Spaces Between Some Things

Newark Penn Station, NJ
May 3, 2007

I am waiting for my coffee and so is a skinny white man. He’s my age or younger and he has big tattoos on his arms. He’s wearing a sleeveless, white shirt. There is an older, unkempt black man with an open bandanna coming out from under his baseball cap. He’s wearing clothes that are oversized and raggedy. He has a beard. A boy toddler grabs at my thighs and I ignore him. I don’t know who he belongs to. I’m waiting for a train that will arrive in thirty minutes. I’m between places. It’s late morning.

“You’ve Taylor ham and cheese?” The white guy asks.
“Yeah,” The middle-eastern guy behind the cash register says.
“Great. One of those.”
The cashier writes something down and walks to the back.
“No eggs?” The older, unkempt man interjects. I look up.
“Nah,” the white guy laughs.
“Need the protein boy, what ‘bout the protein?”
“Had eggs this morning, still hungry.”
“Ah, k.” The man seems settled with his answer.

The three of us are still standing there and the toddler has walked off. I keep an eye on him. The silence is a little heavier now that we realize we can fill it.

“Why you so hungry?” The unkempt man asks the white guy.
“Don’t know,” the white guy laughs again.
“Gargoyles are bad luck, son, shouldn’t have that shit on your arm.”
I look at the white guy’s arm. I see a black gargoyle tattooed between his elbow and shoulder.
“I’m not superstitious.”
“Oh yeah?” The unkempt man laughs. “You a religious guy?” he asks.
“Nah, religion’s a scam,” the white guy says and laughs.
“Yeah?”
“Yup.”
There’s another pause. The baby is touching the wall under the counter. I still don’t know who the baby belongs to. The men don’t seem to notice the baby.

“What you do?” The unkempt man asks the white guy.
“You said a regular coffee, medium?” The middle-eastern man reaffirms with me.
“Yeah,” I say and both men look at me. I smile towards my feet.
“A Marine,” the white guy goes.
“Well, no shit! For real?”
I look over and eye the white guy with more interest. He’s skinny.
“Yup,” he laughs again.
“Been to Iraq?”
“Just back.”
“No shit! What’s that shit like?”
“It smells,” the white guy goes.
“Iraq smells!” The unkempt man hoots and claps his hands.
“Yeah, smells bad. I’m supposed to go back in two weeks but I don’t wanna.”
“Yeah, but with that shit got no choice, right?”
“Right,” the white man goes. Crosses his skinny, tattooed arms over his chest.
“I want to be a fireman,” the white guy says.
“A fireman!” The unkempt man claps his hands again. “Well, what you doing in Iraq, son?”
“Beats me,” the white guy laughs.
“They messed that shit up, right?”
I look over at them again.
“Sure did,” the white guy goes. His arms are still crossed.
The middle-eastern man says, “Miss,” and hands me the coffee.
“Thanks,” I say. Go to the table with sugar and milk.

“He touches everything!” A big woman, her breasts balloon out, cries to no one in a heavy Jamaican accent. She goes for the boy. Shovels him up.
“I work in the hospital all night and know kids shouldn’t touch this shit. He touches everything!”
I sort of smile at her.

“A fireman,” the unkempt man says again shaking his head. “You need some help with that. Got to know some people, right?”
“Nah,” the white man goes. “I’m pretty set. I’m a corporal.”
“Shit. Well, don’t go back to Iraq.”
“I wish, man,” the white guy laughs.
I cap my coffee.

The Jamaican woman is holding the toddler on her hip. I look up at the train times.
“Yeah sister, take this,” the unkempt man goes to the Jamaican mother. I turn around. He gives her a dollar. She takes it. I look back up at the train times.

A little later I see the unkempt man again. I am looking at The New York Times headlines at the newsstand.
“You motherfucker lets take this outside!” A skinny, old black man in a small, Christmas sweater and tight jeans is yelling to the Indian cashier.
“You wanna take this outside, I’ll take it outside!” The Indian man yells back in a tart accent.
I’m watching the scene transpire. So is the unkempt man.
“Hey, look how ‘bout I pay for this paper first,” a white businessman interjects indifferently, unfazed.
“Yeah man, take his goddamn money then we’ll go outside, you motherfucker,” the skinny, old man says waving his hands wildly. His extremidities are skinny and electric looking like short-circuiting wires.
The unkempt man and I are just watching this now. We aren’t pretending to read the headlines anymore. I cross my arms.
“Pussy fucking cunt motherfucker,” the skinny, old man hollers, his arms are waving every which way.
“Shut your fucking mouth, nigger motherfucker,” the Indian man goes. Shoves the change at the businessman, he takes the money and tucks the paper under his arm, walks away.
The unkempt man shakes his head. He buries his hands in the pockets of his oversized coat. The two men are still going at it. The Indian man won’t leave the counter. A pale, doughy policeman is walking over slowly, taking his time.
The unkempt man goes, he’s shaking his head and looking down, he’s muttering to himself. He goes, “No good, no good,” to no one in particular. He walks away and so do I.

