MOMENTS AS SEEN FROM AROUND THE CITY, in no particular order

Biking home after picking up food and trying to talk on the phone.

“No, they said they don’t have it anymore. I got the rest of the food though. Sorry,” he said, barely holding his phone as he tried to steer the bike around the corner of Waverly and University. He was balancing a lot: a bag of takeout, an angry girlfriend on the phone, a water bottle about to slip out of his hands, a job that didn’t need him anymore. The takeout smelled good, it was their favorite Chinese place. Orange chicken, fried rice, dumplings, the works. He was excited to eat, something to do at least; it had been a boring day. Well, not boring, but nothing to write home about. Not that he ever wrote home, that’s not what he meant. There was just nothing he would’ve written home about if he was in the military or something - isn’t that where that phrase came from? He wasn’t sure. 

Either way, he was excited to eat dinner. 

 As he biked, the smell wafted back towards him. He felt like a horse with a carrot, but instead of a horse, he was just a man, and instead of a carrot it was Chinese takeout guiding him home as he peddled down University, dodging cars and students and old men with tiny dogs. She was still talking in his ear through the precariously balanced phone. Something about how they should’ve had it, it said on the website, and she was hungry, that was really the only thing she wanted anyway, and could he just stop at the Thai place instead?  He had already passed the Thai place, 6 blocks back. And he already had the Chinese food. Did she really need the Thai? 

A woman in a maroon skirt crossed the street and he swerved to avoid her and her large purse. “Hello?” the phone was saying. “Are you still there?” When he swerved, the water bottle had slipped slightly farther down in his hand. He tried to focus on moving it back to a safe grip without letting go of the food bag that dangled even more dangerously from his other fingers.  He ignored the phone for a moment to focus on this task.  “I can hear you breathing!” it was saying. “Why are you ignoring me?”  He wasn’t ignoring her, just ignoring the noises from his phone. The phone was what bothered him, it was the phone, and he wanted to drop that phone, drop it into the street where it would fall into a sewer grate and travel down into the murky waters below. It would splash noisily: scaring the scurrying rats and the water would carry it down, down, down into the depths of the city and down under the subway tracks and under the years of hard work (and grime and life and death) and it would eventually be buried under the city like so many others and so many stories - lost forever to time and memory.      

Instead, he adjusted his grip and said “Sorry, dear, I’m biking.” 

A woman in her car pulling out of a parallel parking spot and checking over her shoulder 

She wasn’t going to be late and she wasn’t going to be early. She would be perfectly on time, as expected, which was great. Her hair was done and her makeup was simple. She wore jeans and a white shirt, like always. She hoped they would have Chinese food tonight - she was craving a papaya salad that their favorite place made. They usually got Chinese food once every few weeks, but it had been a while. He had been busy - work he said - but she wasn’t sure she believed him.  It didn’t really matter either way. She checked her lip gloss in the rearview mirror - it looked fine like she thought it would, which was great.  

Everything was great. 

Sometimes she just didn’t like to think about things - like why he had been so busy recently - because she didn’t want to be wrong. She hated being wrong. So instead, she turned on her car, turned up the AC, and forced every thought out of her mind. It had been hot in the city recently and driving with no AC was not really an option.  

Everything was great. 

She tilted the vents away from her so the air wouldn’t blow her hair into her lip gloss, and checked the clock on her dashboard. 8:01.

She smiled blankly, then turned left to look over her shoulder into the street.  She put the car in reverse and pulled out of the spot, exactly on time and exactly as she expected. Great.

Overheard on Broadway and Waverly

All of the dialects of English are full of melody, full of music.  

Every voice you hear on the street is a song.  

Shakespeare got it right when he said that all the world’s a stage, life is a performance. But we are not merely players, that’s what he got wrong.  

We are directors and designers, we do the costumes, hair, makeup, all of it.  

You are the creator of this reality.  

Nothing is real except what’s in your head. Nothing is fake except what’s in your head. Manifest this, manifest that.  

Look at the rainbow! I made that for you.  

Where are you from? 

I am from I am from I am from. I am from the purple-blue quilt that laid across my thread-bare sheets. I am from paper cups and pizza boxes and trash cans with no bags. I am from home.  

I wrote that in the second grade. It’s called an I am From poem.  

I am from. 

Do I have an accent? Do you?  

I am from my thick, Southern accent. I am from my deep deep voice. I am from the Valleys of California. 

I am performing. 

I perform for free because my labor is free because I live here because I left home because I was too cold.  

I’m fine now though, thank you.

Someone trying not to cry in a cafe 

I want to leave. So badly I want to leave, please let me leave. She wouldn’t let me leave. Why not? I don’t know. Maybe it wasn’t the time or the place or entirely the right reason. Maybe she was embarrassed to be crying. But I wanted to leave so I pushed my way forward in line and forced my way to the front. Her eyes were brimming - sparkling almost in the afternoon light.  She took a deep breath and tried to push me back, push me away so I couldn’t roll down her face and be brushed away by her ring-clad hand or splash into her lap as she sniffled loudly. But we were in a cafe, and the rules said we couldn’t leave in a cafe. So I waited, filling her eyes until she had no choice but to stand up and walk to the bathroom. The bathroom door was heavy - she thought it was locked - but it wasn’t (how embarrassing), and she quickly closed it behind her, trapping her in the small, cluttered room. She had gathered herself now, at least enough to take a deep breath and look in the mirror for a moment. Her makeup had been done nicely today, I hated knowing I would be the one to mess it up in just a moment, but water moves how it wants to move and where it wants to go and there’s nothing tears can do to stop themselves except maybe just sit for one second longer in her eyes and stay there until she is ready for sure and maybe she can distract herself and think about someone else and it will all be okay. But she looked down at her phone, at a text message she had just received. 

