Haraval's Blog

As the other passengers and I disembark the subway, a pitter-patter can be heard. Large droplets of rain hit the staircase leading to the street. I stop. People walk past me and, in haunting harmony, open their umbrellas the moment they encounter the rain, not a single moment wasted; they seamlessly stitch dry and wet. I don’t stitch dry and wet as I make my way up the stairs. Instead, I maul them like a beast. I am drenched by the time I make it outside.

I emerge at a park’s edge, trees looming and dripping above. There’s a burger stand by me. No one is in line now, nor is anyone idling around; everyone is too busy finding shelter. A streak of lightning splits the sky and thunder sounds off. My flannel is soaked as much as the fabric will allow and weighs me down a spectacular amount. The library is just a few blocks away, but I can’t handle another second outside. I cross the street with a group of ponchos and hoods and try to find somewhere to wait the rain out.

I enter the first door I pass. Bright LED lights provide a spotlight for a group of people and me. The warmth of the room sends shivers down my chest and spine. I smell fresh bread. On a wall, a sign says Antonio’s, and below it is a list of Italian cities: Bologna, Trento, Torino, Benevento, and Pisillo, among others. They fill an entire wall, each with a short description of a sandwich. There are lots of signs on the wall. One says, “Live life like someone left the gate open.”

Someone nudges my back. I assume it was an accident and pay it no mind, but then receive a sharper nudge. I turn around and face a short woman with a bob cut.

“Excuse me? Sir?”

“Yes?”

She hands me a brochure. The front says, “STOP DESTRUCTION OF EAST RIVER PARK!” Leafing through it, I see why a bulldozing plan the mayor plans to enact is unwarranted and a highlight of the park’s cultural significance. The paper was incredibly crisp until I touched it, now small, dark circles forming whenever I shift my hand.

How is this brochure not already sopping wet? The downpour has taken everyone here hostage, and there is evidence of water-related abuse all around. I am even standing in a puddle. So how did this piece of paper survive? I turn towards the lady, but she has vanished. A glance around the room yields nothing. Nobody else has a brochure in their hands.

Puzzled, I find myself ordering a Pisillo. I’m not hungry, but I can eat, which I do in a corner like a rat nibbling on a bagel. I’m meeting Kim later for dinner, but I should be fine.

By the time I finish, the downpour has reduced to nothing. The gray clouds are no more, replaced with small, feathery wisps. The sun regains full authority of the pale blue sky; with time, the pale will turn striking. Humidity pervades and the heat causes steam to rise from the asphalt. The rain from earlier seems like a passing daydream now, something so extraordinary that it just couldn’t have happened. Of course, the idea of rain is much more pleasant than rain; if it hadn’t happened, perhaps if it had been a scene from a movie or simply a part of my imagination, it would have been much more desirable. Getting caught in the rain seems almost romantic and wonderful even until it happens. “You will admit that if it was not life it was magnificent.” This rings true here. I read that somewhere, although I can’t remember where. High School English class comes to mind.

I make it to the library and check out a book.

Back in the park, I wipe a bench with my sleeve, sit, and turn to a random page. Oddly enough, I had turned to a poem:

With fresh eyes

everything seems so obvious.

After the fact, I mean.

I should carry eye drops.

Eye drops? I leaf through to the next poem I can find:

Fall in the river and go with the flow,

floating and floating,

fearless and forgetful.

Full memories find their way into forgottenness.

Go forward and forward

faultlessly and faithfully,

fazed and faded.

Feathers won’t stop the flood.

I turn to the first page, to give the narrative a try, but after just reading a single paragraph, I wonder, if I were to write a novel, what would it be about? I could use past experiences as a foundation, but does this mean I can’t write about anything else? Is it impossible to discuss things I know nothing about? J. R. R. Tolkien wrote The Lord of the Rings based entirely on nothing. He knew nothing about wizards, hobbits, dwarves, or elves, but that was because there was nothing to know; he could just pick and choose what he liked best from his head. I could try fantasy, but I’d have to write a tomb to compete. In the realistic fiction realm, I would need to do research. But how would I choose what to research?

There’s just too much to consider before writing a novel. I can feel my brain overheating, so I stop thinking. I fall into the river and go with the flow.

When I get home, I tear off my flannel and jeans, still damp from the rain, and hang them on my bedframe. I hear the TV playing down the hall; my roommate must be home.