Echo Lake Country Club, Westfield, NJ
May 2, 2007

I’m having a fancy dinner with my parents and their friends who are ten years older. The dinning room has big windows that face the golf court. The sun has set. There are big, red curtains that bunch and remind me of prom dress sleeves in the eighties.
“He’s dead?” My father reaffirms with Mrs. Booth.
“Yes, make a point to read the obits every week in the paper, he was listed last Thursday.”
“Hm,” my father picks up his knife and fork to cut his steak. “So, he’s dead?”
“Mm-hm,” Mrs. Booth hums as she spears a french fry with her fork.
“I remember him,” my dad goes. “He was sort of,” he paused, “eccentric.”
He eats a piece of steak. Continues, “I remember, we were all standing there one morning, on the platform, before the commute. You know, no one talks. Just stands around. There’re rules to it.”
Mrs. Booth is nodding, I’m not sure if she’s listening.
“And he must have just retired because he was there, but he wasn’t wearing a suit, he was in the parking lot and he just laughs, I mean really loudly. He just laughs out,” my father goes. “He just hollers out, ‘You unlucky bastards!’” My father is laughing now. “And we’re all just standing there, you know, no one says anything but we’re all just sort of looking around.” He pauses, shakes his head smiling. “I’ll always remember that.” He picks up his knife again.
“So, he’s dead,” my father says again, mostly to himself, and cuts another piece of steak.

New York City Library, Manhattan, NY
April 27, 2007

“It’s better here because when you look down the streets you can see the end to it, it’s not just buildings everywhere. You can see out. I felt more trapped in Boston. But you’re so alone here, that’s the thing” she says.
Two friends and I are splitting sushi on the library stairs.
“Excuse me beautiful ladies may I ask to have one moment of your time,” a man with tight braids and thick glasses says. He’s wearing a beige checkered, scratchy looking suit.
“I’m here to help the homeless…” he begins. We stop talking and look down at our sushi. Will him to leave us alone.
“… As you know there is an epidemic in this city…”
I pull the salmon off the rice ball and dip the fish in the plastic lid that’s holding a puddle of soy sauce.
“… With your help you can feed…”

In Bangkok, near Soi 55, there is a place where a legless beggar lays on his face in the middle of sidewalk every evening and I have, on more than one occasion, stepped over him to get to where I was going. He pushes his red plastic money bowl with his head.
“I want to give him money,” Rusty once said as we walked by him. “But I’m not supposed to, right?”
“No, I don’t think so,” I say. “That’s what I read.”
“Yeah, me, too. But why is it again?”
“I forget, so they don’t get used to it, or expect it, or something. I don’t know. So they don’t get in a welfare state maybe?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Yeah.”

“I mean I only see college friends who live in the city,” my friend says quietly. “You don’t meet new people.”
“… Only a dollar could make a difference…”
I’m trying to scrape off the sticky rice from my fingers with my nails.
“You don’t look at anyone on the streets. I mean no one.”
In the village where I used to live in the south of Thailand I ran by an open sewers most days. Two boys once built a fort in the sewer. I stopped running. I looked down into it. They had made a room with cardboard. They had toys in there with them. They were covered in that sloth. They weren’t wearing shirts. “Khun Mary!” One hollered up and waved. I waved back.
“… Now I know you ladies have a dollar, just one between the three of you…”

A few days later I’ll be in midtown, walking briskly to Pace University to meet Zach after work. I come out of the park. Swing a right. I’m striding. My hair is long and brushed and is waving behind me.
“Ma’am!” A woman yells behind me. I ignore her. “Miss!” She yells again. I keep walking.
“Miss!” She yells for a third time, this time with agitation, and as I continue walking I entertain the idea that maybe she had something to tell me specifically. But I doubt it.

I’m putting the empty plastic sushi containers in a brown bag.
“… So can you manage it? A dollar?”
My friend looks up. Shakes her head. No, we can’t. Sorry.
“Well I thank you for your time,” he says. Smiles. Walks to the people next to us.
“… Do you have a minute?…”
“And I mean,” my friend gets right back into it, “you just turn off. Devoid yourself of even the possibility of human contact with the people you pass on the streets.”
My cell phone rings. I flip it open. It’s the boy I like. I’m delighted.
“Hi,” I say warmly into the phone. “How are you?”
My friends keep conversing next to me but I don’t hear them. I’m just listening to him now. He’s in the same city as I am, that day. That’s rare. Normally we’re in different countries.