“You too,” it said. 

What it meant was, “You have a good life too, and be safe, and know that I don’t see you like that anymore, and I hope you’re okay and I don’t miss what we had and I’m sure you’ll be fine someday and please take care of yourself like I used to take care of you and I’m sorry I can’t be that person anymore and also I’m not. Have a good life. You too.”

And finally, I got to leave. I was hoping it would be fun and I would be free, but instead, I felt sad, sad for her, and sad that I was alone now dripping down her face and even sadder that she did nothing to stop me because now she had given up. I was free but I was alone and she had let me go. And as I left I took a part of her with me, not really on purpose, but I took a part of her with me. So I splashed flat on the floor of this small cafe bathroom with a weirdly heavy door and so did she. 

A study date with a friend but is it a date or are you just studying and you’re in the park so maybe it’s a date but he seems to be actually working hard so you’re not sure

Writing “The dictionary defines…” is never a good place to start an academic essay, especially one on Shakespeare, but that’s what we were working with today.

The dictionary defines a date as “the day of the month or year as specified by a number.” That’s not the definition I wanted, but I wrote it anyway. I glanced up. He was working still.

The dictionary defines work as “to operate or function properly or effectively.” That’s not the definition I wanted, but I wrote it anyway. I glanced up again.  He was typing something into Google; I could see it in the reflection of his glasses. Is it weird that I was looking in the reflection of his glasses? Could he tell? I looked back at my own computer. Would he think it’s weird if I asked him a question? I could pretend I needed help with my essay and he could lean over and read it. Maybe I should write something first.  

The dictionary defines weird as “suggesting something supernatural or uncanny.” I guess that definition fits. Maybe he thought I was supernatural.  

“Hey, is it bad to start an essay with a definition?” I thought about asking.  And he would maybe reply, “It depends what you’re defining,” and I would look right in his eyes and say, “love.”  

But instead of asking, I just scooted over a bit on the blanket. The blanket itself wasn’t really big enough for both of us, but instead of having the guts to sit close to him, I was sitting on the very corner of the blanket, the grass beneath pressing into my calves, making my legs itch. I wanted to scratch them, but what if it looked weird when I did and he thought I was weird? I could just readjust how I was sitting, but what if it looked stupid, or what if I couldn’t get comfortable, or what if there was some leg sweat on my leg and when I moved he could see it? Because all of that would be really embarrassing and then what if he didn’t want to study together anymore? That would really suck. So instead I got back to my essay. 

 “The dictionary defines love as an intense feeling of deep affection; however, in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, love -”.  Wait, are you supposed to underline or italicize a play? This would be a good question to ask him.  It would definitely break the silence a little. It’s casual and cool. I took a deep breath.  

“Wait, are you supposed to underline a play?” I asked.  “I don’t know. Sorry,” he replied. Nice.  That seemed casual. I should probably just Google it though. I googled it. “However, in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, love takes on a new meaning with the unbridled and unrequited love of many characters.” Hm.  

“Hey, I should probably get going,” he said casually, packing up his computer as he spoke. “No worries,” I replied casually, keeping it very casual (and cool). “I’m just gonna work on my essay here for a bit longer.” He smiled and left.  

“While eventually leading to happiness, the unstoppable passion of Shakespeare’s characters is what causes the many problems and disagreements that occur throughout the show.” As soon as he was out of sight, I closed my computer. How could I be so stupid? A study date is just a study date. He definitely thought I was weird and probably just asked me to study so he wouldn’t be sitting alone in the park. And that’s what I was doing now, which definitely looked weird and, - wait he just texted me. “Hey, I couldn’t get up the nerve to say this earlier haha, but would you want to go on a real date soon? like dinner or something,” it said. 

The dictionary defines a real date as “maybe he thinks I’m weird but maybe he still likes me and I would love to go on a real date with you, are you free tomorrow? I know a good Chinese place.” 

Thoughts from an old friend

I’ve been thinking recently of the phenomena of the people on the subway car in front of me, or behind me, or with me. The people. We probably won’t ever know each other and we’ve led such different lives and played such different roles, but just for this one train ride our bodies move in parallel and in the same motion. For a moment, we are united. I see movement as connection, unison as unity, and it doesn’t really mean anything in the grand scheme of things, but we are all trapped in this tiny little tube underground and our bodies are moving at the exact same velocity in the same direction and that’s crazy. In a good way. The whole earth is huge and the whole universe is just even bigger and the fact that for a few minutes between train stations our bodies and our minds and our hearts are moving in the exact same way through the universe is just insane. We’ve existed in different times and come from different places and we’ll probably never see each other again and one day one of us will die and then eventually the rest, but just for right now we’re together and that feels important for me to say. So I’m telling you. I guess this is sort of random, but I hope you’re doing well. Sorry, this text was so long.