You Are Here

YOU ARE HERE

Donald Breckenridge

for Johannah Rodgers

Mid-April and late October

An Older Lover - Act 1

Portrait of a Girl 4/20/04

An Older Lover - Act 1

Labor Day and Cold Spring

An Older Lover - Act 1

First Friday in June

Audition Sequence

Third Friday in June

Exclusions Apply Part—1

First Friday in July

Exclusions Apply Part—2

Fourth Thursday in July

Exclusions Apply Part—3

First Saturday in August

Intermission

Third Saturday in August

Four More Years

First Friday in September

The New Dress

Second Tuesday in September

Acknowledgments

 

T
he light from my desk lamp fell upon the conversation between Janet, “Oh, it's for my benefit,” a childless divorcee in her mid-forties who was living off a substantial monthly stipend from her second husband. And James, “Do you think,” a twenty-four year old aspiring writer who worked part-time in a used bookstore, “I should write that down?” They were seated on a recently repainted bench in Union Square. She opened her purse, “here's my pen,” and handed it to him. It was a warm Thursday afternoon in mid-October, approximately five miles and six months away from the desk where I was fleshing out their conversation. He took the pointed cap off the ballpoint pen, “I'll put it right here,” and placed the tip to his open palm. Most of the leaves on the trees in the park had already turned brown. “Use it sparingly,” she had a warm smile, “like a good cologne—” “I got that part,” he looked at her from above the rims of his glasses, “Now, what about your phone number?” She was almost afraid that he wasn't going to ask, “What could you possibly want with that?” “Because I'd like to see you again,” he stole another glance at her knees encased in shimmering gray stockings while venturing, “unless of course—” “Oh no,” she shook her head, “this has been so much fun I'd love to see you again.” They'd met at The Strand three hours ago, “Yeah it has,” then moved to a quiet booth in the rear of a nearby Greek diner, “it's been a great day,” where their conversation expanded over cups of watery coffee, day-old chocolate éclairs and tepid chamomile tea. This park bench allowed for a last brief exchange. James smiled, “I'm really glad that I came into the city.” When she laughed in the sunlight he noticed that most of her teeth were capped. “Why is that so funny?” Shaking her head, “you sound so provincial when you say that,” before discovering an orange smudge on the right front pocket of her beige raincoat. “I like Brooklyn,” he muttered. “Your neighborhood is quite beautiful but…” Janet scraped at the smudge with her unpainted thumbnail and then wet her forefinger with the tip of her tongue, “I have some friends who live near you,” before rubbing it into the faint smudge. He grinned, “Are they yuppies or writers?” She examined the damp spot on her pocket, “neither …” and finally satisfied she replied, “they're lesbians.” A police helicopter flew overhead and the sound reverberated off the buildings surrounding the park. “Why am I not surprised?” The sleeves of his dark grey shirt were frayed at the cuffs and the collar was worn down along the crease. Locks of her magenta hair were rearranged by the breeze as she said, “I'll have to tell them to keep an eye on you.” He held up his hands in surrender, “I'm in real trouble now.” She turned to him and quietly asked, “Do I look like trouble to you?” He studied her dark brown eyes, “not at all,” and sensual pout, “but I guess it's only fair for me to ask you the same question.” She kissed him just above the faint stubble on his cheek, “I'll give you my number but you have to use it,” leaving a soft impression with her auburn lipstick. “Of course,” he began to blush as she whispered it in his ear. He wrote the ten digits on the palm of his left hand then recapped the pen, “thank you,” and handed it back. She placed the pen in her purse, “you're quite welcome,” snapped the clasp, “and now if you don't mind I'd like to walk you to your train.” He leaned back, “So soon?” She stood up, “I'm afraid so,” and smoothed down her skirt. He placed his hands on his knees, “but we were just getting started.” “We've got to save a few discoveries,” she glanced at the thin platinum watch on her left wrist, “for the next time.” James swayed a bit as he stood up. She slid her hands into the pockets of her raincoat while walking next to him, “Will you call me?” The coffee was percolating on the stove. “Of course.” They stopped before a flight of stairs that lead to the turnstiles. I yawned while stretching my arms above my head. James watched a few people descending the stairs before turning to her and saying, “I guess this is my stop.” I stood up and yawned again while walking to the kitchen and then used a green dishtowel to hold the pot while pouring coffee into my white cup. Yesterday, Carly Simon was singing about the clouds in her coffee while I was buying spinach and tomatoes for dinner at the Korean market on 7
^th
avenue. A dollop of milk turned my coffee dark brown. As I sat at the desk a blond woman wearing an orange T-shirt, dark blue shorts and white sneakers jogged by. “Can we see each other next week?” His question brightened the grin on her face. An ambulance sped through the nearby intersection. She nodded, “I know a good place for coffee and it isn't very expensive.” The chorus of sparrows continued chirping outside the open window on my left as the siren faded down the avenue. “Okay,” she kissed him quickly on both cheeks, “so I'll see you next week.” He smiled and then walked down the flight of stairs. She waved dutifully when he looked back, then turned and walked toward the corner.

