Water Works

Surprise. More like a big fuck you. No water in your studio. No water in the building. No water in the entire fucking neighborhood.

You knock on your neighbor’s door for the first time. It’s a little past seven in the morning, but you can hear the T.V. through the walls. He’s up. Why you assume it’s a he, you don’t know. Your landlady said someone was moving into 5C right around the same time you were moving into the building. “Alex living in 5C”: Could go either way.

Well, "Alex living in 5C" is refusing to be sociable or neighborly for that matter. You knock again. Just in case, you give him a second chance to redeem himself. No answer. You bite your bottom lip and then venture downstairs to see if Dan the super is around.

It will turn out he’s not. But in the moment as you make your way down the stairs, you hear this awful noise echoing against the concrete walls, traveling upwards as you descend.

"DON’T YOU DARE CALL ME ANOTHER NAME."

It was the woman’s voice you heard all along. You couldn’t even hear the man before. Not until you walked right past 2A and picked up what sounded like a man’s voice; muffled, as if he was speaking with a sock in his mouth. She was crying. No, more like moaning. More like the whimper of a wounded wild animal.

Why that metaphor? Wild animal. As you push the glass door open and walk into the street, you think: “The hunter is sometimes weaker than the prey.”

At the Midnight Express next door, you order a bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar and bananas. They’re not serving coffee. This is when you find out that the entire block and not just your building is without running water. You realize you need to pee pretty badly.

The construction workers outside are making a raucous affair out of turning the water back on for a hot second. You watch the water, muddied with sediment, gushing from what appears to be a complex network of massive pipes underground.

The waitress behind the counter sucks the air through her teeth, muttering: “Brown water. This is going to stay brown for days.” You comment on the brown water to be friendly, and she responds with: “Makes me happy to be living in Brooklyn.” Then you explain to her how you just moved from Brooklyn—Williamsburg in fact—to the Upper East Side. You don’t know why you keep talking. The words just come out, and luckily she’s somewhat responsive.

“I’d drink bottled water for at least a week if I were you,” she advises. “And when you get home tonight, run the water. Just let it run for a good minute or two. You’ll have to. It’s going to be dirty for days.”

Later, as you make your way down into the train station to take the 6 to work, you toy with the idea of letting the water run all night. You imagine every tenant in the building doing the same. It would be analogous to performing some kind of surgical procedure on the building: Collective bloodletting if you will, one of those ancient medical practices that probably did more harm than good but felt necessary and somehow logical.

Opening the vein carefully to let the water out and then collecting the liquid in exquisitely wrought bowls of glass: Here is the first harsh word spoken aloud. Followed by the echo of an empty room. Then the name replaced with silence.

quarter life crisis

26'' flat screen t.v. w/ built-in dvd player and CABLE. 20 prepaid rentals at the video room. season 1 and 2 of Seinfeld. beer & cigarettes & annie's mac & cheese.

you want to be cool like that - curled up beside the fire escape, hugging your legs, staring first at the full moon and then the fluorescent-lit window display of the goodwill thrift shop across the street. you force yourself to THINK DEEP THOUGHTS...

when really, you'd prefer to have a Kramer barge into your teeny, new studio, pulling out two pieces of bread from the pockets of his bathrobe and asking, "you got any meat?" you'd make as if you're slightly irritated, then put the kettle on the stove.

he'll comment on your brilliant use of twinkle lights, and you'll tell him about your almost nervous breakdown three hours ago in the nearby food emporium. HOW AM I GOING TO SURVIVE W/OUT INSTANT CURRY??

you both shrug to the symphony of delivery trucks and gypsy cabs tearing down 2nd Ave, and cast amusing shadows on the walls.

RISE & SHINE ladybug!!! tomorrow's another night.

HOME: A SERIES OF DIALOGUES

I.
But are you afraid of flying?
No, it's not flying that I fear. It's crashing into the Atlantic Ocean.
I know what you mean. Once, I was flying alone and the plane had to make an emergency landing. I remember looking out the window and seeing nothing but blackness. I was scared like you. I thought: I'd rather crash and burn in a city full of lights, than go down in the middle of the Pacific and be swallowed immediately by all that cold, anonymous darkness.

II.
I can pack my entire life in two suitcases.
Ah, that's the way to do it.
I've moved sixteen times in the last four years. There's no need for furniture: Just some clothes, a few good books and my music.
You see, that's smart. I always act like I intend to stay longer than I do. I buy cheap furniture at Ikea that I assemble in the apartment. Then, when the time comes to move again, I find out that I can't take my armoire with me because it won't fit through the narrow space between my front door and the outer hall. It's a sign, no? All this unnecessary assembling and disassembling. Next time, I'll just stick with curtains.

III.
Why did you pack your curtains already? You have another six days in this apartment.
You think there's a method to this unnatural process? You're lucky I even packed a box.
Well I'm not sleeping with you in this room, so you can stop trying to unbutton my shirt. Your neighbors are watching.
Oh, I'm sure they've seen me naked at this point. I walk around in my underwear all the time--with or without curtains. And besides, I'm moving in six days.

IV.
Look at this room. Isn't it the saddest room in the world now?
It certainly isn't yours anymore.
The walls look so big and threatening now that they're bare. I can't stand to look at all that whiteness.
Don't look at the walls. Look at me. I'm still here.

V.
Is this what they mean by being young and carefree without a mortgage to pay off?

Soldier

["there's a girl in new york city,
who calls herself the human trampoline." -p.s.]


there now, don't look at yourself in the mirror. when you come straight out of the shower, it's always better to take things slow. for example: eye, nose, mouth...take each feature in separately, methodically, moving from one body part to the next without focusing on the whole picture--at least not just yet.

this is where we'll start to draw the line of the right eyebrow. with a steady hand, recreate that striking arch in the brow that all the women in your family have. pull the pencil across then down, ending at a sharp, clean point at the delicate temple.

then move on to the dark circles beneath the eyes that need to be concealed, the faint wrinkles only you can see, and those stubborn blackheads on the tip of your nose. ah, look at how the eyes open up immediately with two confident strokes of heavy black liner; the lashes coated in thick mascara.

now watch carefully, as the lips emerge from the fog in the bathroom mirror. your mouth is your most prized possession. you paint it dark and edible like a wounded cherry.

part the hair and pull it back into a tight chignon. a dab of perfume behind the ears, the neck and the two bone-thin wrists. perhaps you'll wear your mother's necklace.

voila, you've replicated her image exactly. the black and white portrait of the famous french writer on the cover of your book--you can't miss it. now, you can finally leave your room, this sad little apartment with all of its sad little objects like a cardboard dollhouse. you leave your playthings behind and take to the streets. you are a woman, after all--and this is a woman's face.

tomorrow, perhaps, you will have to move to a different apartment and change your address. it doesn't matter where you go, as long as you have this arsenal of soft, feminine objects to put on and take off as you please. you carry this face of hers with you the way a snail carries its home on its back.