little thought: a party in fishtown.
If you have me networked on del.icio.us, I apologize for the recent (and probably ongoing) slew of bookmarks. I hit a mid-week cranky period, and applied fanfiction as directed.
---
It was raining this morning, heavy drops that made flat sounds against the leaves outside my open kitchen window. The brick wall that faces the window in the nook was slowly being streaked with darker stripes of wet. I drank my coffee slowly, savoring the cool air, listening to the sound of the rain and the birds shouting to each other.
Last night, when I left the party, there was a man on the corner. He was tall, older, wearing comfortable and shabby clothes. He had a long, thick gray beard. A black eyepatch covered his right eye. He had a German Shepherd on an old rope leash. The dog, the man and I all regarded one another for a moment, and then we all inclined our heads in concert. The light changed. I crossed the street.
I waited a little too long to catch the el train, so I had to wait for the bus. I stood at the edge of the sidewalk, under the bus stop sign, in a bright fluorescent patch in the otherwise dark sidewalk. The el tracks run overhead of Front Street. There are pillars on either side, holding the tracks up. They cage in the cars. The cars didn't seem to notice. They eeled back and forth. Shawty says I'm l-l-l-l-like a lollipop. Their sound systems grunted.
Halfway to the bus stop, I passed a series of parked cars. My eyes were on the man smoking across the street; I had forgotten to watch the cars. Psst, I heard, and almost looked at the dark window it came from before I caught myself. Chin down, eyes on the cracked pavement. Psst psst psst, before I was out of range. "Psst," I said to myself, and giggled.
At the bus stop, men pulled to a stop alongside me. I noted their cars, color make and model, but did not look at the windshields. Baby you want a ride. Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, I just want to talk. I step around their bumpers, look down the street to see if the bus is coming. Hey, hey. Excuse me miss. I keep my eyes on the road. They pull away.
At the party, I sat for a while on a wet deck chair. A woman I know only in passing sat down across from me. Inside, in the warm apartment, someone was reading an interminable selection from his novel. I coughed. She told me, very intently, that many people mistake her for a lesbian. Once upon a time, I would have taken this as the invitation it often is; that night I said, "oh?" and let her talk. I made a series of elaborate faces to show her I cared -- eyebrows raised a fraction, quirked; lips slightly parted, pursed, bitten; eyes focused on hers -- even though I didn't. It was good practice. Before I went back inside, I managed to tell her that people mistook her for gay because she was socially awkward and odd-looking without offending her.
I did not think about the reflection on myself at all.
The neighbors had left a sack of trousers and jeans with the couple who were hosting the party. They were all size 10, petite. One man layered six or seven pairs of the trousers on over his jeans, and walked around proudly. He had grown a mustache. It made him look like a boy trying too hard to be a porn star. It was an accurate depiction; I told him I liked it.
A drunk woman told me about hermaphrodites on the landing by the bathroom. A friend - the friend I had come to see - talked to me with her chin hooked over the drunk girl's shoulder, slipping in comments about Rome and boys and fear between the drunk's loud pronouncements.
A boy rode by the bus stop on his BMX bike, and I caught his eyes by accident. "Hey sexy," he said as he rolled by, and we both laughed.
I drank a cup of beer at the party, and then stuck to the soda I had brought with me, a chocolate bar I had tucked in my pocket. Around me people were loud and stuttery. The living room was hazy with smoke. Someone tried to take a picture of me, and I ducked my head against my knees in just enough time to make my face a hazy smear of pixels.
I read a poem. A man I did not particularly like when we shared a class together made a joke after everyone had dutifully applauded, and people laughed. I made a carefully collected face at him while no one was looking. I rolled my right eye to face my nose, and kept my left eye staring straight ahead. I pulled my upper lip very far up, scrunching my nose, and sucked my lower lip between my teeth. It was a good face. I held it for a moment, then dropped it.
After the last poet had read, I put my much-folded poem on the coffee table - they were collecting poems for a wall of poetry - and leaned in the open doorway. "And on that note," I said, during a break in the conversation. "I'm heading out."
On the bus, it smelled like Black and Mild cigars, weed, sweat, booze. The man who sat in front of me was nodding, almost asleep; the sparse black curls on the back of his head were dotted with beads of sweat. A boy sat next to me after a few stops. He listened to loud music on his iPod and rocked rhythmically in place.
