I'm tired.
My legs and feet throb. My breath comes quick. My nostrils are cold. I have a head ache. My right arm is going. It's hard to speak, and when I do, it comes out wrong - fragile, old, dithering. My feet are bloated. I have a spot on my back that feels terribly sun burned but it's not a sunburn. I don't want to eat. I want to lie down but I can no longer get up from a chair or the sofa. I spit up. I bathe infrequently. I'm having trouble concentrating. Getting in and out of the wheelchair, putting on pants, getting in and out of bed, making coffee, making food, all of these activities tire me. I must sit still and stare and ruminate (often). I avoid the phone, hearing myself speak into the phone, the clarity of what I have lost, (do I dare plan practically for what I will lose? No. I need to get to the next task) - is diminishing.
There are so many things to do! But I gotta get outside. So, I scooter to the Hudson River.
To get to the river, I elevator down to the lobby.
My expression is dour. I lean my face to my lap.
Countless residents attempt cheerful conversation as we lower to the lobby.
"I like your hat", or "cool scooter", or
last week as I attempted backing out of the elevator - banging into its sides - a cheerful stranger offers, "Come on! You can do it! I KNOW you can do it!"
To which I bitterly reply (in my garbled slow, stymied voice)
"Mam! I just got the wheelchair today. I'm figuring it out. CAN WE RELAX!?"
This silenced her into gazing solemnly. (No sweet, dear handicap here).
I wait behind glass doors for someone to open them so I that I can then scoot into the main lobby.
Spiro (my staggeringly capable) doorman, races to the front doors to open them for me, often tackling do-gooders away from the door so that he can take his rightful place.
Spiro speaks unskilled English. I am barely understood. Our conversations go like this,
"How you today, my friend, Charlie?"
"good, feels good to be outside"
"Ess too hot for us. Ees no gudt. There are so pared down for us the work. So few of us. In America, they want us to wear this heavy suit and eets no gudt for de warmer seasons."
"They should give you a summer suit. Linen. Or just polo shirts!"
"What? What? Ees no gudt. No. They say no hats. That is all! Feel gudt and have a wonderful day, Charlie."
And at this point, Spiro always pats me on my heart. The stroke to the chest is Spiro's signature.
Outside, I scoot past tourists. A woman (I do not know) yells out from an outdoor cafe, "hey Charlie!"
I don't recognize her. I am either infamous or losing my memory.
I mouth, but don't say, a lame, meek, handicapped, "Hello" and continue on my way.
On the very end of Pier 84, I close my eyes and imagine that I'm sailing the Hudson in my own schooner. I read, "The Leaves of Grass". I attempt notes for a play. I play "Angry Birds" on my i-phone.
____________
At night, after dinner, I again scoot down to the park outside my building.
It's really great. It's very communal (in a cold and distant, city-ish, way). It reminds of Hitchcock's
"Rear Window". All of the unknowable tenants on display, reading, eating, playing ball, gossiping.
Tonight, I watch "The Fugitive Kind" on my laptop, a film based on Tennessee Williams' play "Orpheus Descending". It stars Marlon Brando and Anna Magnani (was there ever a more unlikely Hollywood movie star than Anna Magnani?) Brando is so cocksure of himself, so deeply channeled to his odd choices, (and still so very handsome) - it's jaw dropping to behold, all most crossing the line to rubber necking- gaping at a crime scene.
As I pack up my laptop to go back up to the ninth floor, I notice three people pointing above me, high up (like at the moon).
And next, I see a small foreign woman (most of my neighbors are from other countries) - I see a small foreign woman with a summer wrap and bed slippers, complaining to a night door man.
"But thees is terrible! I can't sleep like thees. How do expect me to sleep?"
And she (like the others) points high above.
And, I notice that the enormous new high rise (twin to mine) - this 70 story comlex has spot lights hitting it from my the top of my 50 story building. Gigantic flood lights. Someone hit the wrong switch and this goliath condominium high-rise is bathed in blinding white light.
The scene struck me as so modern.
