You Are Here (5 page)

She walked out of the store while clutching the clear plastic bag in her left hand. “Hello there,” he removed his hands from his pockets, “I wouldn't normally do this,” and glanced at the watch on his left wrist, “but you look very familiar,” as if he'd been expecting her, “we've met before,” then studied her eyes for a reassuring sign, “Haven't we?” “No,” she shook her head, “I don't think so,” while trying to decide if she should walk around him, “and I would have remembered,” because she
hated
being accosted on the street, “if we had,” though he was very handsome. He stepped toward her, “Maybe out at Montauk last August?” inadvertently blocking her path. She gave him a charitable, “that isn't very likely,” yet dismissive smile. “I mean,” he looked fleetingly at her legs, “and this might sound weird, and I wouldn't want you to take it the wrong way, but you look a lot like a woman that I was once very close to,” and then eyed her mouth, “if you know what I mean.” “I think so,” she glanced at his left hand, “but, I was only out there once and that was years ago,” and missed the faint tan line on his ring finger. “You're certainly not the sort of woman that should be approached on the street,” sincerity coated his tone, “but, it was the only way I could speak to you.” She playfully suggested, “you could have asked me for directions.” The sleeves of his light green designer shirt were rolled up past his elbows, “that hardly seems plausible,” and exposed his muscular forearms, “and it isn't very original.” “It doesn't happen to me all that often anymore,” she stated before suggesting “but you could have asked me for the time.” “You aren't wearing a watch,” he conceded the obvious with a nod and extended his right hand, “I'm Alan.” She offered hers, “I'm Stephanie.” The firmness of his grip, “it's a pleasure,” on the softness of her palm, “So how would I get to Central Park from here?” She wasn't sure if he was serious, “hail a cab on the corner,” and quickly decided that he wasn't. He looked over her shoulder, “Which one?” She laughed, “on Broadway I guess,” while letting go of his hand. He cleared his throat, “Can I take you to lunch?” “I don't know,” she was daunted by his audacity, “and what sort of type,” yet admired his courage, “might I resemble the most?” The Puerto Rican reappeared wheeling four empty bottles along the sidewalk. “That's a difficult question.” Two nearly identical blondes wearing mirrored sunglasses walked by. “How so?” He slowly rubbed his hands together, “based upon my initial impression,” as if to warm them, “and your exquisite taste in footwear,” before thoughtfully adding, “I'd have to say for now that it isn't one type in particular but rather a composite.” Disco from the open windows of a passing car accompanied her question, “Do you have a shoe fetish Alan?” “I'm afraid that I do and
you
have beautiful legs, but, this is hardly the place to confess it.” “That's okay,” she smiled, “most men have a fetish or two.” The truck pulled away from the curb. “But my lack of a real definition clearly warrants a closer inspection.” She raised her eyebrows, “Over lunch?” “Exactly… are you interested?” She transferred the shopping bag from her left to right hand, “Yes I am,” then added, “although I need to be getting back to the office in about… what time is it?” He looked at his watch again, “it's a quarter past twelve.” She bit her lower lip, “in another forty-five minutes,” as they began walking toward the corner, “that doesn't give us very much time.” “We can make it Stephanie,” his forearm brushed her hip, “it's only a few blocks away.”

It was a quarter till ten as Stephanie and Karen walked along the sidewalk by McCarren Park. “So this little old lady buys a vase at the thrift store and takes it home.” An orange half-moon was visible between the patches of clouds. “And when she dusts it off a genie appears.” The leaves on the broad plane trees lining Bedford Avenue rustled in the humid breeze. “The genie thanks her for freeing him from the vase and then grants her three wishes.” The crowds gathered around the well-lit baseball diamond were watching a night game. “She says that she wants to be rich.” The cracking sound of a wooden bat as it connected with a fastball that sailed deep into left field. “Poof… she is rich.” Stephanie watched the ball being caught by the outfielder. “She says that she wants to live in a palace.” He threw the ball to the shortstop and that kept the runner on second from tagging up. “Poof… her dingy apartment is transformed into a beautiful palace.” The shortstop threw the ball to the pitcher. “And for my third and final wish I want my cat turned into a handsome prince.” The pitcher inspected the ball while the next batter walked toward the plate. “And poof… wish number three transforms her mangy old tomcat into a handsome prince.” The pitcher threw another fastball that the batter swung at and missed. “They fall into each others arms and then her handsome prince asks, ‘So aren't you sorry that you had me fixed?' ”