I’m Just Afraid I Don’t Fit In Here

I came home from Thailand ten days ago and I am with Brian. Brian is three years old. We’re keeping a pink balloon in the air.  

“Mary Lorraine, what grade are you in?” Brian asks out of nowhere. He bops the balloon with his head.

“Bri,” I say mid-lounge, I punch the balloon back to his side. We’re both taking the game pretty seriously. “I’m not in any grade. I’m out of school. I’m finished.”

“Then,” his face twists and contorts and I can tell he’s working something out in his head. I kick the balloon because he doesn’t go for it. “Then why do you still live with your mommy?”  

I go into a ten-minute rant about our generation and the job market and what college did to us. Brian is in the corner, bouncing the balloon against the wall. He isn’t even facing me. Suddenly the balloon floats over to my side. I don’t notice. I’m still talking. It hits the floor.

Brian yells.

I cry, “That one doesn’t count! I wasn’t paying attention. It didn’t count.”

I’m looking at him now. He’s cradling the balloon in his arms. “Bri,” I plead, “Can’t we just start over?”

He shakes his head no.  

~ 

I don’t mention how when I left Thailand I was given two and a half hours to leave. Two and a half hours to pack up my life, which was a year and half deep, to say good-bye to my village and to get on a plane. Two and a half hours. I only told that story in full once, to Erin, in a coffee shop in Manhattan.

“So,” I concluded, our coffee cups drained, “I feel pretty… out of it.”

“Yeah,” she gasped, “I mean obviously.”

“I’m just confused right now,” I said and went to finish off the piece of cake we were sharing. “So,” I said looking back at her. I suddenly needed to stop talking about this, it was making me feel funny. “So, how are you?” 

~ 

The day after I came back from Thailand heavy rains plagued New Jersey. There was flooding. Basements filled up with water. I thought it was funny people were making such a big deal out of it. It reminded me of a typical day during monsoon season. So, when my mother asked if I’d pick up potatoes for dinner I put on my rain gear and got on my bicycle. I biked through town and to the south side, up South Avenue. I turned into the grocery store, wove around idling SUVS and parked my bike under and awning. I bought the potatoes. Hung the plastic bag on my handlebars and biked home. When I walked into the kitchen I was soaked through. 

 “What on earth are you doing?” my mother asked alarmed. “Why didn’t you drive?”

Why didn’t I drive?”

I didn’t think of it.  

~ 

You have to understand I’m not trying to be eccentric here. I’m just trying to Be. In as honest a fashion as I can. Only recently has this been translating into more and more of an erratic sort of behavior. I swear though, I am not trying to be eccentric.  

~ 

Two days after I came home that boy shot up all of Virginia Tech and I sat on the carpet cross-legged watching the 24-hour news reel. I would make snacks in the kitchen, bring them into the den and keep watching the story line unfold like the movie CNN made it into. I was entranced. I liked talking about it.

“I can’t believe it either. It’s awful,” I’d hash over with mothers while waiting in the coffee line.  It’s an easy feeling. This horror. 

~ 

I help my mom in her classroom because I have nothing else to do.

“Thank god Mary Lorraine,” a teacher says in passing. I’m in the hall making bracelets with students for Mother’s Day, “You came home safely.”

I was pretty safe there, I think. I smile and nod. 

 “Must be so nice to be back,” everyone I have seen says to me like a tree full of hungry sparrows.

Must be so nice to be back.

Must be so nice to be back.

Must be so nice to be back. 

“Bet you won’t take this country for granted again,” someone laughs. Smiles. Pats me hard on my back. It makes me cough once as if I had been choking. “Yeah,” I say regaining myself. Laugh a little. Smile. Retreat behind my mother. “Oh, we’re so happy to have her,” mom starts up. I look at my shoes. I’m five years old.

~

There are some major changes that have happened while I’ve been gone that’s for sure. The one I notice the most is this; it’s the basic, primal, size-up question that I have known so well for the last four to six years.

It’s the, “Where do you go to school?” question which has now been replaced by the, “What do you do?/Where do you live?” question.

“When did that happen?” I ask my friend, Zach, after in horror I had to answer, “Nothing. With my parents,” to a girl I haven’t seen since high school. She was dressed neatly in a skirt and boots with long, blow-dried hair.

“You’ve missed a lot,” Zach says dryly.  

The second question is posed mostly by my parents to the most random people. “Does he have a friend for Mary Lorraine?”

I wasn’t up for grabs a year and a half ago. So that’s another change.  

~ 

I was at an underground bar on the Lower East Side last Wednesday night. The bar was mostly empty. It felt like a smoking lounge. Dark oriental carpets and mahogany bookshelves and tea cups instead of cocktail glasses.  There was a transvestite standing alone by the bar and I noticed him looking at me. He was older, probably in his forties. He wasn’t flamboyant. He wasn’t trying to stand out. He was wearing a white blouse and a black, long skirt. Plum lipstick. A brunette wig with thick bangs. He kept fiddling with his drink.  