A man with a shaved head, sideburns and a beard was speaking loudly to a worn out woman across the aisle from him, but I couldn't make out the words. His head was sweating profusely, dripping down over his ears.
A woman behind me talked to her friend. She had to get off at 60th and Walnut, she had to walk the rest of the way, she wanted her friend to stay on the phone, don't fall asleep, I don't trust you.
I walked the wrong way on Front Street, when I was trying to reach the bus stop. I turned off of Front when I realized my mistake, and headed the other way on Hope Street. An emaciated pit bull, mangy but beautiful, stopped outside of a fence to watch me approach, and slipped inside when I drew too near. I did not say anything. I did not take my hands out of my pockets. My flip-flops made their eponymous sound on the concrete. The dog regarded me carefully until I was far enough away again, then came back out to stand in front of the fence. When I turned back towards Front Street, it was still watching me. Its tail was tucked between its legs.
A man was walking at a slower speed than me. He glanced back to see where I was, watched me as I passed him. I met his eyes, nodded, and he nodded back. His face was booze-rough, his eyes red.
A car slowed, honked, honked, honked, stopped. "Fuck off, bitch," I muttered, keeping my eyes on the pavement. My shoulders were relaxed, my stride loose, my eyes down. The car stayed within the cage of the pillars that hold up the el tracks. The car pulled away.
When I got off of the bus, it was full of people, the seats crammed, bodies hanging off the overhead poles. I pushed through a field of warm, damp flesh and fabric, murmuring apologies. It was more contact than I've had in weeks. I bit my lip. "Thank you," I said to the bus driver, and tumbled off of the bus. It hissed and pulled away.
"Hey, hey, hey!" someone hollered, as they missed the bus. "One every fifteen minutes?" he shouted, and a safety officer said, "Yeah, yeah" as he cycled slowly up the hill.
I sat down on a set of steps. My legs were trembling. I burped quietly, trying to dispel the nausea.
I read Kate Chopin's Awakening while I waited for the bus. "'But do you know,' she broke off, turning her quick eyes upon Madame Ratignolle and leaning forward a little so as to bring her face quite close to that of her companion, 'sometimes I feel this summer as if I were walking through the green meadow again, idly, aimlessly, unthinking and unguided.'" Hey girl, hey girl. I stepped off of the curb, leaned sideways to check for the bus. Hey, hey, you want to talk? I stepped back onto the curb, looked back down at my book. The car pulled away.
In the 7-Eleven on my way home, I bought popcorn, ramen, gatorade. "Studying all night?" a young man asked, and we entered a careful conversation. He is a civil engineer. He went to a party and paid ten dollars; it was boring, and he doesn't drink, so he was annoyed by the waste of money. He is in an English class; they are reading something called Persimmons, maybe, and he cannot follow it, it is just not his focus, not his language. I kept looking at the gap between his teeth, at the nervous way he held his food. I was somehow touched by the kindness of his come-on.
The clerk was stoned. He smiled too brightly for retail. I put $3.08 on my credit card, and touched my conversation partner's elbow as I walked out. "Nice to talk to you," I said, and he jerked his head and smiled.
On my way to the party, I was talking to my best friend on my cell phone. "You don't owe anyone pussy!" I hollered, and three people sitting on a stoop looked up and smiled, all at once. I walked past, then popped my head back around the corner. "Hi, sorry," I said, and they laughed and said, "No, no." I kept walking.
When I got home, I dropped everything on the floor, stripped off my clothes, and put on my pajamas. "I missed you," I said to my house, "I missed you so, so much. I missed you. I missed you."
This morning, the storm grew heavier. Rain spattered on the kitchen floor. I refilled my coffee, swiped a rag over the wet ledge, but did not close the window.
---
There is a particular person who I particularly want to punch in his particular head right now, but I wrote the above instead.
One of my friends promised last night to come on my whirlwind tour of Roman hermaphrodite statues (including the most important one, given a shout-out in Julia Ward Howe's The Hermaphrodite HOLLAAAAA). She even speaks a modicum of Italian, meaning that said tour may actually happen. Heavens to betsy, hallelujah &c.