A livery cab finally took Stephanie back to Jackson Heights around two in the morning. “I hope that I didn't get you into trouble this afternoon,” she stood before the answering machine in her living room, “and I really enjoyed our lunch together,” swaying a bit from the Mojitos she had with Karen at Pete's Candy Store, “and I'd like to do it again…” with glistening eyes and a broad smile, “that is if you want to,” and listened to his message three more times, “call me at this number or at my office tomorrow,” before turning out the lights and crawling into bed, “I'll be working till the late afternoon.”

 

I
locked my bike up to a parking meter in front of the gallery and pocketed the keys. Cindy removed the highlighted script from her purse as the F train pulled out of York Street. It was a warm, partly cloudy Sunday morning. She opened the script and turned to page nine.

Man:
And what about the guy she's with?


A flock of pigeons had surrounded a crushed loaf of bread in the gutter between two parked cars.

Woman:
He is nothing more than the latest way for her to wear her hair.


Peter was standing in front of the gallery with a copy of the Sunday
Times
tucked beneath his left arm and a hand-rolled cigarette between his fingers.

Man:
And for him?


Peter had been a member of the Living Theater in the late sixties, “Hey Donald,” spent most of the seventies in Rome, “nice day for a ride,” and now owned the gallery where the play was performed, “Did you take the Manhattan Bridge?”

Woman:
She is nothing more than a new pair of shoes.


Cindy was reminded of meeting Janet for the first time, dressed in a beige raincoat and holding a small red umbrella above her head, as she stood in front of the fountain by the Met on a drizzling March afternoon.

Man:
Are you sure that you're not projecting your own
insecurities?


I nodded, “there was hardly any traffic.”

Cindy looked up from the script and out the keyed window—
Part marsupial part lynx:
Seeking an affectionate femme who doesn't take herself too seriously, likes art and loves cats. I am hoping to share spring blossoms with someone like you if the glass slipper fits
. After a brief tour of the modern wing Cindy and Janet had an intimate conversation over tea and cake in the museum café.

Peter's long gray hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, “so, that's why you're early.” I stepped toward him, “I'm always early,” while undoing the chinstrap on my helmet, “it's one of my compulsions.” The photograph of a long row of American flags flying above yesterday's memorial ceremony at the World Trade Center site was partially obscured by his thin wrist. “That isn't a bad compulsion to have,” Peter grinned. I removed my helmet and tucked it beneath my left arm. “So we'll be able to rehearse here as well?” “Sure,” He pushed the thin wire frames up his nose, “we close at seven so you can use the space anytime after that.” The street was faintly reflected in the gallery's front window. “You shouldn't have any problems,” taking a drag off his cigarette, “except for that opening on the second Friday in October,” he exhaled, “you missed the opening for this show.” I thought of the grainy black and white postcard of a dilapidated house surrounded by bare trees that came in the mail a few weeks ago, “we had a production meeting,” and was now stuck on my refrigerator door. “The show in October is photography as well… just work on the walls.”

Cindy recalled her walk through the West Village last April, following a depressing lunch with Andrew, the afternoon when she finally told him that she was living with a woman. Cindy climbed the stairs and saw her bulky suitcase outside Janet's door— she tried the locks (with the keys she'd been given just two weeks ago) and discovered that they had been changed. She dialed Janet's number on her cell phone, listened to the phone ringing on the other side of the door, hung up when the answering machine instructed her to leave a message and then dragged her suitcase down the narrow flight of stairs. She sat on the stoop and checked the messages on her phone. Janet had called from Grand Central to inform Cindy that she was spending the rest of the week in the Berkshires with an old friend, she was very sorry to end things this way and that was followed by an exasperated sigh. Janet said that she would feel really terrible if changing the locks had hurt her but she simply hated to make a scene. Janet wished her luck and then made a point of not saying goodbye before hanging up. Cindy sat on the stoop while trying to decide if she should wait around (not believing the rest of the week in the Berkshires lie) or take a cab back to Brooklyn.