I lie down…

…

…As the Mets game intensifies, traffic on Queens Boulevard intensifies, but when the game gets boring, lanes open up. The cycle continues at every home game the Mets play. You may wonder what happens when a Yankees game gets serious. That, I don’t know. I’m not even sure why I know about the relationship between Citi Field and Queens Boulevard. I live in Brooklyn. Back to Queens Boulevard. A new variable has found its way into the mix. We originally had two periods: no rush on the boulevard and rush. Now, during the rush, everything has the potential to become hazy, like a sandstorm, with sand sharper than knives. The transition from no rush to rush occurs because the game becomes more intense, so going from the rush to hazy must mean…

My phone rings. I blindly slap around for it and squawk into the receiver.

“…Y’ello?”

“Hey, I’m outside.”

That’s Kim. I quickly put on my second-best flannel and pair of jeans, slightly baggier than their first-place counterparts, spray a little cologne on my wrists and neck, and jog outside.

The sun is strong but slightly lower, and no clouds are blocking its rays now. A small gray Honda is double parked on the street, and as I see it, I begin to feel nervous, but not nervous for my safety since Hondas are fantastic machines. I miss my Honda. Had I been awake the previous hour, I could have dealt with the nerves then, but now they attack me all at once.

Breathing now becomes difficult, and my head is hot. A hand trembles.

No longer in control of my body, I watch myself from above drifting towards the Honda. I open the passenger side door.

I look at Kim as I enter the car. She is wearing a thin, black dress. The sun is reflected on her shoulder. Her hair is lifted from her usual ponytail, lying straight behind her. We both look at each other, odd smiles plastered across both of our faces as I put on my seatbelt, and after uselessly adjusting it, the silence between us becomes pronounced.

I clear my throat. “Do you want East River Park to get bulldozed?”

Her eyes shift from amusement to something akin to either concern or bewilderment.

“Do you not know how to start a conversation?”

“Sure I do. You just say words.”

“There’s a little more to it than that.”

“Well, you say words that have some direction. I asked a question, so it kind of steers… the conversation.” I pause, and when she doesn’t begin speaking, I find myself unable to shut up. “Like, you know, how you steered, or is it stored, no, steered, this car… over here… without hitting a deer… aha….”

Kim puts the car into drive and steers down the one-way. “I don’t think parks should get bulldozed. Whatever they plan to put up there probably doesn’t need to be put up anyway. Where is the park?”

“In the city.”

“Alright, then my point stands. Do you think Manhattan needs another building? More restaurants? Might as well take down some buildings and make room for more parks.” She lets out a yawn. “Hey, so where are we going?”

“I don’t know.”

“You asked me if I wanted dinner. I figured you had something in mind!”

“We can brainstorm.”

“Jesus.”

“Well, what’s your favorite food? Maybe I know a good spot for it.”

She glances at me. “Momos.”

What are those? “Oh, momos. Of course. So, uh, tender.”

“And juicy.”

“Definitely. Despite its agreed-upon goodness, I don’t know a spot for momos. How abo-”

“Let’s go eat in Astoria. I know a fun little restaurant. Afterward, there’s a park I like to go to. We can hang out there.”

“Sounds good.”

We head to Astoria, taking a few local roads and then a highway. The drive isn’t terrible, although cars begin to build up as we get off at our exit. We cruise along Steinway Street and various intersecting avenues to find parking. Hookah bars and Middle Eastern restaurants flash by. The sidewalk is becoming more crowded, with people walking in every direction. All the municipal parking lots are full. On a residential block, I notice a vacuum resting in front of a home. A piece of lined paper is taped against it reading, “WORKS FINE, BRAND NEW CORD.” I can’t believe someone is throwing out a perfectly good vacuum cleaner! Kim sees it too and says, “Who the hell would pick up a vacuum off the street? Probably has bed bugs or something.”

I give a nod so curt it nearly pulls a neck muscle. We end up finding street parking near the vacuum. Kim maneuvers her way into the spot with just one try. She pulls the key out of the ignition, and we walk to Steinway. The restaurant, like most we pass, has outdoor dining. We are seated at a table with an umbrella, although at this point, the sun is no longer visible, just a dull glow remaining. A group of teenagers hangs around under an awning of a closed store smoking cigarettes. A crowd stands around a steel taco truck down the block.

Before the waitress even sets down the menus, Kim gives the order and requests some glasses of water and mango lassi. A Punjabi rap track is playing from a speaker outside the storefront, and Kim and the waitress discuss how great it is. I hear the artist’s name is Sidhu Moose Wala, and in the music video, he goes to a liquor store and, surprisingly, buys liquor. Kim tells her to keep playing Punjabi music, and the waitress touches her shoulder.

