Oh My God, It's a Greek Tragedy!

Something green and blue is glittering at me from the sidewalk. I kneel down in order to peer, half in love with it already, only to discover to my horror that the regal glow belongs to a dead bird, one of those painfully beautiful ones with the metallic feathers.

When I was little I used to see them swoop by flowers, maybe they were getting their nectar jones out then, I don’t know. I used to have this craving to sneak up on them in order to see them from close up, but they being birds, were smart enough to flee before I ever had the chance.

Now, here was my big day. The poor thing was fucking glued straight to the pavement, as if it had tried to smash directly through it. The metallic green and blue feathers and sleek black beak were laced with little droplets of blood, and I was reminded of my nail polish bottles.

The bugs hadn’t yet gotten to the now-expired specimen, clearly. Must have not been dead for long. I looked and looked until finally I sighed loudly, stating mainly to myself that this was a sad, sad day.

No one gives a shit about a dead pigeon, but this...This was the goddamn pageant queen of birds, not that I knew it by name.

Beautiful things have no staying power.

For some reason this makes me think of The Clarinet Player and the sad, beautiful music he makes. Such hard work it makes his teeth shift in their place, he says. He has the most beautiful hands I have ever seen on a man, with crescent shaped white parts and everything. Smooth, without a ridge. Some women would be quite envious.

The saddest thing is I know we will never work out.

All signs point to yes, but my intuition is screaming no.

Our first big night out, I convince him to skip out on picking up his elderly father from the airport. "Come spend the night with me instead," I say. "Let him take a cab."

I sometimes don’t know if I say things because I really want them to happen, or I am simply checking just how far certain individuals are willing to go for me.

Wait, that’s not entirely true in this case. I want to go home with him. Not to any particular home, really, it’s more of a conceptual thing. I want to fuck like crazy. With him, yes. I don’t know if I could ever explain it, but with some people I just feel this insane, almost animal chemical compatibility, like all my systems are sounding off, MATE IMMEDIATELY. It all boils down to our immune systems and genetic baggage and what his genes have to offer mine, I know, but it’s in the goddamn air.

I convince him quite easily, obviously.
4 AM and in the arrivals terminal at Ben Gurion, a stranger landing from Budapest has to hitch a taxi home because I am holding his son captive.

A few nights afterwards, I sweep him home to my place. I was out earlier, with Little T., who handed me a see-through rock. We were doing lines in public bathrooms and plowing the city with jittery teeth.

He is so sweet, so simple, so pure. Much like the rock I slid into my Cover Girl compact. I don’t use foundation or powders, so it only seemed natural to dump out the original contents of the package and turn it into an easy, breezy parcel for the occasional lump, bud, rock, stamp, powder or pill. Inside I glued a picture from Coney Island, circa 1949. Post-war optimism. The New Look. Coiffed hairdos. A group of people is on an amusement ride of some kind. The women are throwing their hands upwards in exhilaration. Whee! What a fitting image for all that this compact has been through. On the other side, there is the mirror that came with it, adhered to the interior. $2.89 at Rite-Aid, somewhere in Maryland. Cheap thrills.

I am driving in a progressive state of lockjaw. I pick him up even though I suppose I shouldn’t even be driving. We are seated on my bed, and I dig out the compact from my purse.

No one ever says, hey baby, I’m bored and you seem sweet, wanna get lost?

Instead I crush the rock with my Wells Fargo card and offer him a neat line. It’s a little bit like in elementary school, where there are those kids who will go along with nearly anything you pitch them. It’s how we convinced Arthur to accompany us through the woods to the Hook Graveyard in fifth grade, even though he was an only child and was to be grounded for life.

It's how Nash and I always played hooky in summer camp and pocketed silver nail polish and went to smoke in the woods, and Molly was the tag-along. Elaborate plans require scapegoats. People will do almost anything to be accepted. I feel kinda bad thinking all of this about him, but no one makes choices for you. It all boils down to what kind of person you are.

He is nervous and excited, in this adorable way.

What’s it like? He asks. I mean, what does it do to you?

Not a fucking thing, it's what you do to you.

I give a quick presentation on the difference between uppers and downers. In case anything screws up too badly, I am armed with Diazepam, to knock us out for a bit. I shouldn’t be here doing lines with the classical clarinet player, I should be trying to land a new job. I am too smart to wait tables, indicates common Ashkenazi logic. I shouldn’t be out corrupting innocents, I should get my ass back to University and hurry the bloody fuck up with getting a real degree.

I shouldn’t be here with someone who I can already tell is pretty much infatuated with me, when I can’t feel anything for them. I am haunted by thoughts that have nothing to do with me. I am thinking of a difference in class, in upbringing, in our histories. How different we are, how I was raised by bigots and elitists to believe that I am much better than he is. How different we are, and yet here we are doing the exact same thing.

It’s my fault, I know.
We stay up for two days, talking. We only leave the bed for the occasional trip to the washroom, to splash our faces with water, or to the kitchen, to bring some tea. A big pot of tea reminds me of Husky Eyes and Berlin and talking to Claudi until I fell asleep.

He can’t stop talking; he is on the upper wave. He weaves his entire family history spanning four generations back, and this is the most fascinating stuff I’ve ever heard. World Wars, the Holocaust, gypsies, affairs, alcoholism, deception and trickery, insanity and uprooting. It’s like an Amir Kostariza movie, and I tell him I think he should write it all down.

It saddens me to think that he comes from all this. But the most interesting stories are usually the painful ones. Eventually we are coming down, and we fuck. It’s the first time I drag him past the hurdle that always seemed to exist there, Shiri. He emerges with his back marked almost entirely by my nails, little pink half-moons turning dark red as the minutes drag on. I had clawed at him. When it was all over, he was panting so hard it sounded almost like muffled weeping.

Afterwards, he finally crumpled into sleep, but my body was still reeling from the lines. Try as I did I couldn’t fall asleep. My hear rate was shot. I could hear the pulsating beats inside my head, right above my eyes. I tossed and turned and tried to find things to think about in order to avoid thinking of other things.

I am thinking of how Husky Eyes bought a ticket to Israel and how he will be here in a month. I’m thinking of what misconceptions he probably has regarding me and what went on between us. I am thinking of the clarinet player sleeping next to me, in love and unaware. I am thinking of how my grandmother is in the hospital and the doctors can’t seem to pinpoint what’s wrong. I am thinking of how I don’t have cash for gas or parking at the hospital, and how she must feel like she is rotting away and no one gives a shit. No one is coming to visit, and I am a shitty grandchild. I am thinking of how I just got fired, so any thought of leaving my second job at Café Hell is now moot. The things we do for money.

I am also thinking of R. and how I pretty much disappeared on him. Not that I owe him any explanations, really. It’s just that he was so kind to me and withstood a massive amount of unnecessary bullshit on my part. And more than that, worst than that, I miss him, even if only in the most physical of ways.

I never know what I want. And I didn’t know that there was so much to take that I didn’t, until I tried to take the same things from The Clarinet Player, only to encounter a naïve wall of resistance.