Photo by Hannah Domsic on Unsplash
Lightly, the rain falls, crackling on the dying leaves. As I walk through the apartment complex, I check out the Bulk-Item Disposal, where people leave broken or outdated furniture, the remnants from moving out. I imagine this tinged with a ritual of leaving something behind as the tenants moved on to adventures unknown. Also representing the convenience associated with a disposable society.
On this walk, I see a daybed that was once usable now ruined by the rain, positioned near cheap compressed wood living room furnishings beginning to warp from being soaked. It’s as if those leaving didn’t want anyone else to have them. So selfishness is also an attribute of current life.
The breeze picks up. I pull my coat tight and hold my umbrella slightly forward.
I believe I am no better. Other than a few random keepsakes, I throw things away, eventually.
***
At the café, I order the usual: a large white chocolate latte plus egg and cheese on a sesame bagel. When it comes to breakfast, I stick to the basics.
While eating, I watch a young woman wearing a dark brown paisley shirt buttoned to the neck with a large blue patterned tie. Totally cool—Barnaby Street psychedelic mod from 1967. Hats off to her—I could never pull that off.
She is slight, with orange hair. Reminds me of a young Isabelle Huppert. Love her work. My final date with my first boyfriend was Every Man for Himself, a good Godard film, but in my view, not one of his best. Still, Huppert was exceptional in her role as a prostitute.
Huppert plays emotionally distant, weird characters and is gifted with agelessness and limitless talent. I admire that.
She certainly could play me.
After breaking up with the said boyfriend, I changed my hairstyle to mimic Huppert’s in the film. More than 40 years later, my bangs remain--now in witchy gray.
I observe the young woman. She is soft-spoken, and her poise is confident yet with a hesitant air. I wish her well because I remember when I was just like that.
***
In French, voyant means clairvoyant, a seer. It also may mean dramatic or tasteless. Both of these connotations sometimes fit me like a glove. I tend to say the wrong thing at the worst time. I can become addicted to negative feelings. It never bodes well to be seen as cranky, and as I grow older, I learn I must shift into better behavior.
Yet after years of therapy, self-realization, staggered among moments of personal growth, I am somewhat behind what I envisioned I could be at nineteen, watching Godard with a boyfriend I did not much like anymore and chose to strive to be better.
But there are times I cannot fake my emotions. When I do, chaos erupts.
***
I can see the fragments of the future. I describe this as finding adventures in a broken mirror.
This gift is a blessing and a curse. The former is when I avoid trouble. The latter is when I ignore it and end up in an abyss. When I realize it, I always make a note not to ever do this again, then quickly forget until the next time.
To summarize: I remain undiscovered, even to myself.
***
I watch the young woman leave. While I believe that I am no longer at the age to pull off paisley, I still can wear my Doc Martens. So I kick them up on the empty chair opposite me and finish breakfast.
***
To spite my tinnitus, I play my music loud, though my phone has a governor to limit the maximum volume.
The rain has stopped, but the sky is battleship gray.
I pass through the East Village. While walking through Tompkins Square Park, I watch a hardcore band setting up. Two of the band members are as old as I am. Still at it, playing the same three chords exploding into a cloud of proverbial dust.
I admire that. With a deft gesture of my right hand, I send a silent blessing.
***
New York was a destination for everyone with a career in mind, but there is a point where you should move on. But I lingered too long when the career clock struck midnight.
When at the edge, jump. There is nothing but air to pass through, and the grass will be gentle on your feet when you land. Unfortunately, when the opportunity to move on occurred, I did not listen to that advice.
I remember the year because that song started pouring in from the headphones. Yeah, Yo La Tengo’s Autumn Sweater. I remember the year that song came out--1997. Yes, I could have slipped away. But instead, I ignored what I saw in the broken mirror.
***
There is a time in the morning before the light breaks out over the horizon when the darkness is less than it was. Some call the twilight the gloaming, but there lacks a corresponding word to describe the shift to a discernible lighter shade. There is the darkest night before dawn—it’s a saying meant to assuage us about depressive periods. To me, the adage just isn’t so.
During those times, I wake early, usually an hour before the beginning of sunrise. I find this is a transitional period that, in a better frame of mind, offers a sense of hope.
I see shapes and shades of monochrome. I can discern the wall and the picture frame beside the closet door. So there is no darkest hour, for that has already passed.
Often, this time is fraught with disappointment because I failed to dream, and also need more sleep.
***
Perhaps I will dream, now. Of me, wearing my autumn sweater. It is black cashmere, and is folded neatly somewhere in my closet.
Mike Lee is a writer and editor at a trade union in New York City. His work appears in or is forthcoming in Drunk Monkeys, The Opiate, Fictionette, Brilliant Flash Fiction, BULL, and many others. His story collection, The Northern Line, is available on Amazon.