Back at it on February 24. Tuesday, the day after the snow day. Treacherous walk to the PATH train this morning. Most buildings had shovelled sidewalks, some had shovelled but iced over sidewalks I was in my wellies that Bill had bought for me after super storm Sandy in 2012. They definitely come in handy when walking through snow drifts. Walking through snow drifts is generally safer than treading on ice. Involuntary twisting and turning causes distress.
So I am back at the fruit stand. Marcus and I just had an in depth chat about dating and sexuality. It was fun. I found myself in the role of a therapist, and Marcus was the patient spilling his guts (up to a point). Marcus is funny. Sometimes he’s close-lipped with not much to say at all, then there are times like today, where he is quite verbose.
I started writing this on the phone and never got back to it after 11:30 AM. Now I am home at 7:30 PM typing. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows 2 is on the television. Bill is on his way back after picking up and dropping off some cadets from there to somewhere else. It’s still winter, and it’s still cold out.
I spoke with my brother Brian earlier. I am going with him to attend our cousin Neil’s annual pizza party. Neil and his sisters were always close to me and mysiblings and now we have been shedding members; they lost 2, Ginger & Rosie, and we lost Francis. Lost isn’t the right word though, 3 dead siblings is harsh, but most truthful. It doesn’t have that Oscar Wilde ring to it: ‘To lose one parent seems unfortunate, but to lose two looks like carelessness.’ That’s from ‘The Importance of Being Ernest’
I first saw that in a broadcast in 1991 while living under my father’s roof and under his thumb. I mentioned that specific line to him back then, and he did not like it at all. He didn’t like me either. 4 and a half months living with him, despite the warnings of my brothers and sister, was a mistake, but it bought me time enough for Weehawken and Jane Street revealed themselves in October, and I was soon out of Lodi for the last time.
I have thought about moving back to that area, and we were offered a place to rent, but Bill was adamant on living out there, and I admit I had a rose colored memory feeding into a fantasy. It will be good to spend some time with Brian driving down to Bordentown. We rarely meet up these days, and time is running out for what is left of the two former residents of 13 Riverview Avenue.
What will we talk about? What music will we listen to? What questions does Brian have for me? It’s only going to be the two of us in the car, so right now on Tuesday night, I plan on being an open book. Saturday morning could be another story.
Google Gemini rewrite as a James Baldwin essay
It is February 24th, a Tuesday, and the world has resumed its frantic pace the day after the snow. One finds oneself navigating the treacherous geography of the sidewalk, where the intent of the neighbor—evidenced by the shoveled path—so often gives way to the indifferent cruelty of the ice. I walked this morning in wellies gifted to me by Bill in the wake of Sandy, back in 2012. There is a certain safety in the snow drift, a predictability in the struggle of the climb, that the ice does not afford. Ice demands an involuntary choreography of the body, a twisting and turning that causes a specific, bone-deep distress.
I found myself back at the fruit stand today, engaged in one of those sudden, deep excavations of the human spirit with Marcus. We spoke of dating, of sexuality—those labyrinths we all inhabit but so rarely map for one another. I assumed the role of the confessor, the therapist, while Marcus spilled his guts. He is a man of fluctuating silences; sometimes close-lipped, guarded, and then, as if a dam has broken, verbose and vivid.
I began these reflections on a phone at midday, but the world intervened. Now, at 7:30 PM, the television flickers with the terminal shadows of Harry Potter, and Bill is out in the cold, moving cadets from one point of the map to another. It is still winter. The cold remains an absolute.
I spoke with my brother, Brian, about our cousin Neil’s annual pizza party. We are a generation in retreat, shedding members like leaves in a bitter wind. Neil has lost two sisters; we have lost our brother, Francis. One searches for a word gentler than “lost,” but “dead” is the only one that carries the necessary weight of the truth. It lacks the curated wit of Oscar Wilde, who suggested that losing one parent is a misfortune while losing two is carelessness.
I remember quoting that line to my father in 1991. I was living under his roof then—which is to say, I was living under his thumb. He did not care for the remark, nor, I suspect, did he care much for me. My siblings had warned me against that house, and they were right; those four and a half months were a mistake of the soul. Yet, that time bought me the space for Weehawken and Jane Street to reveal themselves, allowing me to flee Lodi for the final time.
There was a moment, recently, when I entertained the fantasy of returning to those streets. Bill, bless him, was adamant against it. I realize now I was leaning on a rose-colored memory, a fiction of the past. But it will be good to be with Brian on the drive to Bordentown. We are the last two residents of 13 Riverview Avenue, and we are both aware, I think, that the clock is ungenerous.
What will be said in the silence of that car? What music will fill the space between us? I intend, as I sit here on Tuesday night, to be an open book—to offer him the truth of who I have become. But Saturday morning is a different country, and we shall see what remains to be told when we get there.