Another pun I thought of, which I may use for to tag my actual Roman entries: rome with a view.
---
It was raining this morning, heavy drops that made flat sounds against the leaves outside my open kitchen window. The brick wall that faces the window in the nook was slowly being streaked with darker stripes of wet. I drank my coffee slowly, savoring the cool air, listening to the sound of the rain and the birds shouting to each other.
Last night, when I left the party, there was a man on the corner. He was tall, older, wearing comfortable and shabby clothes. He had a long, thick gray beard. A black eyepatch covered his right eye. He had a German Shepherd on an old rope leash. The dog, the man and I all regarded one another for a moment, and then we all inclined our heads in concert. The light changed. I crossed the street.
I waited a little too long to catch the el train, so I had to wait for the bus. I stood at the edge of the sidewalk, under the bus stop sign, in a bright fluorescent patch in the otherwise dark sidewalk. The el tracks run overhead of Front Street. There are pillars on either side, holding the tracks up. They cage in the cars. The cars didn't seem to notice. They eeled back and forth. Shawty says I'm l-l-l-l-like a lollipop. Their sound systems grunted.
Halfway to the bus stop, I passed a series of parked cars. My eyes were on the man smoking across the street; I had forgotten to watch the cars. Psst, I heard, and almost looked at the dark window it came from before I caught myself. Chin down, eyes on the cracked pavement. Psst psst psst, before I was out of range. "Psst," I said to myself, and giggled.
At the bus stop, men pulled to a stop alongside me. I noted their cars, color make and model, but did not look at the windshields. Baby you want a ride. Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, I just want to talk. I step around their bumpers, look down the street to see if the bus is coming. Hey, hey. Excuse me miss. I keep my eyes on the road. They pull away.
At the party, I sat for a while on a wet deck chair. A woman I know only in passing sat down across from me. Inside, in the warm apartment, someone was reading an interminable selection from his novel. I coughed. She told me, very intently, that many people mistake her for a lesbian. Once upon a time, I would have taken this as the invitation it often is; that night I said, "oh?" and let her talk. I made a series of elaborate faces to show her I cared -- eyebrows raised a fraction, quirked; lips slightly parted, pursed, bitten; eyes focused on hers -- even though I didn't. It was good practice. Before I went back inside, I managed to tell her that people mistook her for gay because she was socially awkward and odd-looking without offending her.
I did not think about the reflection on myself at all.
The neighbors had left a sack of trousers and jeans with the couple who were hosting the party. They were all size 10, petite. One man layered six or seven pairs of the trousers on over his jeans, and walked around proudly. He had grown a mustache. It made him look like a boy trying too hard to be a porn star. It was an accurate depiction; I told him I liked it.
A drunk woman told me about hermaphrodites on the landing by the bathroom. A friend - the friend I had come to see - talked to me with her chin hooked over the drunk girl's shoulder, slipping in comments about Rome and boys and fear between the drunk's loud pronouncements.
A boy rode by the bus stop on his BMX bike, and I caught his eyes by accident. "Hey sexy," he said as he rolled by, and we both laughed.
I drank a cup of beer at the party, and then stuck to the soda I had brought with me, a chocolate bar I had tucked in my pocket. Around me people were loud and stuttery. The living room was hazy with smoke. Someone tried to take a picture of me, and I ducked my head against my knees in just enough time to make my face a hazy smear of pixels.
I read a poem. A man I did not particularly like when we shared a class together made a joke after everyone had dutifully applauded, and people laughed. I made a carefully collected face at him while no one was looking. I rolled my right eye to face my nose, and kept my left eye staring straight ahead. I pulled my upper lip very far up, scrunching my nose, and sucked my lower lip between my teeth. It was a good face. I held it for a moment, then dropped it.
After the last poet had read, I put my much-folded poem on the coffee table - they were collecting poems for a wall of poetry - and leaned in the open doorway. "And on that note," I said, during a break in the conversation. "I'm heading out."
On the bus, it smelled like Black and Mild cigars, weed, sweat, booze. The man who sat in front of me was nodding, almost asleep; the sparse black curls on the back of his head were dotted with beads of sweat. A boy sat next to me after a few stops. He listened to loud music on his iPod and rocked rhythmically in place.
