Author: deuxmillesix
9/11/06 12:30 p.m.
Even though I refer to my place of employment as Blargon 7, and I feel so out of place, surrounded by all of these weirdos, I do have to say that there is humanity here. We had a moment of silence today at 12 p.m., and I appreciate that.
9/10/06 4:37 p.m.
Scène:
The paved path that circles within in McCarren Park, near Bedford Avenue.
Automotive High School looms in the background.
Charli, Blake and Maria are taking a Sunday stroll.
Maria: No, but seriously, Enid’s on a Saturday night is the best. Hands down.
Blake: Ok, no one will leave.
Maria: That’s what I’m saying!! They’re seriously like “GET OUT!! GOOO HOOOOMMEE” and just nobody leaves. You have to come, Charli.
Charli: And our busboy was the barback last night?? Hahaha, did he sleep there? What time does brunch even start?
Blake: He probably just sleeps under a table.
Maria: Wait a minute– wha–
The three brunettes are paused by two gentlemen, one in a 1970s cotton-poly color block sweatshirt, heather gray and electric blue with white piping, wrinkled and dirty. Skin-tight faded black jeans rest atop scuffed up slender black dress shoes that had probably once belonged to an Upper East Side dandy. The other mec is wearing thick, black denim jeans, looking like a fresh Grainger catalog purchase, loosely tucked into strapping black leather boots, laced only halfway up. A red plaid Pendleton shirt, converted to a vest, displays bare, muscular arms holding a black recorder.
Color Block Sweatshirt Guy (CBSG): Hello, Maria.
Maria: Yo….
CBSG: You know Danny.
Maria and Danny nod to each other.
CBSG: Ladies…, Danny. Danny…., these two.
Charli, making eye contact with first CBSG, then Danny: I met you last night.
Danny nods: one slow down and one slow up. He resumes noodling on the recorder.
Maria: Welll….. Cool. We gotta, um, go, um, back to Blake and Charli’s
.
The three girls continue on the path, exiting midway through the park.
Charli: Maria! You know that guy with the recorder?
Maria: Don’t get me started.
Charli: We met him at a party last night!
Maria: Where? At Alexandra’s? Her best friend dates my roommate. I was gonna go, but Blake and I were at Enid’s! Don’t tell me you like that guy.
Charli: Nah, I don’t even know him… And I did NOT know that he plays the recorder…!
9/9/06 3:33 p.m.
On 9/9/06, at 11:57 a.m., Charli <c—–.w——–@gmail.com wrote:
no problem!
was nice to see you too! i owe you a drink and a slice of pizza…
-char
On 9/9/06, at 11:02 a.m., Le Bloggeur < ———@gmail.com> wrote:
CHARLI!
Thanks for the haircut.
VICE DO!
It was nice to see you. We should see each other more.
YAY!
LB.
***
The above email excerpt is PROOF that I sealed the deal with L.B.
Gals, I am going with short and sweet in all correspondence with this fellow. I don’t think it was really a love connection.
Cash helped me buy this!
But it’s a triumph that he wrote me the morning I left his house, right?
Quick rundown:
Post-work on a Friday: my Meserole Avenue kitchen for the cut.
I shall note that the idea to offer a haircut to this monsieur occurred to me naturally in conversation.
Flashback to our evening at Gowanus Yacht Club:
“No, but I, like, really need a haircut.”
“Well, I think it looks fine. I mean, I haven’t known you so long, but I don’t find anything offensive about it… Is there a way that you prefer to wear your hair?”
“Well, it’s just. I keep it basically like this, but it has started the beginning of a George Washington shape,” L.B. runs his right hand through his short brown curls at his ears, making them stick out past his finger, and tugging on the hair with his left hand.
“Well, maybe it looks like that if you poof it out, but it didn’t look like that before.”
“See, I don’t wanna be able to poof!”
“Ohhhh. Well, I could fix that.”
“You could?”
“Yeah! I’ve cut a little hair before. You just put your hand on the scalp and cut what sticks above your fingers. I cut my roommate’s hair in college. And I fixed my friend’s hair after this lady at Lilypad gave him a Carol Brady haircut,”
“Well, that’s what I want! I don’t want a ‘haircut’ haircut.”
“Well, I can definitely do that!”
“Deal?” he said, raising his highball of gin and tonic, lime on the edge of the glass, next to a skinny red straw.
