Last Day with my little C.
There was a hint of rain in the air, he had no homework, and he didn't want to go outside, he said. We had cold pizza for snack, while he told me about the new attraction at the Bronx Zoo, and would I be able to go with the family when they go up to see it later in the summer. I explained again I was leaving, remember? We are going to the airport on Tuesday and bringing me to go to catch a plane, and I am flying far to the other end of the country, near California....he knows where that is...and the man who came over the night before is going to live in my apartment. Noel is a nice guy, remember? There will be someone new to watch him and R, and she is very nice, and has a car and will take him swimming.
He chews his pizza, humming to himself.
Can I go to the Zoo next weekend, then? I sigh, and we look at the calendar, so I can show him the dates, but, he runs off, not interested, saying he doesn't want to look, he wants to watch Lost World on Bob, please.
I stretch out on the long sofa, the soft leather is cool through my jeans and teeshirt. Lying on my side, I curl up my legs... sometimes, he will lie on his stomach along my body, his head on my shoulder, mahogany red hair tickles my neck, his feet near my knees, his fingers twined in my shirt, touching my hand....stimming, always stimming. He murmurs about the film, asking What do they call the male dinosaurs? What do they call the female ones? What kind is that dinosaur or that one? I respond, You know the answers, C... what are the answers? He sits up on my hip, I am his favourite place to sit or lean against when he reads or watches a film. He quickly rattles off the answers, giving me the names and when they lived. He reaches down and takes my hand, twisting his fingers in mine... or he'll rub the cotton of my shirt between his fingers, or twist my hair while he talks, his eyes darting. A finger will go to my dimple, How did this get there? I explain, and he wants to know if he will get one, too.
He squeals Save me! Save me! at the scary parts, even though he knows the film by heart. I know it's pretense, this flattening himself behind me, or trying to fit along my curves, his bony little boy body shivery in make believe fright. A huge grin is on his face while he says, Let's be scared, okay? We both say, OH NO! RAPTORS!! and pull a blanket over our heads while the dog climbs up on us, barking. I can smell his little boy smell, as he curls into me, giggling.
When he comes home every afternoon, I meet him at the door, and he jumps into my arms, all elbows and knees and he buries his face in the crook of my neck, as I put my face in his... we both breath for a moment, taking in each other... he strokes my shoulder, talking talking talking. We do homework, snacks, go outside and watch clouds and I answer the same 4762 questions every day, from dinosaurs and What did they feel like? his disappointment palatable every time that I cannot tell him that answer, to the various functions different dogs served to what do I think that cloud looks like. In mid question, he is done, and goes to create his sandbox world, while I retreat to my book. We continue to get along, never mis-communicating. When he overloads, and starts to yell, I laugh....causing him to stop, and laugh with me... diffusing the situation. Sometimes, he annoys me, sometimes, I annoy him. I remind him his shoes are on the wrong feet, he tells me my glasses are on my head when I think I've lost them. The rest of the family comes home, he is absorbed into their group, he smiles back at me, runs for a last hug... my last afternoon with him... and I go downstairs from the job that stopped being a job some time ago.
I will miss him immeasurably.
Showing posts with label the boy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the boy. Show all posts
Friday, June 20, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
XY's and Me
XY's and I are not meant to be.
Sure, I've had a few chances....the guy in the great suit with the umbrella, the man I shyly flirted with on the train, right before my boot heel slipped when I got off, and I ended up not only lying on my back, but, the engineer held up the SIR and insisted on asking overandoverandover if I was okay.
For a good month after that, I rode the bus home from the Ferry. I felt it best.
Oh, and the nice man who bought my coffee one day... he said I had a great smile.
Most of the time, though, I have men like David, who used to be a busker in the W. 4th Ave station for the 'V' and 'F' station (what have I said about the 'F' train?). He's moved and currently is working the 14th Street station, by Union Square.
