Refilling the Glass
Last weekend I was running late for a Passover dinner at my cousin’s apartment in Harlem. Lately I’ve had the satisfying feeling that wheels are turning in my “career” and “life” arenas— like a new pencil mark has been made on a growth chart in an unused closet. It’s probably a result of the season, as much as thoughts I’ve had trying to map out the next few years.
However, last Saturday afternoon I was not experiencing the warmth of optimism. I was running late because I left my wallet at the Brooklyn Inn the night before during a night-cap pool game, and then lost 30 minutes looking for it in my apartment. I guess the "Inn" is as close to a living-room establishment as I’ll find and so I was extremely lucky that my money and plastic were all intact. I then clip-clopped over to the F train picking up two bundles of deli gerbera daisies on the way and stood, waiting for the train, taking several breaths.
As I rebalanced my bags, flowers, and book a G train pulled up and I made eye contact with a couple sitting in the window directly in front of me. I stood, still breathing and as the door closed and the train starting pulling away, the girlfriend offered me her middle finger and mouthed “Fuck you, fuck you.” I blankly followed her motions, turning my head to watch the couple and the train edging away.
The scene was like something out of a bad romantic comedy set in crazy New York City. Yet, had I been in even a slightly more pessimistic mood, I might have felt the urge to cry. Perhaps after living in Brooklyn for nearly four years I should be immune to such bizarre insults. It did feel more random than direct, but I kept thinking about the “communication” on my hour long subway ride and I felt a little poisoned by it.
At the other end, still fuming a bit, I buzzed my cousin’s apartment building and a man shouted out “Hey Barbie, are those flowers for me?” For whatever reason the randomness of that communication shook me out of my mood. I arrived to the dinner party welcomed by a room full of the warmth of friends, who feel closer to family. And the most beautiful food, and conversation— I was able to refill my glass.
However, last Saturday afternoon I was not experiencing the warmth of optimism. I was running late because I left my wallet at the Brooklyn Inn the night before during a night-cap pool game, and then lost 30 minutes looking for it in my apartment. I guess the "Inn" is as close to a living-room establishment as I’ll find and so I was extremely lucky that my money and plastic were all intact. I then clip-clopped over to the F train picking up two bundles of deli gerbera daisies on the way and stood, waiting for the train, taking several breaths.
As I rebalanced my bags, flowers, and book a G train pulled up and I made eye contact with a couple sitting in the window directly in front of me. I stood, still breathing and as the door closed and the train starting pulling away, the girlfriend offered me her middle finger and mouthed “Fuck you, fuck you.” I blankly followed her motions, turning my head to watch the couple and the train edging away.
The scene was like something out of a bad romantic comedy set in crazy New York City. Yet, had I been in even a slightly more pessimistic mood, I might have felt the urge to cry. Perhaps after living in Brooklyn for nearly four years I should be immune to such bizarre insults. It did feel more random than direct, but I kept thinking about the “communication” on my hour long subway ride and I felt a little poisoned by it.
At the other end, still fuming a bit, I buzzed my cousin’s apartment building and a man shouted out “Hey Barbie, are those flowers for me?” For whatever reason the randomness of that communication shook me out of my mood. I arrived to the dinner party welcomed by a room full of the warmth of friends, who feel closer to family. And the most beautiful food, and conversation— I was able to refill my glass.
posted by Rebecca at 8:54 AM
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