“Deal,” I toasted back with a wink, my insides bouncing with excitement. At this point, I noticed TT off in the distance, and tossed my head back in a laugh, and made sure to nod forward while laughing, covering my face with my hair.
And now, back to the commentary:
I nailed it. The George Washington shape is now a close crop. Thank you, Duane Reade brand hair cutting scissors! A stop off at Russ Pizza for a slice. G to Bergen Street, where I was finally made privy to Boat Bar. Rentrée chez lui.**
The muscles are nice! Who’d have pegged me to peg a gym-goer. Cash’s influence. Then the deed. I think it’s one of those that needs a time or two to develop.
Krissie, Sophi? Are you there? I’ll be expecting your commentary and suggested direction tonight.
**Translation: Go back to his house.
9/7/06 9:47 a.m.
. . . Cost carding away when my office line rings.
“This is Charli,” I answer, cradling the phone between my head and shoulder.
“Charls. What… What. Are you doing this afternoon?” Cash asks distractedly. I look to my right, through the gaps in the heavy formica overhead bins that hover above all of our desks. I can see that he is at his desk in the next row.
“Um, working? On cost cards?”
“No, no, no, do you have any meetings?”
“No….”
“Great! Meet me in the lobby at 1:00. We have to spend the afternoon doing research.”
“Wha-?”
“Ah-ah-ahhhh, Charli! It’s mandatory. Ranch Senior’s orders.”
“Ok.”
10:23 p.m. ~ continuing from home! ~
Well, the afternoon “research” took an unexpected turn!
I am just arriving back to the cozy parquet floor of my Meserole Ave bedroom, and I am feeling, as Ms. Sher would say, pret-ty jazzy.
It could have something to do with the clear joint Cash sent me home with !
Uh-huh! My boss knows the impresario behind clear rolling papers! And that is just one of the discoveries I made this afternoon…. Which began on 46th Street, between 5th and 6th Aves.
“Charli, close the door behind you,” Cash says to me as I follow him into a tiny vestibule of a space within a commercial building. I have to stand within an inch of him to let the door close.
“This is called a mantrap. You have to let the door behind you close before you can open the next door. It’s for security.”
“K,” I nod, as a loud buzzer clicks open the next door. We walk into a nondescript work space, filled with standard issue industrial carpet and two heavy metal office desks circa the mid-1960s. There is a large safe behind one of the desks in a far corner.
“What’s up Sunil?” Cash says, giving a handsome gentleman with slicked back black hair the low-five slap/shake/grip and release.
“Cash, my man, how are you, my friend?” Sunil replies, grinning.
“I’m good! Sunil, this is Charli, who works with me at Simons.”
I shake Sunil’s hand and smile.
“Wonderful to meet you, dear.”
“Thanks!” I eke out.
“So, you’ve got the goods?” Cash says, taking a seat. I follow his lead and take the seat next to him, unsure what we are doing.
“Yes, my friend,” Sunil replies. He sits back in his vinyl office chair and swivels toward the safe. He turns the dial slightly, then shifts a large metal handle and opens the six inch thick door, taking out a white folded paper rectangle, about two inches by four inches. He places the rectangle on a white paper desk pad and gently opens each fold. Inside is a pile of shiny, inky black faceted stones, seemingly zillions of them, all slightly larger than a pea.
“Charli, have you ever seen a black diamond?”
“No,” I respond eagerly.
“Well, this is a parcel of eight millimeter round black diamonds.”
“Oh! They look cool.” Cash slides the parcel toward me.
“Check them out. These were custom cut for me in India. It’s very difficult to find a perfectly matched parcel of black diamonds because they’re not very popular commercially. People love the sparkle of white diamonds. Black diamonds are opaque, but they are very shiny and still glimmer.”
“Wow, cool,” I say, running my fingers through the stones, looking at their perfectly flat tops and pointed bottoms. They look like polished pieces of charcoal. I slide them around a bit and watch the fluorescent overhead lighting reflect off of them.
“Ok, Sunil, they look perfect, thanks so much,” Cash says, gently re-folding the paper and sliding it back.
“Excellent, my friend,” he says, taking a paper pad from a desk drawer. It’s a memo pad, with two ply paper, alternating white and yellow pages. He flips a few pages in and finds a page written out to Cash. Cash signs it and places the folded rectangle in his sport coat inner pocket. They repeat the low-five slap/shake/grip and release. The door buzzes and we turn to exit.