The small woman in slippers standing in the grass, simply wants her neighbor to turn off their lights so she can get some sleep.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
TOY STORY
A dinner plate with a salmon burger on it,
slides out of the open refrigerator, tumbles to the floor, and shatters into five or six jagged shapes.
I stop and consider the mess.
I am stuck. I can't just roll over it (on my new borrowed wheel chair)...
so I call Jackie.
"Jackie, I've had a SMALL little disaster... I broke something, can you come over?"
(I emphasize "small" to make sure she understands this episode won't be a three hour ordeal - like last week when I fell in the bathroom toilet and Jackie wandered around the building looking for someone strong enough to lift me out of it).
"Alright, I'll be right ovah."
Jackie sounds drowsy and hesitant. "Sixty Minutes" is on in the background. It's dinnertime.
As I wait for Jackie, I stare at the broken pieces, the sludge of salmon, on the dirty tile floor.
Above an oily crescent shard, near the doorway, I fixate on a dirty string (of something); a rotting remnant of spinach or kale? No. It's a gold chain with a pearl. It's Jackie's. She's been missing it for days.
"It's a sign!" Jackie says. "What does it mean, Charlie? This plate was meant to be broken. Everything happens for a reason."
But I'm not able to join in her mystical enthusiasm. I feel weak. I'm hungry. It's difficult to talk. (I'm losing my strength to talk). Jackie requires answers but all I offer are lopsided smiles and and weak nods. Jackie is carried away by her own charisma so it doesn't seem to bother her.
After Jackie exits, and after I swallow some food, I decide to go to the movies. "Toy Story 3" has rave reviews. I'll wheelchair to 42nd and Eighth for the ten o'clock showing. I buckle the safety belt and begin my sojourn.
As I wheel away from the Hudson east to Time Square, the city becomes sinister.
There's something not right about 42nd Street. It doesn't know what it's supposed to be (anymore).
I wheel past spectacular brand-new (unlit and empty) skyscrapers (condos!) which meet filthy, savage sidewalks, past shady people and the smells of frying pork, the hum of endless air conditioners.
It occurs to me that that whir at night is synonymous (for me) with summer in the city. And this sound is relatively new. That enormous professional roar didn't begin (I would guess) until the seventies. What was the sound of summer in New York in the sixties or fifties?
Wheeling across forty-second street, I sense hundreds of displaced and unhappy ghosts.
_________________
At the theatre, I wait outside. I wait until someone is kind enough to open the doors. Two sets.
I buy a ticket from a machine. I take an elevator to the fifth floor.
"Toy Story Three" doesn't make me tear up. What got to me was darker.
The toys hold hands as they face certain death in a city dump incinerator.
This scene felt brutal. I guess kids and their parent's understand, they expect, that the toys will be rescued, somehow. And of course, they were. But to me, the conventions for expectations (that everything will be okay) have been quietly altered.
I thought, "well this is it for the toys, it's a terrible way to go, but you got to go sometime". Somehow I forgot that they would (of course) be rescued.
slides out of the open refrigerator, tumbles to the floor, and shatters into five or six jagged shapes.
I stop and consider the mess.
I am stuck. I can't just roll over it (on my new borrowed wheel chair)...
so I call Jackie.
"Jackie, I've had a SMALL little disaster... I broke something, can you come over?"
(I emphasize "small" to make sure she understands this episode won't be a three hour ordeal - like last week when I fell in the bathroom toilet and Jackie wandered around the building looking for someone strong enough to lift me out of it).
"Alright, I'll be right ovah."
Jackie sounds drowsy and hesitant. "Sixty Minutes" is on in the background. It's dinnertime.
As I wait for Jackie, I stare at the broken pieces, the sludge of salmon, on the dirty tile floor.
Above an oily crescent shard, near the doorway, I fixate on a dirty string (of something); a rotting remnant of spinach or kale? No. It's a gold chain with a pearl. It's Jackie's. She's been missing it for days.
"It's a sign!" Jackie says. "What does it mean, Charlie? This plate was meant to be broken. Everything happens for a reason."