David plays, um, himself. Yes, he is David, the Human Percussion Machine. He ties hunks of cardboard on his legs, and a pie tins on his knees, and he hums and sings slightly off-key in time to the, errr, music. He had great sound in the tunnel on W. 4th... I haven't asked him why he left yet. Lately, David's been a little, well, off. He's wandering quite a bit away from his chair and his collection bin, and slapping that pie tin, humming and chanting and singing. I always ask how he is, and he says, "Fine, m'am... how's you?" I say, "Fine" and I drop a dollar in his jar. He tells me I'm a nice lady, and goes back to playing himself, as it were. I worry about David, he's wandering pretty close to the tracks... both physically and mentally. I wonder if I'll get off the 'R' one day, and he won't be there. I'll be put into a position of having to listen at each station after that, to see where he settles... I don't have much time left to do that...
There is the ex-Marine down on Wall Street. He asks for money, politely, saying thank you when you put some in his hat. He wears his jacket, with the patches showing where he was stationed. We've chatted some... he was in Desert Storm, his youngest brother is in Iraq. He can't get any help... nothing really they can define that is wrong with him, he gets the deep blues, and can't hold a job. He left his wife, came to New York, and he begs. Sometimes, he will go to a shelter to sleep... sometimes, not. We've talked about the war, what happens to young boys at war... he knows about the Jarhead. When I can, I put $5 in his hat... we hug and I go to meet CF for lunch. He yells out he has my boy in his prayers... I keep him and his brother in mine. He, too, was missing the last time I went down that street, and I wonder where he is, how he's doing.
On Monday, I saw Passing Strange, a play so intensely moving for me, I cannot find the words to wrap around the emotions it evoked. I can say, the message that the journey to all you want and need in life begins within resonated with me, and I suggest it to all... if nothing else, get the CD... it will shake your world. A small, talented cast, a set that consists of a table and five chairs, some musicians that overwhelm you with their music, a book that is personal.... yes, it moves you. On the way home, I rode the Ferry with a number of Navy men, a few who let me know that even though I'd been told by the Jarhead not to speak to any 'Squid', they were okay because they were officers and had great respect for the Marines.
That made me laugh.
When I was leaving the train, a young man stood, watching every female who walked towards the stairs, saying to each, "Jasmine?" Each woman shook her head, "No."
He was 25 or so, all in black. His hair was in a carefully done Mohawk, the colour zig-zagging down the grouped masses, in shades of deep red to startling yellow. He looked as if Jackson Pollock had been reincarnated as a hairdresser... a bad one. The spikes were so sharp, drawn to a crisp point, he is someone you'd want around in a disaster. I'm sure he could have opened a tin can of beans with that hair if needed... I didn't see a bit of flesh on his ear edge not pierced, with huge spacers on the lobe itself. African tribesmen would have wept, knowing he'd outdone them. Those odd metal spikes were embedded above his eyebrows, his nose, eyebrows and all around his lips were pierced, under the lip, over it... he was a TSA nightmare.
Thinking about what lay beneath his leather jacket and pants.... I imagine his nether parts were named "Prince" for a reason.
I was the last person to walk down the station platform....black linen pants, white shirt, maroon leather shoes with 3" heels (yes, I can clean up). He looked at me, gulped, and before he could open his mouth, I said, "No, I'm not... but, wouldn't you shit if I were?"
We both started laughing, and he walked me down the stairs to the street, each of us going a different way... it made for a nice ending to a good night.
My last man? My C of course.
We did homework today, had snack, looked for four leaf clovers, discussed Tasmanian devils, and he asked me what did dinosaurs feel like. Our day was finished off with our favourite youtube video.
Makes you want to dance, doesn't it? We did.
Sure, I've had a few chances....the guy in the great suit with the umbrella, the man I shyly flirted with on the train, right before my boot heel slipped when I got off, and I ended up not only lying on my back, but, the engineer held up the SIR and insisted on asking overandoverandover if I was okay.
For a good month after that, I rode the bus home from the Ferry. I felt it best.