We pause momentarily in the mantrap.
“Ok, next we’re going to Apex. It’s across the hall,”
Directly in front of me I a see a hand written sign that says Apex Corp. with Chinese characters underneath it. Cash rings the bell. The door buzzes open, and he leans in. There is a bulletproof glass window with a metal tray at the bottom, like a strange bank teller window.
An Asian woman wearing a face mask appears at the window.
“Stones. For the crown,” he says.
She stares back at him blankly.
“Cash. Kaufman. Crown,” he says, pointing at the envelope. He takes a pen and draws a quick crown picture on it, “Black diamond.”
She nods earnestly, smiling with her eyes.
“Ok?” he asks.
She nods again earnestly, again smiling with her eyes.
“Ok! Thank you! Tell Qing I say hi!”
He closes the door and we head to the elevator.
“All right, Charls, next we’re taking a walk,” he says, pushing an elevator button that also looks like it was installed in the 1960s.
“Ok…,” I say, still confused.
“Make a left when we head out of the building.”
We turn left, then left again and traverse an open space in the middle of the 46th Street block, which connects 45th and 46th Streets.
“You know this shortcut?” Cash asks.
“Yeah, for sure, I eat lunch here sometimes with my friend Shea,” I say, as we pass hordes of midtown business people, women in skirt suits with pantyhose and the classic commuting business woman touch: white socks and white sneakers over the pantyhose. Men in khakis with dress shirts, never straying from a “safe” color palette of tan, beige, navy, and sage green. As we are within the 1:00 p.m. hour, this inviting outdoor lunch space, with tables, chairs and benches surrounding attractive red marble planters and fountains, is teeming with people. Every chair is taken, and people hover in loose groups of two to four, each party member searching with their eyes for a group that may be wrapping up their lunch to return to work.
“It’s good to know the cut throughs between 48th to 45th. It cuts down on time between visits. Do you mind walking down to Macy’s?”
“Nope, I walk all the time.”
“Good! Let’s hit it.”
We snake through the open space and walk over to Sixth Avenue, turning left and heading downtown, performing the New York City walking duo dance: we walk side by side when there is room. If there is not room, I drop behind Cash and he leads. In a few blocks we pass Bryant Park to our left, and I look longingly at hundreds of people spread out on the gleaming green grass in the bright sun, taking their lunch break.
“We’re gonna hit up Macy’s, and then we’ll get lunch, sound good?”
“Sure,” I reply.
In only a few moments we are crossing the entrance to Macy’s Herald Square, one of the country’s largest and most storied retailers. I still don’t know quite exactly why we are here, but it’s a beautiful day, and I have escaped my desk. I don’t mind Cash, most of the time. When we first started working together, he tried to bond with me over us both being from Michigan. But… the first project I had to help him with was creating a championship ring for the professional sports team his father owns, so I have always known that we don’t come from exactly the same world.
“Ok, Charli, we are going to cruise the jewelry department and then check out the men’s jewelry department,” Cash says leading me toward a stairway to a mezzanine. Passing case after case, interior lights gleaming, I look at rows and rows of twirls of white gold on chains, holding tiny diamonds and sapphires.
“What do you think, Charli?” Cash asks me.
“Um, of the jewelry?”
“Yeah. What do you think?”
“Umm…. it’s pretty uninteresting… I don’t want any of it,” I say, daring to give my honest opinion.
“Haha. I love that genuine attitude, Charli. Never change that. Now, I agree, but what you have to understand is that this stuff sells. Macy’s is a good account.”
“Um, why?”
“Because it’s the only fine jewelry out there. And once we visit men’s I’m fairly confident that we will see that there is absolutely nothing like Simons out in the market.”
“Well, I’d agree with that,” I concur. We mount a rickety wooden escalator and go up to Floor 3. Turning around we ascend another escalator and exit on Floor 4, passing through an evening gown department.
“Do you need a gown, Charli? Any balls coming up?” Cash asks playfully, opening his hands with a flourish of presentation at the neckline of a red rhinestone-encrusted floor length evening gown. I giggle.
“When you pass this elevator bank, you’re crossing into a separate building that Macy’s had joined together. Did you know that, Charls?”
Buried among rows and rows of men’s clothing is a lonely jewelry counter, approximately one two hundredth the size of the women’s jewelry department. A few bland crosses on rubber cords mix with some stainless steel wedding bands.