But I'm not able to join in her mystical enthusiasm. I feel weak. I'm hungry. It's difficult to talk. (I'm losing my strength to talk). Jackie requires answers but all I offer are lopsided smiles and and weak nods. Jackie is carried away by her own charisma so it doesn't seem to bother her.
After Jackie exits, and after I swallow some food, I decide to go to the movies. "Toy Story 3" has rave reviews. I'll wheelchair to 42nd and Eighth for the ten o'clock showing. I buckle the safety belt and begin my sojourn.
As I wheel away from the Hudson east to Time Square, the city becomes sinister.
There's something not right about 42nd Street. It doesn't know what it's supposed to be (anymore).
I wheel past spectacular brand-new (unlit and empty) skyscrapers (condos!) which meet filthy, savage sidewalks, past shady people and the smells of frying pork, the hum of endless air conditioners.
It occurs to me that that whir at night is synonymous (for me) with summer in the city. And this sound is relatively new. That enormous professional roar didn't begin (I would guess) until the seventies. What was the sound of summer in New York in the sixties or fifties?
Wheeling across forty-second street, I sense hundreds of displaced and unhappy ghosts.
_________________
At the theatre, I wait outside. I wait until someone is kind enough to open the doors. Two sets.
I buy a ticket from a machine. I take an elevator to the fifth floor.
"Toy Story Three" doesn't make me tear up. What got to me was darker.
The toys hold hands as they face certain death in a city dump incinerator.
This scene felt brutal. I guess kids and their parent's understand, they expect, that the toys will be rescued, somehow. And of course, they were. But to me, the conventions for expectations (that everything will be okay) have been quietly altered.
I thought, "well this is it for the toys, it's a terrible way to go, but you got to go sometime". Somehow I forgot that they would (of course) be rescued.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
PEPPER
Jackie is at the sink doing dishes.
I'm fully naked on my new wheelchair (recently borrowed from the local ALS chapter) - a red throw pillow on my lap. The borrowed wheelchair has a joystick on it's left arm. This reactive devise allows me to race forward and backwards on the bare parquet floors without intention. I am an unfocused boy.
By holding the joystick down to a hard left, I spin elegant and mindless three hundred and sixty degrees.
Jackie is saying,
"I think I upset Pepper." Jackie is working her extreme anguish expressions. "I told Pepper that my daughter didn't want to be alone with Eddie (Jackie's brother, Pepper's husband) because she's afraid that Eddie will get violent. See Charlie, we know this other man that has Alzheimer's, just like Eddie's, and this other man with Alzheimer's, woke up one morning - this is RECENT Charlie, this other other man woke up one morning and said, 'Who are you?' and beat his wife, Charlie! So now my daughter is afraid to be alone with my brother - because of the Alzheimer's!" And when Jackie says this last phrase, she slows it down and pitches it up, like a polished Dramatic Soprano finishing off a tragic aria.
I spin in my electric chair. I go back and forth on the banal parquet floor. Jackie entertains me. Don't get me wrong, I respect Jackie, but she can often soothe as a TV would, only this TV allows for a dialectic.
"What did she say Jackie, when you told her that?"
"Charlie" she whipers, " I don't think she liked it, because she got real quiet and said she had to get off the phone, and Pepper's not like that, Charlie. And now I feel tear- rib - bull."
I stop my puerile maneuvering and consider Jackie's situation. Jackie focuses on the dishes.
After a six count I say, " Jackie, you need to be generous, and kind, and patient, and very, very brave."
"Charlie, I am kind. I go over there. I sit in that studio apartment on Barrow they've lived in for the past forty years. I go and sometimes Pepper goes out for food. But Charlie it's scary! He jumps back and forth from the present to past. And what if he starts in on me? What if he starts lecturing for my youth. I was different forty years, Charlie, but Eddie forgets that."
"Let him say what he wants Jackie, he can't get to you. You're clearly not that person anymore."
"But why must the past always be drudged up? Why can't I get away from my past? I know I did some bad things, but why must I always be forced to look at it. What is G-d doing? What is G-d up to? I just don't know Charlie, but I can't take it."
