a stoop, particularly one in front of a sex shop. So, of course, we let Zoe. We made her hang out with one of the employees at the cash register, which, in spite of the display of lubes, thongs for men and poppers, we thought was somewhat less bizarre to a preteen than other areas in the store. We would try to make small talk with her, but her mother would butt in and give us a rundown of Zoe's social life and when the girl looked like she would melt into tears, we all made sure to point out that her mother was crazy and to ignore her. Stupid advice, but we weren't in the business of counseling 12 year olds. Her mother was.
Eventually, my boss put his foot down. He told Tina she was a nutcase who was putting her shit on her daughter and putting his business at risk. One snowy afternoon, they started shouting at each other. Tina was banned and she stormed out hollering "I've never been treated so disrespectfully in my life!" which was so patently false I imagine she must have grimaced after saying it, but I couldn't know for sure because she was already out the door.
For what it's worth, Tina wasn't doing what she was doing to Zoe because she was sadistic or compulsive. Just the opposite. She was trying to spare her daughter the horrors of her own life. And I can't say I blamed Tina for wanting Zoe to be knowledgeable. Most kids who are sexually abused are the victims of someone they know and trust, and don't even know that what's happening is wrong- if you're a kid and a grownup tells you to do something, you do it and just assume that this is how people behave. By giving Zoe an early and semi levelheaded introduction to sex she was showing her what consenting adults do and that there are many ways to behave...as a consenting adult. The other thing that she was showing Zoe, and what might be more to the point, is that sex is meant to be pleasurable! I mean, what a rip off sex has been to so many women for so long, and particularly for Tina. After 35 years of joyless sex Tina eventually found that she could enjoy it and moreover, she enjoyed kinks! I imagine her first orgasm must have been so full of... anger! To suddenly know that it was supposed to be enjoyable must have made all the other experiences that much worse. Tina, understandably and not unlike most parents, wanted her daughter's life to be better than her own.
I write all this as if I could just look at her and have these wonderful insights, but I'm not that intuitive. My guesses come from the long conversations Tina and I had before she was banned from the store. In her early 40s she had got (sexy) Jesus and now she was a proselytizer, a missionary of anything but missionary. I'm pretty sure a lot of what she told me was part of her show, and though she invited me to see it multiple times, I had no interest in watching Tina do... anything. Ultimately, I didn't like Tina, because for all her good will and intentions, she was damaging Zoe, at least judging by the girl's pained looks and general air of silence and misery. It wasn't fair to Zoe to have a mother who was an exhibitionist. Tina was working out her childhood through her child, which is the sign of a narcissist and an unhealthy psyche. And since, at the time, I identified with Zoe way more than I identified with Tina, I hated Tina.
At one point, I briefly considered calling child services. I thought what Tina was doing might amount to emotional abuse, but then I thought of Zoe in foster care in Baltimore and decided that was far worse than whatever poor judgement Tina might have. But I relished visions of the police storming in on one of Tina's shows. I imagined a basement cabaret, a dusty red curtain fringed with gold, smokey tables obscuring furtive onlookers, Tina in the spotlight wearing one of the leather corsets she liked so much, and pissing into the mouth of a willing member of the audience when the agents burst in. They would stand there, in their cheap suits, forms and documents in hand. I imagined their surprise, their jaws dropping, and then quickly closing again.
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