“Exactly what I thought,” Cash beams. “There is nothing like what we are doing on the market. In fact, there’s basically nothing at all! Time for lunch, Charli! You like French food?”
“Ouiiii,” I demur.
“Enchantéeeeeee, Charli! Let’s go grab a cab.”
In only a few moments, we have taxied our way to 44th Street and Ninth Avenues. Cash leads me into Marseille Restaurant, and we greet the maitre d’.
“Can we have a space at the banquette? And we may have one more joining us, sir?”
“Bien sur, monsieur, right this way.”
We nestle into a corner booth. Cash orders sparkling water for the table. “Charli, get whatever you want. This is on me,” he says distractedly. “Dali will be here in a few minutes. After lunch, you can come by my apartment, where I have to give you something.”
“Pretty good day, huh, Charli?” Cash grins at me, and leans his glass of San Pellegrino toward me. I clink him back with slight uncertainty.
“I feel like we didn’t do anything,” I say.
“Charli, Charli, Charli, ha ha ha. Weeeee sourced raw materials, we completed multiple steps of production on a one-of-a-kind piece, we made manufacturer introductions, and we did competitive research! You went to school for fashion! You should be recognizing this stuff and using it to your advantage. I just showed you the ropes today. That’s how this business is! Not bad, right?”
“I guess not…?” I say.
In a flutter of shopping bags, skinny high waisted denim, woven cotton, and silk scarves, Dali arrives, removing a voluminous white straw hat and fanning herself with it.
“Ugh, Cash, I’m sweating,” she says, “Did you order us the burger?”
“Sure did,” he says, as Dali slides in next to him and they give a lip air kiss. “You look great, my love. And of course, you remember Charli?”
“Yep, hi,” she says, effortlessly re-positioning the silk Hermés scarf that had been lining her hat, tying it around her hair line, and drawing her flaxen locks into a perfect high ponytail.
“Charli and I had a busy afternoon on the street, and now we’re here… She’s going to come by afterward. I have to give her something,” he says with a wink.
“Excellent,” she says.
I have mentioned on this blog before that Dali is a Kate Moss type. In New York, this type of comparison is a reality. Models actually live here and roam the streets, restaurants and shops. People who are as attractive and fit as models, but maybe not tall enough to be booked for the runway, also congregate in New York. Dali falls into the second category, as beautiful and thin as an actively working model, but petite. Her presence is actually even more envy inspiring than being in the presence of a model.
Cash’s burger and fries and my Salade Niçoise arrive.
“Quelquechose pour la mademoiselle?”
“Pellegrino with lime, please?” she asks politely, “And another set of utensils. We’re going to share the burger.”
This chick eats burgers and fries? Really? Really? That will be a sight to see. So these petite wisps of model-lites walk around looking effortlessly Indiana Jones-esque fabulous and they chow down on burgers and fries? I must have been born to the wrong gene pool.
“Dali, darling, how about we go for one beer at Rudy’s, then we’ll go back to our place with Charli, hang a little, then we’ll hit the gym?”
“Sure, Cash. Fine,” she says taking one french fry and slowly nibbling it.
“Good for you, Charli?”
“Who’s Rudy?”
They erupt into giggles.
“You haven’t spent much time in Hell’s Kitchen, have you?”
“Ohhhh, Charli, we’re going to show you a time. Has today been a great day, or what? So what!”
“So what!” Dali shrugs, cutting herself a sliver of the burger, approximately one eighth of the delivered portion.
“So what,” Cash grins contentedly. “So what, Charli?”
“So what!” I shrug back cheerfully, catching on to the game.
Our server glides to the table, at the ready.
“Monsieur, we’ll take the check. So what?” Cash shrugs nonchalantly and does a casual toss of his green Amex card. The server catches it expertly.
“You ready, Charli?” Luckily, I had just about finished my salad, as Cash began to whisk us off to the next destination. “You two make sure we have everything, and I’ll sign the check.”
I collect Cash’s blazer and my bag, and Dali collects all of her shopping bags.
“Can you hold this?” she asks, handing me a white shopping bag with a gradient neon rainbow triangle on it.
“Sure,” I say, taking the bag, peeking inside, seeing an exciting mix of neon printed spandex stuffed inside. “Are these new samples?”
“Yeah…. I’m working on a bunch of prints for Tara right now….,” she says, gently placing her white straw hat into an Opening Ceremony shopping bag.