Jackie (once again) channels Blanche Dubois. She's in pain, but her love for "Street Car" is coloring her delivery.
"Jackie, if you feel bad about Pepper, call her up. Tell her how much you love and appreciate her taking care of your brother. Tell her how lucky you are to have such a good sister in law."
Jackie takes my counsel like I'm the Dalai Lama or Doctor Phil, all wide eyed and still.
(I feel like a faker - I can dish it out but I can't take it).
_______________
Jackie and I scoot around my apartment making plans for it's new no-nonsense design. I show her pictures on the web of the the ten foot long desk I'll buy. Jackie is big on not owning a thing. She recommends I get rid of the scooter, "you have a wheel chair, do you need both?" and my homely breathing machine, "do you ever use that thing? Get rid of it, you don't need it."
But in the midst of our happy planning, Jackie stops short.
"I gotta go Charlie, I gotta call Pepper."
I'm fully naked on my new wheelchair (recently borrowed from the local ALS chapter) - a red throw pillow on my lap. The borrowed wheelchair has a joystick on it's left arm. This reactive devise allows me to race forward and backwards on the bare parquet floors without intention. I am an unfocused boy.
By holding the joystick down to a hard left, I spin elegant and mindless three hundred and sixty degrees.
Jackie is saying,
"I think I upset Pepper." Jackie is working her extreme anguish expressions. "I told Pepper that my daughter didn't want to be alone with Eddie (Jackie's brother, Pepper's husband) because she's afraid that Eddie will get violent. See Charlie, we know this other man that has Alzheimer's, just like Eddie's, and this other man with Alzheimer's, woke up one morning - this is RECENT Charlie, this other other man woke up one morning and said, 'Who are you?' and beat his wife, Charlie! So now my daughter is afraid to be alone with my brother - because of the Alzheimer's!" And when Jackie says this last phrase, she slows it down and pitches it up, like a polished Dramatic Soprano finishing off a tragic aria.
I spin in my electric chair. I go back and forth on the banal parquet floor. Jackie entertains me. Don't get me wrong, I respect Jackie, but she can often soothe as a TV would, only this TV allows for a dialectic.
"What did she say Jackie, when you told her that?"
"Charlie" she whipers, " I don't think she liked it, because she got real quiet and said she had to get off the phone, and Pepper's not like that, Charlie. And now I feel tear- rib - bull."
I stop my puerile maneuvering and consider Jackie's situation. Jackie focuses on the dishes.
After a six count I say, " Jackie, you need to be generous, and kind, and patient, and very, very brave."
"Charlie, I am kind. I go over there. I sit in that studio apartment on Barrow they've lived in for the past forty years. I go and sometimes Pepper goes out for food. But Charlie it's scary! He jumps back and forth from the present to past. And what if he starts in on me? What if he starts lecturing for my youth. I was different forty years, Charlie, but Eddie forgets that."
"Let him say what he wants Jackie, he can't get to you. You're clearly not that person anymore."
"But why must the past always be drudged up? Why can't I get away from my past? I know I did some bad things, but why must I always be forced to look at it. What is G-d doing? What is G-d up to? I just don't know Charlie, but I can't take it."
Jackie (once again) channels Blanche Dubois. She's in pain, but her love for "Street Car" is coloring her delivery.
"Jackie, if you feel bad about Pepper, call her up. Tell her how much you love and appreciate her taking care of your brother. Tell her how lucky you are to have such a good sister in law."
Jackie takes my counsel like I'm the Dalai Lama or Doctor Phil, all wide eyed and still.
(I feel like a faker - I can dish it out but I can't take it).
_______________
Jackie and I scoot around my apartment making plans for it's new no-nonsense design. I show her pictures on the web of the the ten foot long desk I'll buy. Jackie is big on not owning a thing. She recommends I get rid of the scooter, "you have a wheel chair, do you need both?" and my homely breathing machine, "do you ever use that thing? Get rid of it, you don't need it."
But in the midst of our happy planning, Jackie stops short.
"I gotta go Charlie, I gotta call Pepper."
Friday, July 9, 2010
Monday, July 5, 2010
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
