Things That Died and People Who Disappear
We tell the same stories over and over again. They breathe, they swell with each telling and begin to toddle on their own. They start to feel like perfectly worn-in leather gloves; they fit us as we are now but they also give us room to grow into them as they stretch and soften.
Those stories are okay, but we tell them all the time. Someday when it's quiet, remind me to tell you about the stories that choked and died on the vine. There's the one about the marionette who started pulling back against the strings. Oh, and the one about the tightrope that spans the gap between this building and the one across the street, and the girl who walks it every night when no one's watching. Maybe the one about the time I got you a fishtank for your birthday. I filled it with gravel, some plastic plants, a miniature castle and the tiniest treasure chest. I made it perfect, but when you saw it all you said was, "Where are the fish?"
"It's a fucking metaphor," I replied, except at the time I think I said, "Oh," because we both knew I forgot them. The devil is in the details.
If you promise not to interrupt, I'll tell you the story about the affair I didn't have.
I remember it differently than you do.
Which is to say, I've made a few changes to the narrative.
---
I'd moved to the city with $80 in my pocket and an empty guitar case, because I hadn't yet realized that poetry is nothing without authenticity. It was five years ago and I wanted to be Edna St. Vincent Millay. She got all the ladies.
It was January and we were sitting on the cold leather couch eating cold leftover pizza, as far away from each other as we could be in a frigid 240 sq foot apartment. We were so hot for each other we shivered.
"Riding the N train out of Manhattan is like dying," I said, and you replied, "Are you saying you want to kill yourself?" without glancing up from your laptop.
I ended the conversation with "It's a metaphor, asshole," although I might actually have said "no."
It's January again and I haven't ridden the N train in years, but that first slushy, brutal winter I rode it every day. I let my toes kiss the yellow line and waited for the shockwave as the train careened into the station. Half-ton soup cans screeched to a halt in front of me and the air on my face reminded me of driving the minivan last summer with the windows down. Twice a day, catching the train, I could close my eyes and know June.
I'd board and stand by the door, trying not to hold on. (I had to hold on for a long time before I got my sea legs. I am not talking about riding the subway.)
Leaving Manhattan on the N train, you go through a long, dark tunnel. Half-way through a spot of light appears in the distance and the train begins to rock. Soon after, the rock becomes a shake, then the shake becomes a quake, and just when you think the car is going to fly off the track and shatter, it bursts out into the sunshine and everything goes quiet and dead dead still.
That moment of quiet in chaos was my favorite part of the day.
Thinking about it now, I guess riding the N train out of Manhattan is more like being born or having an orgasm. But through hail and blizzard to the wet garbage smells of spring, every time we made it out of that tunnel in one piece I had cheated death, although the trip always ended with us emerging into the light.
---
I miss the idealism of twenty-four and the poetry of nineteen. I get better with age but now that people are listening the stories don't come as easily. I used to do the dangerous thing just because it would lead to a more interesting memoir, but now I do the dangerous thing because it's a part of who I am.
Sometimes I even jaywalk. Oh, and once I accidentally shoplifted a vest from a resale shop. (I wanted to take it back and pay them for it, but I couldn't figure out a graceful way to say, "I'm sorry, I was drunk on margaritas last Sunday around two in the afternoon, and I was lonely, and I forgot I had it on.")
---
I am terrified of obscurity but I worry fame will give me cancer or make me mean. At least I don't have to worry anymore that I'll die young, but since I didn't, I guess I have to make something of myself.
Yes, you're right, I suppose it is better than the alternative.
---
Actually, if I get to pick, I'd rather not die at all. I'd really rather just vanish, like Amelia Earhart, who people claimed to have sighted in various unlikely corners of the globe up to the age of 104.
The story of Amelia Earhart is a Choose Your Own Adventure that tells you what sort of person you are. If someone asks you, "Where is Amelia Earhart?" and you respond, "She's a pile of bone fragments, dust and plane parts on some remote island," you're a realist.
If you say, "She walked away from everything, changed her name, and died 'Irene' in Georgia" you're a romantic.
Reply, "I'm right here," and you're a lunatic and you should come sit next to me.
---
I've decided to put up the flyers in the neighborhood. Don't worry, the photo is very flattering. I picked one that makes you look young and thin and full of promise.
Not that I think I'll find you in Bushwick or across the street in Queens. What an arbitrary division that is, I said, but then I made you promise to drag my body back into Brooklyn if I had a fatal heart attack on the opposite sidewalk.
"No greater indignity than dying in Queens." You laughed and said you wanted to stand in the street so you could be in two zip codes at once.
Actually, what you said was, "Sure, so what did you think about---" and I stopped listening because if you never do why should I?
I can still see the person I wanted you to be and the person I thought that you were, standing in the street, laughing about the peculiarities of the postal service.
I bet you'd tell me that you can't find someone who was never there at all, but I think the flyers are still a good idea, because one never really knows. I once hung "missing" posters around my neighborhood, looking for a cat I lost ten years before and someone brought her back that day. So, you see, I know it can work, because what are the chances I'd find a cat ten years after I lost it, the very day I started looking?
Anyway, I already had 500 copies made so you'll have to get used to looking at your own face, unless the woman who brought my cat back also knows where you are.
I like real cats better than the one I never lost, but I still love the you I imagined more than the you who doesn't love me anymore.
Let's go stand in the street. I'll make you a deal. You'll pretend we both exist and I'll make sure you don't die in Queens.