“That’s awesome, I wish I got to do stuff like that at work…” I say, as we head out.
“Ha ha, yeah, well, I’m always working… Tara never stops.”
“Well, I think I saw that there was a little blurb about Triangle in WWD?”
“Yes, it came out today. Triangle by Tara Kaufman Takes Tahiti. Cash didn’t get to go with me because he was in The Hamptons with the Ranches. We got a write up on shooting Gisele for our swim lookbook. We’ve been inundated with calls from buyers….” she rattles off as we step outside onto Ninth Avenue, while Cash holds the door for us.
“We’re going across the street, Charli,” Cash says, nodding westward. I look and see a red neon sign that says Rudy’s Bar and Grill, with a grinning pink pig next to the door.
“So vhat!” I reply, channeling Ms. Sher, and we all grin.
Rudy’s turned out to be a classic dive bar, in the vein of a proper midwest dive. Red vinyl bar stools and booths are held repaired with red duct tape. It’s dark and dim, the lighting coming from faux Tiffany-style hanging lamps.
Filing in, Cash takes charge, and orders a pitcher of Rudy’s Blonde.
“This place is known for their free hot dogs,” he says. “Like it, Charli?”
“Yeah, it’s awesome. I feel like I’m in the Midwest.”
“Oh yeah, where are you from, Charli?” Dali asks.
“Ann Arbor,”
“Ohhhhh right.”
“Dali’s from Buffalo. She and my cousin grew up there. They were always too cool for school when we were teenagers; they thought I was a dirty hippie.”
“Ugh, he was a dirty hippie. His dreads smelled like patchouli.”
“Cash had dreads?”
“I did! So what! This place has free popcorn too. I’m gonna go get some. Anybody want a hot dog?”
“How can you eat so much?” Dali wondered in response.
“I go to the gym!” at this point, Cash unbuttons his white dress shirt and rolls up his sleeves.
“Soon he’s gonna start flexing for you,” Dali predicts, rolling her eyes. “He’s so vain. You should see us at the gym together. I sweat my ass off on the treadmill, and he just lifts for hours, staring at himself in mirror…”
“Haha, really?”
“Yes, it’s part of our Thursday routine. So what happened with you and Lester? You two went to Philadelphia together?”
“Cash told you about that? And no, we didn’t go to Philadelphia together. I happened to be there at the same time as him, and some people I know throw this long running dance party… So he met me and some girlfriends there. We had a blast!”
“But you can’t go out with him. He’s squatting in a basement.”
“Oh, I don’t consider him a prospect… We’re just pals. I love his cute tennis style, though.”
“If you say so… So are you seeing anyone?”
“Eh… not really… I’m kind of talking to one writer guy….”
“What kind of guys do you like?”
“Admittedly? Usually musicians…. But this writer is kind of a new type for me.”
“Girl, no. Never date a musician. Not in New York. They will suck you dry. And not in the way you want. Well, in the way you want. But also your bank account.”
“Big talk for someone who doesn’t pay rent,” Cash admonishes, sliding in at the bar.
“I pay all the utilities and the gym memberships! And I buy the groceries!”
Cash points at me. “So what,” I say with a wink.
“Ok, ok, is everybody done? I’m dying to get out of these jeans. Finish my beer, Cash.” One fry, a sliver of a burger, and less than a half pint of beer. Very filling.
Cash lays a ten and a five on the bar and offers our remaining one third pitcher of beer to the people next to us, and off we go, up Ninth Avenue to 46th Street. We enter an unassuming apartment door next to a bodega and proceed to walk up four flights of stairs. Cash unlocks four deadbolts and we walk into a small Manhattan one bedroom apartment at the rear of the building. We are immediately immersed in a small living room with a black leather couch against the white wall next to the door. A glass coffee table takes up significant real estate between a large stereo system on an entertainment shelving unit and the couch. Large wooden speakers with black mesh interiors rest on top. Near the floor is a shelf containing a four foot length of LPs. Past the entertainment center to the left, through a set of French doors, I see a tiny bedroom, with a mattress taking up most of the floor. Two rolling racks of clothing take up the length of a wall, and shelves of clothing rise all the way up to the ceiling. Beyond the entertainment center to the right is a tiny kitchen.
“Not too shabby, huh?” Cash says, picking up a cigar box from the coffee table.
“It’s so normal!” I respond.
“Haha, where did you think I lived, Charli?”