Woman:
Sweetheart…


She roused herself off the stoop after the downstairs neighbor walked past her with a knowing smirk, entered the building and let the heavy door slam behind him.

…I didn't mean anything by that.


“It's not much of a set anyway,” I watched a small barking dog being lead by an elderly Hispanic woman pass by while adding, “it's just two folding chairs and a pair of speakers.”

Man:
Oh no?


Cindy hauled her suitcase to the curb and hailed a cab.

Woman:
No, absolutely not… all of the things that
were important to me then seem so superficial…
especially now…


The ride over the Manhattan Bridge in a cab, her third that day, took longer than the subway because of the rush-hour traffic.

…although all of those encounters became
relationships.


“You've got to tell me when you'll need the space,” Peter tapped the ash off his cigarette, “and I'll be around to lock up when you're done,” before taking another drag. “I should have a better idea after the auditions.” “How long will you need the gallery today?” he asked.

Andrew couldn't hide his astonishment when Cindy rang the bell and asked him to come downstairs and give her a hand with the suitcase.

I scratched my chin, “one o'clock, we shouldn't run any later than that today.” Peter glanced at his watch, “And the performances are at the end of October?”

Man:
Would you like to go somewhere else after dinner,
instead of that play?


“The Friday and Saturday before Halloween. And the show is just over an hour long.”

Woman:
No, why do you ask?


Andrew spent the rest of the night assuring Cindy that she had made the right decision, that things would definitely be different this time, that he would finally cut back on his drinking and that they should seriously consider couples therapy.

Woman:
Please don't mope, I find that so unappealing.


Cindy didn't have the courage to tell him why she really came back and it didn't come up until their first big fight a month later.

Man:
Then why did you say that?


Peter turned to me and asked, “And you're turning this play into a novel?”

Woman:
You're being so sensitive.


“There isn't really going to be any play… it's all fiction.”

Man:
All of my questions, some people think that I am
very intrusive.


He furrowed his brow, “Oh really?”

Woman:
No sweetheart, besides how else will we get to
know each other?


I tried to elaborate, “the novel is loosely based on the production of a performance that never happened.”

Man:
I just don't want you to think that I'm using you.


Flicking his cigarette over the curb, “So I'm a character in it as well?”

Woman:
I don't, and I'm not…


I said, “we are all characters in this book.”

and I'll never… I swear.


Cindy slid the script into her purse as the train slowed before the station. Peter shook his head, “So I'm the eccentric ex-hippie who owns the gallery where the play, that isn't really a play, takes place?” She stood up as the doors opened. “Am I correct in assuming that this is only a minor role?” And walked along the platform as the F train pulled out of the station. “If there is such a thing.” She climbed the stairs behind a young couple. His eyes narrowed, “Can you give me twenty a week to use it as your rehearsal space?” The sun gradually emerged from behind a bank of clouds as Cindy reached the top of the stairs. “Sure… I can give you twenty now if you want.” Cindy waited on the corner of Delancy and Essex for the light to change. “Good,” Peter nodded, “and don't leave a mess when you're done.” A silver SUV moved through the intersection after the light turned green. I opened my wallet, “I'll make sure that doesn't happen,” took out a twenty and handed it to him. She crossed the street along with an elderly man holding his granddaughter's hand. Peter looked over my shoulder, “Isn't that your director?” The two men standing beside the bodega drinking beer out of paper bags watched Cindy walk by. I turned around, “yeah,” and Cindy nodded while passing the fire hydrant, “How did you know that?” He shrugged, “she came by the other day,” then lowered his voice, “you know I really liked your last book.” “Thanks.” “But this seems really self-indulgent,” he put the twenty in his wallet, “ and I
really
don't like the idea of being one of your characters.” “Hey Cindy,” I smiled, “this is Peter.” “Hello again,” she shook his hand. “He lives upstairs and runs the gallery.” “Yeah I know…” she turned to me, “I came by last Thursday when the photographer was hanging her show.”