Our appetizer comes out soon after. On a plate are six yellow spheres, each with a large hole on top. Brown liquid rests in a tiny genie lamp in the center, which Kim picks up and fills the balls to the brim. She raises one, so I raise one as well. We cheer and down them. The liquid has a light taste, almost sour, but overall tasty. As I’m chewing, I find myself crunching on something. Carrot? I’m not too sure. I pick up another ball and down it.

While reaching for-

Fire. FIRE, FIRE, FIRE! Soup to nuts to soup, amscray amscray shubudubuduh…!

…My stomach’s on fire. It’s as if a dragon just began shooting flames at my stomach LINING OH GOD the back of my throat closes to prevent any vomit from flying at Kim and IT HURTS… the furnace in my stomach hAS BEen ignited by what?? How cOU-?

A bead of sweat breaks at the top of my forehead. My nose starts running. What do I do, what do-

“Hey, is everything fine? I think you’re sweati-”

I force my throat open and spit at her beautiful face, “It’s my stomach. It’s been nuked. It hurts. I d-don’t… what happened….”

“I think I have some Pepto.”

She rummages through her purse and comes up with a small bottle of divine pink. As I take a sip, some of the hot green and clear liquid from my nose find its way onto my tongue, singeing it with an ungodly saltiness. The Pepto makes its way down my throat, and I feel it land like an airstrike, shocking and awing. I move my body to slosh it back and forth until it covers everything and for a moment, everything seems settled. I regain my composure. My breathing steadies. I’m no longer sweating. My-

A fart needs to escape, and I think you know it’s not going to be just a fart. I get up, give Kim a curtsy, and flee far away into the restaurant stomping like a demon king and muttering, “Bathroom, bathroom, bathroom,” until a waiter pulls me in the right direction and when I find myself blocked by a door I reach for its handle only to discover that the door is locked, so I bang and bang and yell and pray and the girl inside frantically shouts, flushes the toilet, washes her hands, and when she opens the door she faces me and says, “Gosh, sorry, I was just on my phone, you kn-” but I don’t hear the rest, I only see the toilet, the goal, the destination, I see it beckoning towards me, calling me, I don’t even cover the seat I just rip my pants off and hop right on and-

