from the choirgirl hotel
Nov. 6th, 2007 04:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
intertribalI just turned away from a beggar when somebody grabbed my shoulder outside the bowling lane bar that stands between the grocery store and my apartment, and I was thinking, shit, they're getting more aggressive. I tried to keep walking but the "excuse me!"s got louder and I thought, what, does this guy actually need help with directions? I turned around. He was slightly brown, with slightly off-color black hair, the kind of half-Mediterranean, pseudo-Arabic look that anyone who knows me should know is one of my types. Holding a bottle of beer and a cigarette.
"Do you speak English?" Earnest, smiling.
"Yeah..." I pulled one earbud from my ear and became suddenly conscious that I was listening to "Hotel". It's on my "boys will be boys" playlist. It's a cynical playlist, but on my way to the post shop I was going through Hole, so it's not as bad as it could have been.
"Oh, good, listen, can you sign my t-shirt?" He thrust a red pen at me. It would stand out against all the messages in black on turquoise.
"Uh, why?"
"Cuz we're having this contest, to see who can get the most signatures." It was loud inside the bar, even though it's 4:45 in the afternoon.
"Sure..." I took the pen and stabbed myself with it while trying to open it and carry my box of oatmeal that the check-out nerd had not even asked if I wanted a bag for, instead insisting that I show him the contents of my purse and not even bothering to help pick up the change i dropped in my efforts to show him the bag while holding my wallet, the receipt, and the box of oatmeal - he bothered me. He looked like Napoleon Dynamite. The point is, now there's a red blur on my index finger. It almost looks intentional.
"So what's your name?"
"Nadia."
"Ah, and where're you from?"
"The U.S."
"Whereabouts?"
"New York." I hesitated, because I'm not really from New York.
"Can't place it - oh, in the northeast, right, in the northeast?" I'm glad I said New York. He would have had trouble placing Nebraska.
"Yeah, in the northeast. Where should I sign?"
"Oh, anywhere, anywhere you want. Just sign your name and a message, or whatever you want, doesn't matter."
I signed his shoulder, in red ink, and I didn't remember until later that you're not supposed to sign your name in red ink - it means bad luck or death or some kind of doom. I thought about a message. I asked him where he was from, and he said "Here". Melbourne? Melbourne. Damn and I was hoping for something more exotic. I didn't write a message. What the hell would I have written? I gave the pen back to him.
"Well, good luck with the competition." I walked away.
"Say, Nadia, what are you up to?"
I looked back over my shoulder and shook the box of oatmeal - packets or sachets, pick your English. There were people coming up behind him, Asian couples in sunglasses and straight hair, the kind of trendy folk who fit the cars that are always parked along Little Lonsdale - black clean cars with novelty leather. I thought about it. There's a slew of things I could have said. I could have walked back toward him. I've had "Reasons to be Beautiful" on repeat, on my own playlist, called in my trademark sarcasm, "stronger, faster, better". He was smiling at me, but now that I think about it, I can't remember what he looks like. I keep mixing him up with the other one, you know, the one I'm in love with. "Grocery shopping."
"Ah, need some uh, need some fiber? Are you okay?"
"Oh yeah, I just need breakfast."
He looked at his watch and laughed. "This time of day?" Oh what, I thought, you're drinking beer before sundown.
"Yup."
"You're doin' alright, you're doin' alright."
I replaced the earbud and resumed listening to "Hotel", and I went home, and nobody stopped me again. I saw sad people on the tram heading for places with names the Australian government stole from the Aboriginal people. On my way to the grocery store, a couple excitedly walked between two paused taxi cabs and into a stream of traffic, and nearly died. The girl covered her face and ran back onto the curb with the taxi drivers laughing at her and the car that almost ran her over, a father with his little girls with their palms against the glass, speeding past, the father probably cursing like my father would have been. I don't know where the couple went, because they hurried back the other way down Swanston Street, the boy chasing the girl. I guess they didn't need to go to QV after all.
"Do you speak English?" Earnest, smiling.
"Yeah..." I pulled one earbud from my ear and became suddenly conscious that I was listening to "Hotel". It's on my "boys will be boys" playlist. It's a cynical playlist, but on my way to the post shop I was going through Hole, so it's not as bad as it could have been.
"Oh, good, listen, can you sign my t-shirt?" He thrust a red pen at me. It would stand out against all the messages in black on turquoise.
"Uh, why?"
"Cuz we're having this contest, to see who can get the most signatures." It was loud inside the bar, even though it's 4:45 in the afternoon.