I stood up from the table to get another Jameson and Ginger, he approached me shyly as I leaned against the bar.

“Hi,” he said in a deep voice.

“Hello.”

He smiled and asked, “Do you know the name of this bar?”

“The Toy Factory, I think,” I said, “something with the word ‘toy’ in it at least.”

“Right, that’s what I thought. I just,” he started to spin his straw nervously, “I thought this would be different.”

I wasn’t sure what to say.

“I just feel silly.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I’m dressed like a woman,” he said flatly. I imagined him climbing onto the elephant in the room and I smiled fully and warmly and I loved him for it.

“I’m not trying to stand out,” he said.

“You aren’t,” I said and tried to reassure him. But I was lying. He did stand out here.

“I’m just afraid,” he said looking into his drink, “that I don’t fit in here.”  

If I was a braver sort I would have hugged him then. I would have grabbed his hand and we would have run out of this unmarked bar, we would have run out the back alley and into the rainy night. We would have run through the dark traffic and exhaust and lights. We would have run until we found the place where the city ends and the forest begins.  

But I didn’t do that, of course. I don’t even know if that place exists.

Instead I said, “I wouldn’t worry.” I paid for my drink. And I walked back to my table.  

He stayed at the bar. Standing alone, mostly peering into his drink. And soon after he left.  

A Very Long Friday the 13th

This article appeared in Speak English! Magazine May 2007.

Tokyo

I am trapped in the airport in Tokyo and I don’t know what time it is. There is a mechanical problem on my flight and the passengers had to disembark. People are angry and tense. They have connections they are going to miss. Meetings they won’t make. A life of timetables that are broken down into fifteen minute units. They can’t stand this. “It’s not acceptable,” a woman jeers.  

I could careless. Stewardess pass out finger sandwiches and soda. I have free wireless. I’m sitting on a comfortable chair. I really don’t understand the problem. It’s something I observe but can’t completely wrap my brain around. So we spend the night in Tokyo? Really, what difference does it make? One day or the next?  

Suppose it’s pretty easy for the girl who has nowhere to go to think. Suppose I’m sort of in a unique position here.   

San Francisco  

There isn’t free wireless and I am sitting on the floor drinking a one-dollar coffee. I had to break another dollar to make a call home to New Jersey, to tell an answering machine I’d be on time, I think.

The diversity in this country staggers me and I don’t think anyone can see me. No one looks me in the eye.  

When the plane was descending I pressed my face against the window to see the red Golden Gate bridge stripe across the blue water, the green humps of mountains. Nice clean primary colors, like a simple crayon box shaken out onto the floor. 

I’ve been here before, once. We all have. Fifteen months ago I was, with some hesitation, walking to the plane. I was walking with Maeve, I remember that. Today I am here again but now I’m alone. My time as a Peace Corps Volunteer in southern Thailand is the experience that is surreally resting between these two moments in time. It’s all so bizarre.  

(before) Uthai Thani 

I am biking to my host parents’ house quickly because the sun is setting. I had a second beer with Caitlyn and whoever else was at the S&W that day and I shouldn’t have because I knew it would make me late but I didn’t care. Sweat is pouring out of me and I think how this feeling, racing home on my bike, makes me feel like I’m eight years old. I’m looking at the ground in front of me, pedaling hard, quickly, suddenly it’s right in front of me, an elephant. I weave around her. I smile to the man probing her with a spear. I am not in New Jersey and I am not eight years old, I reaffirm.  

The sun is setting, big and yellow orange like an egg yolk. I’m turning onto the dirt path in front of the house. My host mother is hollering my name, bringing me a coconut and a straw. Smiling. The chickens part for my bike. 

I have so many moments like these. Details. Random and strange and lovely. They are filling up my pockets. I don’t know what to do with them.  

(yesterday) Bangkok 

“The day after I was finished with my service,” Dr. John is recalling at my exit interview, “I thought to myself, what a strange dream.”

(right now) San Francisco

The plane is boarding. This is my last flight. I don’t mind these connections. Moving from one place to the next. Following the herd of rolling luggage and passengers. Hopping about airports like rocks across a stream. Being in transit can be such a comfort.

I called my mother in a cab in Bangkok to tell her the time my flight would arrive. I couldn’t get it out. I began to cry. Shortly thereafter I hung up. I do have to go home now, I told myself in the cab, I have to be closer at this time.

But the new realization that is blooming inside of me now, what I didn’t fully account for is that, here, I am just as far away from my home in Thailand.

We’re boarding now. Two kids are hiding from their father behind a row of chairs. He finds them. The kids giggle, the dad says, “Okay, enough messing around, we’re boarding.”

I’m boarding.