Oh, and the nice man who bought my coffee one day... he said I had a great smile.
Most of the time, though, I have men like David, who used to be a busker in the W. 4th Ave station for the 'V' and 'F' station (what have I said about the 'F' train?). He's moved and currently is working the 14th Street station, by Union Square.
David plays, um, himself. Yes, he is David, the Human Percussion Machine. He ties hunks of cardboard on his legs, and a pie tins on his knees, and he hums and sings slightly off-key in time to the, errr, music. He had great sound in the tunnel on W. 4th... I haven't asked him why he left yet. Lately, David's been a little, well, off. He's wandering quite a bit away from his chair and his collection bin, and slapping that pie tin, humming and chanting and singing. I always ask how he is, and he says, "Fine, m'am... how's you?" I say, "Fine" and I drop a dollar in his jar. He tells me I'm a nice lady, and goes back to playing himself, as it were. I worry about David, he's wandering pretty close to the tracks... both physically and mentally. I wonder if I'll get off the 'R' one day, and he won't be there. I'll be put into a position of having to listen at each station after that, to see where he settles... I don't have much time left to do that...
There is the ex-Marine down on Wall Street. He asks for money, politely, saying thank you when you put some in his hat. He wears his jacket, with the patches showing where he was stationed. We've chatted some... he was in Desert Storm, his youngest brother is in Iraq. He can't get any help... nothing really they can define that is wrong with him, he gets the deep blues, and can't hold a job. He left his wife, came to New York, and he begs. Sometimes, he will go to a shelter to sleep... sometimes, not. We've talked about the war, what happens to young boys at war... he knows about the Jarhead. When I can, I put $5 in his hat... we hug and I go to meet CF for lunch. He yells out he has my boy in his prayers... I keep him and his brother in mine. He, too, was missing the last time I went down that street, and I wonder where he is, how he's doing.
On Monday, I saw Passing Strange, a play so intensely moving for me, I cannot find the words to wrap around the emotions it evoked. I can say, the message that the journey to all you want and need in life begins within resonated with me, and I suggest it to all... if nothing else, get the CD... it will shake your world. A small, talented cast, a set that consists of a table and five chairs, some musicians that overwhelm you with their music, a book that is personal.... yes, it moves you. On the way home, I rode the Ferry with a number of Navy men, a few who let me know that even though I'd been told by the Jarhead not to speak to any 'Squid', they were okay because they were officers and had great respect for the Marines.
That made me laugh.
When I was leaving the train, a young man stood, watching every female who walked towards the stairs, saying to each, "Jasmine?" Each woman shook her head, "No."
He was 25 or so, all in black. His hair was in a carefully done Mohawk, the colour zig-zagging down the grouped masses, in shades of deep red to startling yellow. He looked as if Jackson Pollock had been reincarnated as a hairdresser... a bad one. The spikes were so sharp, drawn to a crisp point, he is someone you'd want around in a disaster. I'm sure he could have opened a tin can of beans with that hair if needed... I didn't see a bit of flesh on his ear edge not pierced, with huge spacers on the lobe itself. African tribesmen would have wept, knowing he'd outdone them. Those odd metal spikes were embedded above his eyebrows, his nose, eyebrows and all around his lips were pierced, under the lip, over it... he was a TSA nightmare.
Thinking about what lay beneath his leather jacket and pants.... I imagine his nether parts were named "Prince" for a reason.
I was the last person to walk down the station platform....black linen pants, white shirt, maroon leather shoes with 3" heels (yes, I can clean up). He looked at me, gulped, and before he could open his mouth, I said, "No, I'm not... but, wouldn't you shit if I were?"
We both started laughing, and he walked me down the stairs to the street, each of us going a different way... it made for a nice ending to a good night.
My last man? My C of course.
We did homework today, had snack, looked for four leaf clovers, discussed Tasmanian devils, and he asked me what did dinosaurs feel like. Our day was finished off with our favourite youtube video.
Makes you want to dance, doesn't it? We did.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