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH~~~~~!

~~~

~~~

~~~

Bliss.

Beaches, carnivals, long drives. The smell of hot grass, a sea breeze. What would it be like, to sit on a cloud and let it all go? To sip the air as though it were cold milk, to float down a river listening to a soft piano tune?

When I was a child, I went to a Labor Day parade in the next town over and rode a Ferris wheel for the first time, and when I reached the top, I saw a city in the distance. I asked a friend what that was, and he replied, “That’s Newark. Someone oughta nuke it before Penn Station takes over the state.” To this day, I haven’t heard a truer statement. The last time I was at Penn Station, homeless men and women were hanging out by one of the entrances, just arguing, existing, sleeping, lying down, shrieking. Some were berating and battling the wall. That’s when three patrol cars sped over, and cops quickly came out brandishing batons. Everyone walking by stopped in disbelief. Were they going to beat them all up? Just for loitering? I turned away and headed towards the station when I heard someone shouting, “Uh huh, for me, yes, for me, about fucking time, you fucking joke!” I looked upon the scene once more and saw each of the cops kneeling, opening boxes of donuts for the homeless to eat. While heartwarming, the scene left me with the same feeling you get when you fail an exam, but someone next to you got a perfect score and says something like, “I didn’t even study, like at all. I guess I just, like, really understand the material. Hahaha!”

You will admit that if it was not life it was magnificent. Who wrote that line? I need to get to the bottom of that. The wall in front of me, blue tiled and dull, has inscribed a beer can pouring flowers with slender stalks out onto an unsuspecting floor. I attempt to move but my legs aren’t working just yet. I wipe a few more times and eventually exit the bathroom. I keep my head up and eyes straight ahead. I wouldn’t be surprised if laughter broke out, or even applause. I would have applauded. For most of us, that’ll be our only life-or-death situation.

I see the back of Kim’s head. I sit across from her, unable to remove the shame from my face. She speaks first.

“So… how was it?”

“How was what?”

“…”

“…”

“The bathroom? Are you feeling better now?”

“Loads. Those balls went straight through me.”

“What were you thinking about?”

Huh? “You think, when I take a shit, I close my eyes and see… what, creme brulee?”

“Well, it’s got lactose, so that could work.”

The entrees come out: a plate of chicken tandoori with a side of mint chutney, a plate of spinach and cheese cubes, and two garlic naans. We eat (I just take a few bites) and fortunately the conversation picks up to a comfortable level, although Kim enjoys asking strange questions.

“When you cry, would you prefer it if it happened during the day or later at night?”

When she asks these questions, I usually reply with:

“I’m not sure. How about you?”

“Oh, definitely at night. Crying during the middle of the day is just depressing.”

“But, if you’re waiting for night to cry, you would have been holding in that urge to cry. You should let it out when-”

“No, no, I don’t mean that kind of crying. When something happens, and a person wants to cry. Not a… reactionary cry. I mean, like, casual crying.” She pauses. “Every day, we go through bullshit. I know you probably do, being an EMT. Nobody, not in hospitals or anywhere, gives two shits about EMTs, I’m sorry to say, but you probably know. You should hear the way my staff talks about you guys. It’s terrible. You’re just like me; you want to help where you can, and for me, that’s as a nurse, for you as an EMT. For others, it’s as a cop, or a firefighter, whatever it may be. So, every day, as we carry along doing the best we can, we all go through some bullshit. Isn’t that enough reason to cry?”

I mulled that over before responding.

“What you’re saying is, it’s okay to cry every day… because everything sucks?”

“Pretty much.”

“I’ll need to try that out.”

“In the shower is best. A hot shower. Let me know how it goes.”

My stomach gives a short rumble, leaving me with a sensation like lava is coating its interior. I think it’s time to head home. I probably need to drink some type of beverage, maybe a seltzer, to get the gas out. Though, is gas the problem here? Then again, they have antacids at every pharmacy. Is that what I need? Why don’t they teach this stuff to EMTs? I’ll just ask an employee wherever I end up and buy something before throwing up on the road.

We get the check. I try to pay, and Kim stops me, and then I say no, it’s okay, I’ll pay, to which she gives up, which seems a little fast but, of course, fair. We start walking. Kim wraps her arm around mine. “So, still down for the park? I promise it’ll be really fun.”

I can’t fathom how the park will be any different from the restaurant. I weigh the need for a stomach remedy versus hanging out with Kim. There’s no way I can do both. Taking Pepto gave me the shit of a lifetime; if I take another drug before going to the park, who knows what may happen. Will this be the night I shit in a park port-a-potty? The logical thing would be to buy something and go home. With that said, I may never get another chance with Kim; I need to redeem myself before leaving. She walks in a way where her hair always bounces, and she smells like fresh laundry, too. Fresh laundry is good. So, to go home now and take medication or hang out with Kim, who smells like laundry. I have this internal struggle as I get into her car, and as she begins driving, it’s too late to say anything.

Off to Astoria Park, then!

The drive is short. We take a few local roads and find ourselves by an underpass. At this point, it is completely dark outside. The lot is nearly empty, but she goes to one of the few spots without lighting, under the bridge, where all the other cars are. She turns the ignition off and turns towards me. She’s excited.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

I look through the windshield and have to squint. I see a short lawn, a tan walkway, and then the massive East River. Lights twinkle across it.

“Yeah, uh, great view.”

She’s twirling the hair by her ear. My stomach’s rumbles increase in frequency, and there’s a permanent pool of hot sludge in its base. Kim is talking about nothing in particular, discussing the objects in her car, how she grew up nearby…

