It doesn't matter if it's the girl in the heels entering a scary house, or the teenage couple fucking in a car on a deserted street, or the Scooby Gang deciding to split up - you just know it's a bad idea.
Well, I'm not as big on movies as I'd like, but I remember very well that feeling of "Whoa, what the fuck are you doing?!" I remember it almost as well as I remember watching certain movies - Momento comes to mind - and thinking to myself, "What if that was me? How would that feel? What if I seriously didn't realize what was going on?"
Maybe it's my innate creativity (or my hustler prowess?) that forces me to empathize with people, but I've always prided myself on being able to figure people out. I've always been good at seeing all the dimensions of a person and being able to cater to as many of them as the occasion calls for. It's not far-fetched of me to consider the possibility of being schizophrenic or clinically depressed. It's not a big leap to see how much I have in common with the homeless geriatric war vet on the corner.
*****
My brother bought me the tools I needed to alter a dress, so a few days ago I went to Queens to pick up the stuff. I have to take the 2 train to the shuttle to the C train to the A train in order to get to my folks' place, and before I reached the shuttle, I couldn't help but notice a middle-aged, white, balding, man. He was dressed in pressed jeans that were pulled up to his waist, and he wore a matching stone-washed denim jacket. There was a braided brown leather belt holding his pants to his gut, and a red plaid button-down shirt underneath his unbuttoned jacket. On his face were glasses, and on his right hand was a gold wedding band.
I remember looking him over and deciding that he was probably in town for his first gay rendezvous. There was a distinct aura of "foreigner" about him, as if he, too, did not fully comprehend what he was about. He carried two large pieces of luggage and was probably on his way to JFK airport to go back to his wife and kids.
I watched as this man took the shuttle to the C to the A. I watched as the woman sitting next to me pointed out which train he should take to the airport. I saw the man get out of the A train at Rockaway Boulevard.
Everything made sense.
I went to my folks' place, had lunch with my mom and brother, played with my dog. I picked up a crapload of clothes and headed back to the train station. I'd spent maybe three hours at my folks' place, and I had to hurry to Brooklyn so that I could take a shower before going to work.
I remember missing the train by a fraction of a second; if I'd have quickened my pace by the most minute of speeds, I would've made it in time. But, instead, I stood on the train platform and waited for the next train, and boarded it when the opportunity arrived. I took a seat by the window and stared out into the neighborhood that used to be my own. When I reached Rockaway Boulevard, I noticed a teenage girl: very pale, with bleached blond hair and wearing all black. Her big, baggy jeans reminded me of Jnco Jeans; they were all the rage when I was in junior high school, and coming back to Queens always makes me nostalgic. Her top was tight, making her lithe frame all the more noticeable. The black bandana on her head made it unclear whether she was designating herself as a goth kid or a wanna-be gangsta.
I watched this girl from across the platform. She sat on one of those large, metal, beige-painted boxes in which are housed the train station's cleaning materials. She was looking down at her hands, and thinking about something very intently. I imagined that she was thinking about something very important: the state of the world, her future, how hard it is to live. I projected onto her things that I know far too well: drama, chaos, hardships, responsibilities, adulthood. I felt that in making her like me, I would be less alone. But of course, none of this I knew at the time.
I was just thinking and letting my mind wander, and holding her in my gaze as my train left the station. It was not until now, as I'm sitting here, in a house that is not mine, in a room that is not mine, that I realize all of this probably led up to my thoughts.
But, anyway, those were my thoughts as my train left the station, and I saw this girl - young, impressionable, finding her way - on the opposite platform, heading to a place I'd just come from. I felt like I was leaving her behind to fend for herself.
*****
My thoughts were jumbled and cloudy as I made the trek back to Brooklyn. These days, that is not unusual, and I attribute that fact to my lack of sleep and nutrients. I joke with my friends that I'm on the "too broke to eat more than once a day diet." The truth is, my appetite is diminished. Even at weddings and baby showers and parties, when there is a large, lavish spread of food, I am unable to eat. Delicacies and choice cuts of meat are piled high around me, and people are prodding me to eat! eat! eat!, and I can't bring myself to fill my stomach. I think, "What's the use? I'll only have to refill it again."