"Sure..." I took the pen and stabbed myself with it while trying to open it and carry my box of oatmeal that the check-out nerd had not even asked if I wanted a bag for, instead insisting that I show him the contents of my purse and not even bothering to help pick up the change i dropped in my efforts to show him the bag while holding my wallet, the receipt, and the box of oatmeal - he bothered me. He looked like Napoleon Dynamite. The point is, now there's a red blur on my index finger. It almost looks intentional.
"So what's your name?"
"Nadia."
"Ah, and where're you from?"
"The U.S."
"Whereabouts?"
"New York." I hesitated, because I'm not really from New York.
"Can't place it - oh, in the northeast, right, in the northeast?" I'm glad I said New York. He would have had trouble placing Nebraska.
"Yeah, in the northeast. Where should I sign?"
"Oh, anywhere, anywhere you want. Just sign your name and a message, or whatever you want, doesn't matter."
I signed his shoulder, in red ink, and I didn't remember until later that you're not supposed to sign your name in red ink - it means bad luck or death or some kind of doom. I thought about a message. I asked him where he was from, and he said "Here". Melbourne? Melbourne. Damn and I was hoping for something more exotic. I didn't write a message. What the hell would I have written? I gave the pen back to him.
"Well, good luck with the competition." I walked away.
"Say, Nadia, what are you up to?"
I looked back over my shoulder and shook the box of oatmeal - packets or sachets, pick your English. There were people coming up behind him, Asian couples in sunglasses and straight hair, the kind of trendy folk who fit the cars that are always parked along Little Lonsdale - black clean cars with novelty leather. I thought about it. There's a slew of things I could have said. I could have walked back toward him. I've had "Reasons to be Beautiful" on repeat, on my own playlist, called in my trademark sarcasm, "stronger, faster, better". He was smiling at me, but now that I think about it, I can't remember what he looks like. I keep mixing him up with the other one, you know, the one I'm in love with. "Grocery shopping."
"Ah, need some uh, need some fiber? Are you okay?"
"Oh yeah, I just need breakfast."
He looked at his watch and laughed. "This time of day?" Oh what, I thought, you're drinking beer before sundown.
"Yup."
"You're doin' alright, you're doin' alright."
I replaced the earbud and resumed listening to "Hotel", and I went home, and nobody stopped me again. I saw sad people on the tram heading for places with names the Australian government stole from the Aboriginal people. On my way to the grocery store, a couple excitedly walked between two paused taxi cabs and into a stream of traffic, and nearly died. The girl covered her face and ran back onto the curb with the taxi drivers laughing at her and the car that almost ran her over, a father with his little girls with their palms against the glass, speeding past, the father probably cursing like my father would have been. I don't know where the couple went, because they hurried back the other way down Swanston Street, the boy chasing the girl. I guess they didn't need to go to QV after all.
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no subject
Date: 2007-11-06 08:14 am (UTC)I get approached by people on the streets sometimes, even sketchy guys after dark, but usually nobody does anything bad, they just want money or a cigarette or directions... except the guy who made fun of my car. "Hey! Hey, how's it going? That car, it's real brown. ...Does it run good?" And then he laughed at me. He might've been stoned, though.
Also, in the world of my parents (a slightly alcoholic one, it's true. it goes with BLTs or chili and sports), beer is a perfectly legit afternoon drink. It's hard liquor and wine you've got to wait for...
Anyway, I liked reading this.
no subject
Date: 2007-11-06 08:20 am (UTC)You have a car, now?
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Date: 2007-11-06 08:22 am (UTC)Yeah, it's my great-grandmother's. She can't drive anymore...it's kind of sad. But anyway, yeah, I have a great big boat car.
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Date: 2007-11-06 08:33 am (UTC)that's really funny. my cousin-in-law inherited a big brown boat car that had to be driven up from Louisiana. I think it died, though.
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Date: 2007-11-06 02:38 pm (UTC)Neighborhood #3 Power Out, Hold Your Breath (Denali), Walk On (U2), Packt Like Sardines in a Crushd Tin Box, Alone in Kyoto, Mezzanine (Massive Attack), 6 Underground, Backdrifts, Another Day, Exit (U2), Do Something (Denali), Where the Streets Have No Name (U2), Run, Special Needs, Cruel, Enjoy, Reasons to Be Beautiful (Hole), Never Let Me Down Again, No Cars Go, Small Time Short Away (Massive Attack), Noir Desir (Viva La Fete), Hun Joro (Sigur Ros).
Although some are more meaningful than others.