A man with a shaved head, sideburns and a beard was speaking loudly to a worn out woman across the aisle from him, but I couldn't make out the words. His head was sweating profusely, dripping down over his ears.
A woman behind me talked to her friend. She had to get off at 60th and Walnut, she had to walk the rest of the way, she wanted her friend to stay on the phone, don't fall asleep, I don't trust you.
I walked the wrong way on Front Street, when I was trying to reach the bus stop. I turned off of Front when I realized my mistake, and headed the other way on Hope Street. An emaciated pit bull, mangy but beautiful, stopped outside of a fence to watch me approach, and slipped inside when I drew too near. I did not say anything. I did not take my hands out of my pockets. My flip-flops made their eponymous sound on the concrete. The dog regarded me carefully until I was far enough away again, then came back out to stand in front of the fence. When I turned back towards Front Street, it was still watching me. Its tail was tucked between its legs.
A man was walking at a slower speed than me. He glanced back to see where I was, watched me as I passed him. I met his eyes, nodded, and he nodded back. His face was booze-rough, his eyes red.
A car slowed, honked, honked, honked, stopped. "Fuck off, bitch," I muttered, keeping my eyes on the pavement. My shoulders were relaxed, my stride loose, my eyes down. The car stayed within the cage of the pillars that hold up the el tracks. The car pulled away.
When I got off of the bus, it was full of people, the seats crammed, bodies hanging off the overhead poles. I pushed through a field of warm, damp flesh and fabric, murmuring apologies. It was more contact than I've had in weeks. I bit my lip. "Thank you," I said to the bus driver, and tumbled off of the bus. It hissed and pulled away.
"Hey, hey, hey!" someone hollered, as they missed the bus. "One every fifteen minutes?" he shouted, and a safety officer said, "Yeah, yeah" as he cycled slowly up the hill.
I sat down on a set of steps. My legs were trembling. I burped quietly, trying to dispel the nausea.
I read Kate Chopin's Awakening while I waited for the bus. "'But do you know,' she broke off, turning her quick eyes upon Madame Ratignolle and leaning forward a little so as to bring her face quite close to that of her companion, 'sometimes I feel this summer as if I were walking through the green meadow again, idly, aimlessly, unthinking and unguided.'" Hey girl, hey girl. I stepped off of the curb, leaned sideways to check for the bus. Hey, hey, you want to talk? I stepped back onto the curb, looked back down at my book. The car pulled away.
In the 7-Eleven on my way home, I bought popcorn, ramen, gatorade. "Studying all night?" a young man asked, and we entered a careful conversation. He is a civil engineer. He went to a party and paid ten dollars; it was boring, and he doesn't drink, so he was annoyed by the waste of money. He is in an English class; they are reading something called Persimmons, maybe, and he cannot follow it, it is just not his focus, not his language. I kept looking at the gap between his teeth, at the nervous way he held his food. I was somehow touched by the kindness of his come-on.
The clerk was stoned. He smiled too brightly for retail. I put $3.08 on my credit card, and touched my conversation partner's elbow as I walked out. "Nice to talk to you," I said, and he jerked his head and smiled.
On my way to the party, I was talking to my best friend on my cell phone. "You don't owe anyone pussy!" I hollered, and three people sitting on a stoop looked up and smiled, all at once. I walked past, then popped my head back around the corner. "Hi, sorry," I said, and they laughed and said, "No, no." I kept walking.
When I got home, I dropped everything on the floor, stripped off my clothes, and put on my pajamas. "I missed you," I said to my house, "I missed you so, so much. I missed you. I missed you."
This morning, the storm grew heavier. Rain spattered on the kitchen floor. I refilled my coffee, swiped a rag over the wet ledge, but did not close the window.
---
There is a particular person who I particularly want to punch in his particular head right now, but I wrote the above instead.
One of my friends promised last night to come on my whirlwind tour of Roman hermaphrodite statues (including the most important one, given a shout-out in Julia Ward Howe's The Hermaphrodite HOLLAAAAA). She even speaks a modicum of Italian, meaning that said tour may actually happen. Heavens to betsy, hallelujah &c.
Another pun I thought of, which I may use for to tag my actual Roman entries: rome with a view.