Daniel A. Black

September 19, 2008

Like Alixandrea, a feather in the dust.
     Oils vanished by tepid rays.

The great ships of Twombly's brain
     soaked with imaginary blooms

recall auburn empty things
     that vanish with the days.

And we can die to let them know
     it all depends on what she assumes.
     
     

	once a verdant bud
		   now a plum bloom

   rests snug in your hair
	   mocking your lips

March 4, 2003

D____ had smoked Djarum Splash brand clove cigarettes, and I found myself selecting them as my first tobacco product purchase. A bit tipsy from Guinness, tired from waiting longer than expected for K____, and sick from the total effect of these ailments, I fumbled the plastic wrapper off with ill temper and pried back the top. Awaiting me were two packs sealed with golden paper, each containing ten cloves. I unfolded the paper on one pack, feeling something like Charlie Bucket, pulled out a cig, put it to my mouth, lit it, and inhaled deeply enough to momentarily forget everything else, worries included. The aroma and taste immediately reminded me of the things I'd left behind. I began to miss the open air, the open horizons, the empty drone of suburbia.

I propped myself against the glass window beside the two-door entrance to Sophie's bar, and puffed deep and melancholy of the soft, crackling clove. From amongst the crowd of outdoor smokers, a large black man turned to my direction asking, "Are you coming in?" Vexed, I replied, "Who me?" He looked at me, equally puzzled and said, "Ah... No." I turned about face to see if there was a companion of his to whom he spoke. In seeing no one but a disinterested middle-aged blonde some thirty feet off, I turned back to him; "Were you talking to someone else? 'Cuz I thought you were talking to m-," he interjected: "Ah, right. I don't think so." He quickly rescinded to the bar, and I realized that it had appeared to him that I had attempted to pick him up. I felt momentarily embarrassed until I realized the illogical nature of such behavior on my part, for it was he who had been mistaken on the count of homosexuality.

I lit another clove and the blonde from down the way came walking up. As she approached me, poised to speak, I hoped that she might provide some information as to clarify my thoughts on the previous matter, for I still considered the possibility that she had on some level been culprit, until she posed the question, "Are you the bouncer?" Somewhat befuddled as to her reasons for even considering this, all I could muster was a meager, "Huh?"

"Are you the bouncer? Because you're acting like it." It occurred to me that I was standing by the door. And though I felt my demeanor to be stoic with a tinge of mournful, I could understand another to misinterpret such as menacing.

"No," I replied, "I'm not the bouncer. There is no bouncer here." I realized that I might have fallen sucker to a pick-up line. I didn't care though, I wasn't too pleasantly engaged in my prior reminiscence, so I allowed her to continue asking me prying questions, all on the grounds that I was not the bouncer. As she prodded me with questions that became increasingly probing, I stared off across the street into the unsomethingness of oblivion, only glancing her way here and there. Normally I would be as polite as possible to someone who approached me like that, but I wasn't in the best of moods, and I felt I could afford this behavior because I was younger, more attractive, and above else, the less interested party.

When in time her questioning had allotted her with the knowledge that I had been squatting for several months, she offered me a place to stay for the night. Fully aware of what would most likely be required from me, I declined, saying, "No, no. Thank you, but I would not impose." She then offered to buy me a drink, to which I said, "No. Again, thank you, but I think I've had enough to drink tonight," even though I had not. As a final save-of-face, she offered me money. I couldn't understand her behavior, but it was annoying and overtly maternal, and I really wanted to be gone of her, without any physical effort on my part. She said, "At least take whatever cash I've got." She emptied her pockets, producing a single balled-up dollar bill. Amused at the irony in her previous attempt to buy me a drink, I caved and accepted with reluctance. I pocketed the bill, and she re-entered Sophie's saying to me, "If you need anything, I'll be at the back of the bar."

She was gone finally, and I sighed in relief as I finished my third clove, the effects of which left me slightly more upbeat, but nonetheless destitute. I walked back inside, and though I felt the gumption to watch some forty-somethings expertly fumble their ways through a few games of eight ball, such an event would require allocating myself at the back of the bar. I instead ordered a pint of Guinness, fearful of contact with the prying blonde.