---
Please don't take me too literally.
Just take me to the zoo.
---
Love,
Beth
Those stories are okay, but we tell them all the time. Someday when it's quiet, remind me to tell you about the stories that choked and died on the vine. There's the one about the marionette who started pulling back against the strings. Oh, and the one about the tightrope that spans the gap between this building and the one across the street, and the girl who walks it every night when no one's watching. Maybe the one about the time I got you a fishtank for your birthday. I filled it with gravel, some plastic plants, a miniature castle and the tiniest treasure chest. I made it perfect, but when you saw it all you said was, "Where are the fish?"
"It's a fucking metaphor," I replied, except at the time I think I said, "Oh," because we both knew I forgot them. The devil is in the details.
If you promise not to interrupt, I'll tell you the story about the affair I didn't have.
I remember it differently than you do.
Which is to say, I've made a few changes to the narrative.
---
I'd moved to the city with $80 in my pocket and an empty guitar case, because I hadn't yet realized that poetry is nothing without authenticity. It was five years ago and I wanted to be Edna St. Vincent Millay. She got all the ladies.
It was January and we were sitting on the cold leather couch eating cold leftover pizza, as far away from each other as we could be in a frigid 240 sq foot apartment. We were so hot for each other we shivered.
"Riding the N train out of Manhattan is like dying," I said, and you replied, "Are you saying you want to kill yourself?" without glancing up from your laptop.
I ended the conversation with "It's a metaphor, asshole," although I might actually have said "no."
It's January again and I haven't ridden the N train in years, but that first slushy, brutal winter I rode it every day. I let my toes kiss the yellow line and waited for the shockwave as the train careened into the station. Half-ton soup cans screeched to a halt in front of me and the air on my face reminded me of driving the minivan last summer with the windows down. Twice a day, catching the train, I could close my eyes and know June.
I'd board and stand by the door, trying not to hold on. (I had to hold on for a long time before I got my sea legs. I am not talking about riding the subway.)
Leaving Manhattan on the N train, you go through a long, dark tunnel. Half-way through a spot of light appears in the distance and the train begins to rock. Soon after, the rock becomes a shake, then the shake becomes a quake, and just when you think the car is going to fly off the track and shatter, it bursts out into the sunshine and everything goes quiet and dead dead still.
That moment of quiet in chaos was my favorite part of the day.
Thinking about it now, I guess riding the N train out of Manhattan is more like being born or having an orgasm. But through hail and blizzard to the wet garbage smells of spring, every time we made it out of that tunnel in one piece I had cheated death, although the trip always ended with us emerging into the light.
---
I miss the idealism of twenty-four and the poetry of nineteen. I get better with age but now that people are listening the stories don't come as easily. I used to do the dangerous thing just because it would lead to a more interesting memoir, but now I do the dangerous thing because it's a part of who I am.
Sometimes I even jaywalk. Oh, and once I accidentally shoplifted a vest from a resale shop. (I wanted to take it back and pay them for it, but I couldn't figure out a graceful way to say, "I'm sorry, I was drunk on margaritas last Sunday around two in the afternoon, and I was lonely, and I forgot I had it on.")
---
I am terrified of obscurity but I worry fame will give me cancer or make me mean. At least I don't have to worry anymore that I'll die young, but since I didn't, I guess I have to make something of myself.
Yes, you're right, I suppose it is better than the alternative.
---
Actually, if I get to pick, I'd rather not die at all. I'd really rather just vanish, like Amelia Earhart, who people claimed to have sighted in various unlikely corners of the globe up to the age of 104.
The story of Amelia Earhart is a Choose Your Own Adventure that tells you what sort of person you are. If someone asks you, "Where is Amelia Earhart?" and you respond, "She's a pile of bone fragments, dust and plane parts on some remote island," you're a realist.
If you say, "She walked away from everything, changed her name, and died 'Irene' in Georgia" you're a romantic.
Reply, "I'm right here," and you're a lunatic and you should come sit next to me.
---
I've decided to put up the flyers in the neighborhood. Don't worry, the photo is very flattering. I picked one that makes you look young and thin and full of promise.
Not that I think I'll find you in Bushwick or across the street in Queens. What an arbitrary division that is, I said, but then I made you promise to drag my body back into Brooklyn if I had a fatal heart attack on the opposite sidewalk.
"No greater indignity than dying in Queens." You laughed and said you wanted to stand in the street so you could be in two zip codes at once.
Actually, what you said was, "Sure, so what did you think about---" and I stopped listening because if you never do why should I?
I can still see the person I wanted you to be and the person I thought that you were, standing in the street, laughing about the peculiarities of the postal service.
I bet you'd tell me that you can't find someone who was never there at all, but I think the flyers are still a good idea, because one never really knows. I once hung "missing" posters around my neighborhood, looking for a cat I lost ten years before and someone brought her back that day. So, you see, I know it can work, because what are the chances I'd find a cat ten years after I lost it, the very day I started looking?
Anyway, I already had 500 copies made so you'll have to get used to looking at your own face, unless the woman who brought my cat back also knows where you are.
I like real cats better than the one I never lost, but I still love the you I imagined more than the you who doesn't love me anymore.
Let's go stand in the street. I'll make you a deal. You'll pretend we both exist and I'll make sure you don't die in Queens.
---
Please don't take me too literally.
Just take me to the zoo.
---
Love,
Beth