“I dunno, you’re so fancy and always jet setting around. I pictured you in a fancier apartment.”
“Well, I’d love a nicer place someday, but I’ve been here since I moved to New York in ‘98. This place is a steal.”
“Oh yeah, how much do you pay?” I dare to ask.
“Sixteen-fifty! Can you believe it?”
“Well…. We pay sixteen hundred for our two bedroom,” I respond, smugly. I can’t believe Cash pays more than double what I pay.
“You see Cash?? We have to move to Brooklyn!” Dali yells from the bedroom. “Tara’s already there! Her place is huge!”
“Isn’t your two bedroom a railroad?,” Cash asks, sinking into the couch. “Now Charli, I brought you here today because my good friend Noah Silverberg has started a clear rolling paper business based out of Florida. I am part of his street team, giving samples of the goods to the New York market! Sit down, Charli, I’m going to roll you a clear joint to take home. Since you are in Greenpoint, you qualify as part of the early adopter test market. Tell all your hipster friends about the clear papers!”
“Um, ok….” I respond, and at this point, I no longer know how this seemingly normal day turned into a tour of Hell’s Kitchen.
“What do you think of the set up?” Cash asks me, gesturing toward the stereo.
“I didn’t know you collect records! I do too! And those speakers look awesome!”
“I know you collect records, Charls. Those are Klipsch speakers. Dali’s dad is an audiophile. He gave them to us.”
“Awesome… I need a new receiver… “
“I can help you find one. Ebay! We’ll look tomorrow at work.”
“Charli! Do you want some clothes?” Dali yells, her voice muffled by all of the fabric in the bedroom.
“Sure!” She beckons me from the bedroom.
“These are all vintage blouses. They all look like you. Sexy librarian chic. Take them. I have no room. Find a way to get that writer to your house and seduce him.”
Cash approaches the French doors in a blue tank top with Gold’s Gym emblazoned on it in yellow. I have never seen him not wearing a button down shirt before. His arms are massive and muscular.
“Dali, where are my sweat shorts? Are you ready? Charli, here’s your clear joint! Now hit the road, we’re going to the gym.”
Dali packs the blouses for me in a tote bag, and Cash gently wraps the clear joint around and around in two sandwich bags. I collect my things and walk out to Ninth Avenue, pausing for a moment to think of which train to take back to Greenpoint. I look down at my phone. 7:30 p.m. When I get home, it will be the perfect time to transcribe this rabbit hole of a day and offer to cut Le Bloggeur’s hair chez moi….
9/5/06 2:14 p.m.
In other grown topics, Shea and I discovered whilst lunching that we are on the same pay schedule, so we are now going to get lunch again on Friday, September 15th! I love having my lunch buddy back!
And today, in a clever move, I left for lunch at 12:50 p.m., in order to secure a table at Monster Sushi and give Shea enough time to get back to work. Arriving back at 1:50, I now have about 24-40 minutes of time to transcribe our lunch date, while those from Blargon 7 trickle back in:
“SUP Charli,” Shea taunts, sticking out his tongue and sliding into a blond wooden captain’s chair, upholstered in orange vinyl.
“Nothin’….” I smile, sipping my Diet Coke with lemon wedge through a straw.
“Did you order me the lunch special?”
“I sure did,” I say, “She said miso soup is coming right out.”
“Excellent!” he grins, “so how was your long weekend?”
“Ha ha ha, it was good! I got spirited away. But not to any hotties’ bedrooms… What about you?”
“I almost had a threesome, but–” the miso soup arrives and Shea takes the bowl with two hands and drinks the whole thing, steaming hot, “Mmmmm,” he slurps down the silken tofu and seaweed, “But, it fell through and I just wound up hooking up with one chick,” he says, tightening his short, stubby ponytail.
“Well, I lost my prospect to …. Some others….,” I say, catching myself.
“Who, that dude from that band? What are they called, Sturn?”
“Hull,” I say.
“I heard that band sucks,” he utters, biting into three edamames at a time, sometimes eating the shell.
“I dunno, I haven’t heard them. They are supposed to be playing somewhere in a basement near Other Music with some friends of mine soon,” I shrug.
“I thought you were dating a boring blogger,” he says, mixing all of the wasabi into a little black dish of soy sauce.
“I don’t think we are dating… I haven’t seen him in weeks, and I spent two nights at his house fully clothed, and all I heard from him last week was that he has to do laundry and needs a haircut…”
“Damn, Charli, dry spell! All the boring dudes are boring up your bedroom! But I heard you went home with Whitey!”
