because all their drivers were directing another driver reversing a hearse
into the garage. If I were fictionalizing I’d say they put me in the hearse, but
it was a moving van and I was seated up front—take me past Ambien withdrawal, or
on a tour of the afterlife according to Allah.
We hurtled into the city before the rest of the rush with the sun a
sidereal horn honking behind us. Manhattan was still in black & white, a
sandbagged soundstage, a snorting steamworks, a boilerplate stamping the clouds. This
can be felt only in the approach, from exile. How old the city is, the limits of its
grid, its fallibility. Fear of a buckling bridge, a rupture deluging the Lincoln or
Holland. Fear of a taxi I can’t afford.
Off the FDR, I dialed Aar, who said, “Un momento, por
favor—she’s taking forever to get slutty,” though I wasn’t
sure which she he meant until 78th and Park, and it was Achsa—I never remembered
her like that. But it takes just a moment.
Aar paid the driver, “Gracias, jefe,” and we chaperoned
Achsa to school—her last patch of school at an institution so private as to be
attendable only alone, which was her argument. “You don’t have to drop
me.” But Aar was already holding her dashiki backpack, “Not many more
chances to ogle your classmates.” Achsa said, “That’s nasty, Dad,
and ageist.” Then she laughed, so I laughed, and Aar was our unfinished
homework.
The sky was clear. The breeze stalled, stulted. We talked about
graduation. About Columbia, which was closer, but too close, and anyway Princeton was
#6 overall and #1 in the Ivies for field hockey.
Achsa’s school was steepled at a privileged latitude, a highschool
as elited high on the island as money gets before it invests in Harlem. Girls, all
girls, dewperfumed, to blossom, to bloom.
“This is where we ditch her,” Aar said, halting at a roaned
hitchingpost retained for atmosphere. “You studied?”
“Arg ó , argoúsa,
árg i sa,” Achsa said, “tha
arg ó , tha arg í s o .”
“He/she/it has definitely studied.” Aar swung the backpack
and unzipped it and wriggled out a giftbox.
“What’s that and who’s it for?”
“I’m not the one taking the tests today—you
are.”
Achsa shrugged on her straps and said, “Hairy
vederci”—to me.
Aar said, “No cutting.”
But she’d already turned away—from a shelfy front to a shelf
of rear, enough space there for all the books she had, jiggling.
“Blessed art Thou, Lord our God,” I said, “Who Hath
Prevented me from Reproducing.”
“Amen.”
“But also she resembles her mother.”
“My sister,” Aar said, “the African.”
East, we went east again—away from fancy au pairland, the emporia
that required reservations. Toward the numbered streets, to the street before the
numbers, not a 0 but a York—Ave.
Pointless bungled York, a bulwark. Manipedi and hair salons. Drycleaning.
Laundry.
Outside, the doublesided sandwichboard spread obscenely with the recurring
daily specials still daily, still special, the boardbreaded sandwiches and soups
scrawled out of scraps, the goulash and souvlaki and scampi, leftover omelets and
spoiled rotten quiches, the menus inside unfolding identically—greasy. The vinyls
were grimy and the walls were chewed wet. A Mediterranean grove mural was trellised by
vines of flashing plastic grape. A boombox was blatting la mega se pega, radio
Mexicano.
The methadone girl was working, and so the methadone was working on the
girl. Our counter guy wiped the counter.
In this diner as in life, nothing came with anything, there were no
substitutions—it was that reminder we craved. A salad wasn’t just extra,
but imponderable. A side of potatoes was fries. We always went for a #13 and a
15—which was cheaper than getting the #s 2, 3, 4, and 5—a booth in
the back like we were waiting for the bathroom.
Aar ordered from the
into the garage. If I were fictionalizing I’d say they put me in the hearse, but
it was a moving van and I was seated up front—take me past Ambien withdrawal, or
on a tour of the afterlife according to Allah.
We hurtled into the city before the rest of the rush with the sun a
sidereal horn honking behind us. Manhattan was still in black & white, a
sandbagged soundstage, a snorting steamworks, a boilerplate stamping the clouds. This
can be felt only in the approach, from exile. How old the city is, the limits of its
grid, its fallibility. Fear of a buckling bridge, a rupture deluging the Lincoln or
Holland. Fear of a taxi I can’t afford.
Off the FDR, I dialed Aar, who said, “Un momento, por
favor—she’s taking forever to get slutty,” though I wasn’t
sure which she he meant until 78th and Park, and it was Achsa—I never remembered
her like that. But it takes just a moment.
Aar paid the driver, “Gracias, jefe,” and we chaperoned
Achsa to school—her last patch of school at an institution so private as to be
attendable only alone, which was her argument. “You don’t have to drop
me.” But Aar was already holding her dashiki backpack, “Not many more
chances to ogle your classmates.” Achsa said, “That’s nasty, Dad,
and ageist.” Then she laughed, so I laughed, and Aar was our unfinished
homework.
The sky was clear. The breeze stalled, stulted. We talked about
graduation. About Columbia, which was closer, but too close, and anyway Princeton was
#6 overall and #1 in the Ivies for field hockey.
Achsa’s school was steepled at a privileged latitude, a highschool
as elited high on the island as money gets before it invests in Harlem. Girls, all
girls, dewperfumed, to blossom, to bloom.
“This is where we ditch her,” Aar said, halting at a roaned
hitchingpost retained for atmosphere. “You studied?”
“Arg ó , argoúsa,
árg i sa,” Achsa said, “tha
arg ó , tha arg í s o .”
“He/she/it has definitely studied.” Aar swung the backpack
and unzipped it and wriggled out a giftbox.
“What’s that and who’s it for?”
“I’m not the one taking the tests today—you
are.”
Achsa shrugged on her straps and said, “Hairy
vederci”—to me.
Aar said, “No cutting.”
But she’d already turned away—from a shelfy front to a shelf
of rear, enough space there for all the books she had, jiggling.
“Blessed art Thou, Lord our God,” I said, “Who Hath
Prevented me from Reproducing.”
“Amen.”
“But also she resembles her mother.”
“My sister,” Aar said, “the African.”
East, we went east again—away from fancy au pairland, the emporia
that required reservations. Toward the numbered streets, to the street before the
numbers, not a 0 but a York—Ave.
Pointless bungled York, a bulwark. Manipedi and hair salons. Drycleaning.
Laundry.
Outside, the doublesided sandwichboard spread obscenely with the recurring
daily specials still daily, still special, the boardbreaded sandwiches and soups
scrawled out of scraps, the goulash and souvlaki and scampi, leftover omelets and
spoiled rotten quiches, the menus inside unfolding identically—greasy. The vinyls
were grimy and the walls were chewed wet. A Mediterranean grove mural was trellised by
vines of flashing plastic grape. A boombox was blatting la mega se pega, radio
Mexicano.
The methadone girl was working, and so the methadone was working on the
girl. Our counter guy wiped the counter.
In this diner as in life, nothing came with anything, there were no
substitutions—it was that reminder we craved. A salad wasn’t just extra,
but imponderable. A side of potatoes was fries. We always went for a #13 and a
15—which was cheaper than getting the #s 2, 3, 4, and 5—a booth in
the back like we were waiting for the bathroom.
Aar ordered from the
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