On my shoulder was a large duffel bag filled with clothes, jewelry, hair clips. There was a bag of weed in it, too - something that I'd bought right before leaving my folks' place - and I walked to the end of the platform to keep away from a cop. It was nearly deserted on the far end of the platform, and I busied myself with thoughts of things I have to do. I made mental checklists and crossed things out one by one.
When the shuttle arrived, I found a seat by the conductor's booth, and when I looked up, there was the white man with the two suitcases and a gold wedding band on his right hand. To my left was the teenage girl dressed all in black.
I kept on staring at them. I wanted to ask the white man, "Didn't I see you on the train earlier?" I wanted to ask the teenage girl, "How is it possible that you're on the same train as me when I know I saw you on the opposite side of the platform, heading to Queens?" But I was too scared to open my mouth. At that point, I'd already begun to doubt myself, and this was brand-new to me. It's one thing to doubt my decisions, but to doubt my senses? To not be able to trust what I see?
It was all too much.
I got back home, showered, and readied myself for work. That night, there were no clients. Rob's favorite uncle passed away. I felt alone and adrift, with no one to understand or help me.
*****
The next morning, I watched as Rob opened the door to the basement and disappeared down the stairs. From my vantage point, I saw his head bobbing as he drunkenly stepped. I went downstairs to make sure that he'd be okay, that he wouldn't bump his head on the low ceiling or fall on the awkwardly-placed steps. But the basement was empty. He hadn't walked down the stairs.
I intellectualized the events, figured that I'd projected onto Rob my desire to have him do laundry in the basement. Then I found him in his cousin's bedroom. I called his name and he came to me, and even though he held me and smiled at me, I felt as if he were clutching air. When he walked away, I saw him enter the bathroom, turn on the light and close the door so that it was partially ajar. I could see the light spilling out of the doorway. I could see his image in the bathroom mirror. I called out to him and when he didn't come out, I went into the bathroom - and it was empty.
Almost frantic, I called to him again and again, and finally he re-emerged from his cousin's bedroom, which is directly opposite from the bathroom. I told him that I could've sworn he went into the bathroom, and he just laughed.
*****
Always, after something like this happens, I feel like there's been a disruption in the space-time continuum. It's like my life was paused and something was changed, and when play was hit again, I could feel the shift but not explain it. It's like those moments in the movies when you know that something is wrong or that something will happen or that the director will play with your head - but you're not really sure why it's affecting you so much. You can't really tell why you care that the couple in the car will be killed or the Scooby Gang will see a ghost. You just know that something unusual, extraordinary, and strange will occur, and that this person, these people, this moment will have to face a reality that you could never even fathom.
No matter how much discipline or preparation or life experience I have, there is something I'm not ready for. And it's out there, waiting, plotting, scheming. It's making me feel paranoid, it's making me feel on-edge, it's making me doubt myself. And it's my job to beat it.
4 comments:
how much of that weed did u partake in?lol
That's some weird shit for real
Wow. Great post. It's kind of scaring me. But it was an amazing post. *Breathes*
D - I haven't smoked up in sooo long. Seriously. Like, maybe 2 weeks.
I met a woman, my Would-Be Future Tense, and when I told her this story, she looked me straight in the eye and said, "Does your family have a history of psychosis?"
I said no, but there are a few bi-polar people on my dad's side.
She nodded, and I said, "I think I had a break with reality. I think I went a little crazy."
"Yeah," she said. "You did. So what? Next."
Texti - Thanks for the compliment. I could almost feel it as I was typing out this post: "This is gonna be good." It was almost like I was being overtaken by a spirit; the story was just flooding out of me.
I feel like I've hit this critical juncture, where reality and writing meet and each intensifies the other. It's pretty crazy.
D - I haven't smoked up in sooo long. Seriously. Like, maybe 2 weeks.
I met a woman, my Would-Be Future Tense, and when I told her this story, she looked me straight in the eye and said, "Does your family have a history of psychosis?"
I said no, but there are a few bi-polar people on my dad's side.
She nodded, and I said, "I think I had a break with reality. I think I went a little crazy."
"Yeah," she said. "You did. So what? Next."
Texti - Thanks for the compliment. I could almost feel it as I was typing out this post: "This is gonna be good." It was almost like I was being overtaken by a spirit; the story was just flooding out of me.
I feel like I've hit this critical juncture, where reality and writing meet and each intensifies the other. It's pretty crazy.
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