“Who told you that?” I demand, as our sushi rolls arrive on a raised rectangular wooden platform.
Shea uses chopsticks to toss a piece of spicy tuna roll into his mouth. “Mike Industrial was on a tear about it all weekend,” he says, eating another roll, “He wouldn’t stop sobbing about it.”
“Sobbing?”
“You know how he is. He’s emo. He dedicated his weekend to a ‘best friend’s betrayal’ and got extra fucked up.”
“But nothing even happened! Whitey gave me a ride home and literally tipped his hat to me and kissed my hand.”
“Yeah, right, Charli, come on…”
“It’s the truth. And Mike and Whitey need to get honest with each other. I’m not going to be in the middle of their stupid drama because they are so close that they enjoy torturing each other,”
“Well, people saw you stumble off from Daddy’s with Whitey.”
“Well…. He gave me a ride home.”
“What kinda ride??” Shea downs the wasabi and soy sauce mixture as if it were a shot. Three seconds pass and his face reddens quickly. “Eeeeeeuuuuuuuggggccccchhhhh!!” staggers out of his mouth, as his face contorts and eyes water over the wasabi’s sting.
“A polite ride home in a shitty van. Nothing happened, and it’s none of anyone’s business, you freak,” I say, plunking down $21.32 cash and gathering my bag. “I have to go back to work.”
“See you later, Charliiiiii, maybe for a JOY ride, heh heh heh,” Shea snickers, “Mike’s coming by if you wanna hop on.”
I flip Shea the bird and put on my giant sunglasses, serpentining my way out of Monster Sushi, east on 46th Street, then left to go up Fifth Avenue. I take another left on 48th Street and then swipe my ID over the turnstile, cruising up 28 floors in the elevator alone.
‘A haircut….,’ I think to myself …
9/4/06 4:32 p.m.
Ha ha ha ha, whoa, I sure did get spirited away….
LOL!
WOW.
My last post was written in the ~ ~ blueberry haze ~ ~.
I’ve been easing into the day and thinking about how lucky I am.
(Um, except in “the sack”.)
I guess I never really realized what dating was like. Back in Michigan, everybody knows everybody. If you go out with someone more than once, he/she is your boyfriend/girlfriend. If I were in Michigan, I would have thought that Jake and I were maybe ‘talking’, to parse school day relationship classification. But Jake was also talking to Sophi. And then Krissie started talking to him! There is no claim!
I think back to harsh times of yore, ye olde Philly college era and shudder. If I even laid eyes on a fellow who had been laid claim to by certain other personalities, my ass was grass.
In this case, my two girl friends, whom I adore (and who may be reading this) and I all had eyes on the same guy. And he had eyes for us. All of us. In this case, I feel we all had a fair shot, and someone made a move. Well. Two people made moves. But one out of the three girls made a move. And one gal brought it home. 😉
I am just very glad to not have to live in fear that I may be beaten up because a flirtatious fella and I shared a wink in the presence of a paramour.
All I gotta say is… I woke up from my blueberry-b.-induced NAP, hearing Krissie and Jake rail away as I gently closed the painted red candy store door behind me. I rode my BMX home at dawn in my same electric blue lace tank and sandals, thinking that I am just glad Sophi and will be able to laugh about this together…
—————->>>>> Is this growing up?
9/4/06 6:57 a.m.
Yin and yang.
There is true beauty in this life.
Labor Day, a holiday.
Yesterday, a welcome return to the backyard of Krissie, Mercedes and Sophi. Sophi turned 25, and we gathered to celebrate. Lights twinkled everywhere, a subtle glow lighting the dining area, a 1950s chrome and Formica table laid with lentil and golden beet salad, goat cheese tartlets and strawberry shortcake with lemon zest. The melon-peach colored walls created a golden warmth which cast everyone in a festive, moody light.
Blake and I twirled into the glow and kissed hellos, accepting paper cups of prosecco and sampling the hors d’oeuvres. Through the door, down four cement steps, the backyard glowed intermittently. A picnic table set with two subtly elegant single candelabra lit up a group of mid-twenties darked haired fellows, mysterious and brooding types. The yard continued back further into a walled off triangular shape, a dark zone of cinder block and large trees. A bench set with Catholic prayer candles and a fringed tapestry brightened its dreary point and gave the yard an air of expansiveness. Looking to the left, from the top of the stairs, a stark white rectangle painted onto an expanse of black cinder block showed Spirited Away from a projector propped on a sawhorse. A grill and table, manned by joyous Donnie in a mesh tank top and Jams, sat below a slender window to the kitchen above, a spider plant in a macrame holder in view.