Something tasted sour about the beer, and I was a bit put off by it. It only later occurred to me that the fragrant cloves had interacted poorly with the Irish stout. Disappointed with the taste, I sipped lightly and cautiously, whereas normally I might find myself drinking it like water. It was 1:30 in the AM now, and I didn't count on seeing any familiar face for the remainder of the night. I depressingly recounted my situation to myself: I could not return to __U until 9 AM. The residents (and friends) with whom I stayed were away on private matters, and the guards who were currently on shift would not allow me to enter and exit freely. I could not stay at any other collegiate friend's place, because I was signed in at __U and could not get my identification back without their presence. I had three friends with non-dormitory residences, but I wanted to call upon them as a last resort only. I instead preferred to stay at Sophie's until last call, and then go to Small's jazz club, which would stay open until 8 AM, at a $10 cover. Unfortunately I did not know where Smalls was. I called Jordan to ask, but he didn't pick up. I decided to wait until the bar quieted down and 411 for the information.

I sat myself near the payphone, and who finally walks in but the friend I had given up hope for seeing that night: K____. My spirits immediately lifted. We found two seats at the bar, and I ordered an amoretto sour for her at her request. We chatted pleasantly and in a friendly manner about our recent escapades, until after perhaps a half an hour had passed, at which time she requested a change of scenery. I agreed, though I wanted to finish my nearly full drink first. I sipped and sipped, not making any surmountable progress, until I finally got fed up and chugged it whole as she turned her head to watch a shot at the billiards table. She turned back to see the suddenly empty glass and stated, "Woah!" I soon knew that I would come to regret my action as the beer began churning in my stomach.

To prevent vomiting I quickly stood upright and went outside. It still wanted to come up, and though I tried my best, two incidents of vomitous spit were the result of my acute acid reflux. "Gross, huh?" I asked. "Uh, yeah. Let's go get you some water." We proceeded to the deli at which I had bought the cloves earlier in the evening and she picked out a bottle of water for me. We left and I followed her lead, chatting and gallivanting as she hunted for a 24-hour cafe.

Our journey lasted somewhat longer than expected as we constantly disputed each other's selections of where to stop. When we eventually settled upon a seated deli and sat ourselves near the window, it became apparent how late it was and how exhausted we both were. Still, some rare connection was being made between two old friends, a connection we had known well and often some years ago in high school, but had somehow misplaced, and neither of us wanted it to end.

But there is a time for all things to end, and so we coordinated the end of our evening. I walked with her to the train and we both rode the uptown 2. It was on this ride that our conversation turned to the nitty-gritty. Waiting until the inevitable end of the night to discuss the matters of greatest importance to us had always been a crucial part of our distinct modus operandi. In the middle of discussion of substantial personal things, the train came to my stop. We said a quick goodbye, accompanied by a hug. Neither of us was upset by the truncation of our dialogue, because it would force us to reflect on what was said from a more realistic position. Sometimes it cut off conversation at a sensitive point, and I would leave thinking of something I would otherwise avoid.

Now that I was departed of K____, I found myself in Times Square station at 3 AM without a real plan. I took the 7 to Grand Central, thinking perhaps I would nap there until I could again contact a resident at __U, or until the guards changed shift.

When I arrived at the station, I found the main terminal blockaded. I had to urinate, and there was no available bathroom. I decided to wait along with the other lost souls who had gathered just inside the entrance, waiting for 5 AM to arrive, at which point the main concourse would reopen. Three attractive young women were amongst those who had unintentionally congregated in anticipation of the reopening, and though I yearned to engage with them, I could not muster the courage, for all typical twenty-something conversation starters go sour deftly when I am at the helm. For example: "So where do you live?" has a few possible answers on my part, such as: "I'm squatting," or "I'm homeless," or "I technically live with my parents in Westchester, but I'm callously estranged and living against policy with my friend at __U." Each tends to kill conversation, or at least make me feel bad about myself.

In response to my unequivocal urge to talk to at least one of them, who were ogling me from time to time, I instead made due of a liquid ink pen and the back of a train ticket receipt, and crudely sketched them on my desperately limited canvas. When I finally produced the sketch to my liking, I was further and more fervently tempted to initiate some dialogue via my sketch as a means of redirection of conversation. Still, my initial cowardice on the matter reigned over any impetus I might have otherwise had.

Have you ever tasted wine under the Siberian moon?
   or peered down a rabbit hole in the side of a sand dune?

Come to the other side, step over the line
   where this becomes that, and that is just fine.

Here you taste dew drops with unsocked feet
   while silently observing passing aerial fleets.

Or the spice of a minute-hand that goes the wrong way,
   but for some reason the hour hand always stays.

I've tasted these things and they are just fine.
   I hope you'll join me, because they aren't just mine.