“But, you know what my favorite thing about parks is? The underpasses. We’re surrounded by light no matter where we go. People are everywhere. Cars are everywhere. Sound is everywhere. The one place we can sit back and relax are underpasses.”

She stops here, indicating the lack of sound, then leans over and rests a hand on my knee, giggling.

It’s at this point it all dawns on me. The two of us. A parked car. Surrounded by the only other parked cars in the lot. Darkness. Mindless speech.

“We could go to the backseat….”

It’s moments like these when I wish my parents hadn’t met. In a fundamentally serious situation where all I want to do is sit back and laugh along with the audience, I have to act. I can’t sit back. I am present. I need to do something; I need to react.

I look at her. I see the shape of her body. I feel her weight just through a hand. A small burp escapes my stomach and pushes up some baby barf that I hastily swallow. I try the door handle, but the car is locked; I find the switch, open the door, and get outside. Her hand falls.

The air is especially refreshing, and the world seems so much larger. Kim opens her door, and she stands there, gawking. I hear a sound behind me. It’s an SUV. It is slowly rocking back and forth. A head hits a window.

Kim notices, too. “Must be nice.”

I blush. With no idea what to do, I walk toward the river. She ends up following.

Kim says, “I brought my friend here some time ago. We ate something she liked on one of these benches.”

“What was it?”

“She brought them from home, though never had it before. If I had to say, maybe we had potato latkes?”                      

“Your friend is Jewish?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s cool. My boss is German.”

Kim is so shocked she can’t find her laugh, so as she goes through the motions of laughter, I feel like I’m deaf. The people in the parked cars probably hear only me cackling obscenely, alone, and the thought brings me to an unfortunate steadiness. I grip the railing by the river, and so does Kim. We watch the waves move as one under the soft light of a half moon. The lights from Manhattan dazzle us, even from so far away. Cars and trucks move to and from Queens on the bridge above, their sound traveling to the area below, to Kim and me.

As I gaze out, two joggers pass by. A street lamp spotlights us in an off-yellow. The half moon frowns. The sun snores.

…The sky lets out a frightful yelp.

Both of us look up. The sky yelps again, and we hear the pattering of rain even before it reaches us. We couldn’t spend just another few minutes outside?!

I hold Kim’s hand, and the two of us jog towards her Honda. We get back in.

I wipe my face with the inside of my shirt. Kim is laughing. A small ray of light pierces the windshield and sits on the dashboard.

Kim goes on her phone. I sit there dumbly. Without looking at me, she says, “I think one of your hoes is texting you.”

My brain done for the night, I just reach for my phone without question. On the lock screen, I see a text from Kim. It says:

Hey

I look at her, but she’s not looking back. I reply:

Hey

She types away. Her next text reads:

I’m wearing lingerie under this

Before I speak, I take a breath.

I tell her, “I need you to take me home.”

______________________________________________________

The issue with going to Queens is the commute back. To get to Flatbush by car, even without traffic, is over a half hour. Of course, commuting by train would take longer. But I would rather spend ten hours on the train than in this car.

We exchange a sentence here and there on the way to my place. I can’t believe she wants to drop me off. Occasionally Kim asks me, “Is your stomach feeling any better,” to which I reply, “No.” I ask her about being a nurse and she says something about it being alright, that she’s used to it, and when she asks me about EMT work, I reply the same way. We’re both people set in our routines, although locked might be a better word here. We attempt to escape our respective routines every so often, even if it’s just with a night out, a short vacation, anything. She undoubtedly goes to Steinway or Astoria Park on her escapes. I denied Kim the thing that takes her out of her routine and into that place where the grass creates a lush, full land. Where a superabundance of color shines throughout, and a gentle wind carries her. She tasted this lofty land tonight, just a tiny taste, and returned to her routine with a hard landing, where having just a taste is the worst possible scenario, much worse than staying away completely. To be so close to this land but to not take it, she will return to her routine dissatisfied. There’s nothing I can do but try to soften the blow, but anything I say now will make her fall even harder.

She double parks her car outside my building, where she had double parked earlier. I attempt to end the night a few times. When she decides it’s over, we lean over the center

console, expecting the other to kiss the other’s cheek. In the end, our cheeks rub against each other. Instead of salvaging anything, I utter, “It was nice talking to you, have a good night, see you at the hospital, get home safe,” and shoot down the block faster than a bullet.

I open the door, and Moz comes running down the hall. Instead of a shirt, he is clad dangling a plastic bag. “Hey, hey, buddy, cigarette?”

He lets out a small chuckle which makes his belly jiggle. I shake my head, dart to the bathroom, and throw up dark, brown fluid as thick as toothpaste, shouting with each retch and feeling my back muscles ache and scream with me as the poison makes its way from stomach to sewer. I flush a few times, and in between flushes, I sit down on the toilet and clutch my head, the image of the dough ball that cursed me floating through my mind.

I stand to throw up again but realize Kim is longer near me. The thought is soothing. She is no longer near me. I shudder out some nerves and feel a chill wash over me. My head feels light. I brush my teeth and the toilet sufficiently and spray disinfectant all over the walls and air and even the shower, just in case.

I walk towards Moz’s door. I give it a knock and say, “Cigarette time?” to which he gives me a toothless grin.

We chain cigarette to cigarette until we run out of stuff to talk about, and as I amble down the staircase, I wonder why my stomach reacted the way it did. I go to my room, strip down to my boxers, and lay face down into my pillow.