Linking arms and twirling more, Blake and I perused where to perch, choosing a friendly gray bench, angled between the table and film screening area.
“I’m SO glad you decided to start carrying joints in your purse, Blake,” I mused, pulling a Parliament out of my 1980s woven leather purse.
“Yeah….” she grinned, flicking open the metal beads of her 1970s burgundy leather clamshell shoulder bag, pulling out a slender, white ‘marijuana cigarette’, one end twisted into microscopy. “I have three left from what I took from my parents.”
“Sweeeeet…” I say, and before I arrive to enunciating the “T” sound, a force slides up right next to me on the bench.
“Sweeeeeeeeettttt,” he echoes, placing an arm over my shoulder and waving a brown tobacco colored cylinder under my nose.
“What’s up, Charli?”
I turn to my right, knowing the voice. “Heyyyyy… Jake….,” I trail, “We were just checking our stash for later,” I toss off with a giggle.
“Hehehe,” he giggles back, flashing a grin.
I vibrate inside. Those charming seductive eyes, reaching my insides. I take a deep breath in, thinking about the wind blowing through my hair and my electric blue lace tank top on the bike ride over, Blake following behind. We had taken a few puffs of a J before compiling our handbags and supplies for the night.
“You girls like to smoke?”
“I do!” I announce, feeling blissed out to the point of abandon, my eyes catching No-Face hovering on the wall to my right.
“All right, cool, Charli, I’m gonna find you later and give you a treat,” Jake winks, and I try to suppress my excitement, thinking about Sophi’s and my conversation…. and her description of Jake as ‘slippery’.
“All right, all right, all right,” I say, wondering if he will catch the slight Wooderson reference.
The celebration continues to swell and glow, flames lighting other flames, tiny embers of activity filling the corners.
Sophi sinks a white handled cake knife expertly, long dark waves crashing over her shoulders and scooped neck dress, as she swiftly hands out plates of golden cake, tumbled with white cream and fresh strawberries. She is surrounded by arms and hands, birthday candle smoke dissipating while table candles and lighters flicker, glasses clinking all around.
I see Krissie break off a perfect bite of cake, whipped cream and strawberry and drop it into her mouth with her thumb and forefinger, backing up into Jake.
“Can I get a bite?” He says, as she turns around in surprise.
“Yes, you certainly can…” she demurs, breaking off another perfect bite, lifting it towards Jake’s soulful pleading eyes and expertly dropping it in his mouth. I watch her slowly caress his mouth as she pulls her hand away. Simultaneously he grabs the curve of her waist and pulls her toward him. They stumble off toward the point.
I turn to head toward my trusty bench.
“Charli?” A presence taps my heart tattoo softly.
My head turns slowly to the left and I see a pair of dark almond eyes and shiny black hair smiling at me. “Otsu? Remember?”
“Yes, of course!”
“Jake wanted me to give you something,” he says, winking as he waves the tobacco brown cylinder under my nose again. “It’s a blueberry blunt!”
We sit on the bench, Otsu and I, taking puffs.
“Coooooolll,” I exhale, coughing, starting to laugh uncontrollably, “Sounds delicious!”
I sit for a moment, focusing on the energy of the yard, taking it in, looking at Spirited Away, thinking of Krissie pulling puppet strings, attempting to place both me and Sophi with Jake and Mercedes with Otsu and now Otsu sidling up to me. I look over to the point of the yard and see furtive movements and hear soft tickle-giggle screams in the candlelight and grass.
‘Who am I to stand in the way of amour?’ I think to myself and walk over to Sophi and Mercedes…. Third dame’s a charm!
8/25/06 4:45 p.m.
All quiet on the western front. Nothing but the sound of credit card bills blowing in the breeze ‘round these parts. Bank accounts are rapidly draining. For the likes of Greenpoint denizens Blake and Charli, they have been surviving on tomato soup and Three Buck Chuck, spending their weekends riding the subway to Beach 90, a stretch of Rockaway Beach so blighted that no business would dare set up shop. Broker’s Beach, Oceanside haven for New Yorkers in the know.
deux mille six 