Four National Guardsmen cradling machine guns were milling around the token booth. A bike messenger was nearly hit by a taxi making a U-turn in the intersection. James removed the MetroCard from his wallet as the man in front of him re-swiped his card. The splayed remains of a pigeon were crumpled in the gutter beneath Janet. The prerecorded message from the MTA urging customers to report any suspicious packages or activities was broadcasted as he pushed through the turnstile and walked through the station. The pedestrians entering the crosswalk moved quickly toward the opposite sides of the street. A Brooklyn-bound Q train was pulling up to the platform as he descended the stairs. She weighed their prospects for happiness while stepping over the curb and allowed herself a narrow smile. “The next stop will be Canal Street,” James entered the crowded train and looked for a seat, “step all the way in and stand clear of the closing doors.” The drugstore windows she walked by were decorated with ghosts, goblins, and large spiders that dangled from imitation webs. He gripped the metal pole with his right hand as the train lurched out of the station. A portion of the sun hung below a bank of orange clouds. He studied the smudged, but still legible, blue numbers on his palm. She removed a pair of mirrored sunglasses from her purse and put them on. He swayed into the shoulder of the person beside him as the train rounded the curve before speeding past the 8
^th
Street station. A slow moving plane was silhouetted by the setting sun. He thought about how pretty she looked while sitting across from him at the diner. Janet glanced at her reflection as it was cast on a row of tinted windows. James remarked, “they make a really good cheeseburger here,” as she looked over the menu in silent bemusement. Long shadows on the sidewalk were stretched beneath the pedestrians. Shaking her head, “go ahead if you're hungry,” while closing the menu, “I've already had lunch.” She removed her sunglasses before entering the pet store. He shrugged, “I'm okay,” having eaten a large breakfast around noon, “maybe I'll just get a pastry.” She headed down the narrow aisle toward a row of shelves displaying cat toys. “So when you're not working in a used bookstore you're hanging out in one?” The yellow price tag dangled from the ear of a large blue and green cloth mouse. “Pretty much,” he grinned, “and you?” She walked to the counter and placed the toy before the man seated behind the cash register. “I was just running an errand and thought that I might find something new to read,” then coyly added, “while cruising for boys.” The man counted out her change before putting the mouse in a small white plastic bag. “Oh,” his eyes widened, “do you live nearby?” She began walking home. “Not too far.” He gripped the metal pole with both hands as the train reached Canal Street. “And when you're not hanging out in used bookstores you're writing fiction?” He leaned into the young woman reading a paperback as the train came to a slow screeching stop. “Yeah, it's kind of sick when you think about it.” She shook her head, “I don't think so.” The doors opened at Canal Street. He looked down at the table and smiled, “No?” “Step all the way into the car,” a crowd of elderly Chinese women carrying light red plastic shopping bags boarded the train, “and stand clear of the closing doors.” “I think it shows your level of commitment.” The woman with the paperback was able to squeeze between two potbellied MTA workers wearing battered hardhats and steel-toed boots. “I really don't have much of a life.” The doors closed and quickly reopened, “we're being held in the station by supervision dispatch,” as three police officers, “and should be proceeding shortly,” with bulletproof vests bulging beneath their uniforms, “thank you for your patience,” made their way into the packed car. “What do you like to do for fun?” He shook his head, “not much,” and placidly stated, “go to parties or bars,” then scratched his chin, “a friend of mine lives out on Far Rockaway with his girlfriend and sometimes I spend the weekends with them.” On the first Sunday in September the three of them had sat on the beach a few hours before dawn and smoked a joint as an infrequent procession of planes flew out of JFK. “The next stop on this Brooklyn-bound Q train will be DeKalb Avenue.” The three police officers talked about batting averages while standing around the metal pole. The amphora on the cover of the menu was smeared with orange frosting. A long row of bright lights lining the walls of the tunnel passed by the vibrating windows. She noted his torn cuticles while scrutinizing the size of his hands. Sunlight flooded the packed compartment as the train began crossing the Manhattan Bridge. He took the dark red plastic cup filled with ice water off the table.

 

T
hree stage lights went up in a slow twenty count as the scattered conversations around me concluded. The man and woman seated on the beige folding metal chairs were facing each other. He was wearing a dark green suit, “I think we'd be able to tell the difference,” glasses with thin black frames and black leather shoes. She was wearing a sleeveless low-cut short black dress, “How so?” fishnets and black patent leather pumps with three-inch heels. A couple that happened to be seated in the audience were being portrayed onstage. They just had dinner in a dimly lit West Village restaurant that had recently been awarded two stars in the
Times
and praise for its romantic ambience, esoteric wine list and above average French food. “It's in their body language,” he was halfway through his third glass of Crozes-Hermitage, “now don't turn around.” The woman discreetly turned and studied the young fashionable couple tucked into an oversized booth across the dining room. “It isn't
that
obvious.” Cindy had found most of the actor's costume on the racks and in the bins of the Salvation Army on Flatbush Avenue last week. His short brown hair had been set with styling gel, “I didn't say that it was obvious.” The rings on her left hand caught the stage lights as she accompanied her question with a gesture, “Are you sure that you're not projecting your own insecurities?” “Please,” he furrowed his brow, “they're trying too hard.” The actress who was portraying the wealthy, childless divorcee in her mid forties, “You really like watching people,” had purchased her dress online and wore it during almost every rehearsal. Her thick hair was cropped into a bob and had recently been dyed magenta. He'd been too distracted by their conversation, “they are like a Diane Arbus photograph,” to do more than half-heartedly pick at the herb encrusted roast chicken she suggested he order for his entrée. Her cheeks had been heavily powdered and the dark red lipstick carefully painted on and around her lips gave her face a corpse-like pallor. He then added, “without chemistry.” She had been instructed to carry herself with warm outspoken urgency, “my husband was like that,” to compensate for their difference in age, “when we—” He nervously blurted, “Like what?” “Just like you silly,” she cleared her throat, “he really enjoys watching people.” He shifted in the metal chair, “I guess it's not all that uncommon,” that creaked beneath him. The wine and the warmth of their repartee had almost invalidated the cloying embarrassment he felt whenever the tall gay waiter hovered over their table with his incessant questions about the food: if it was seasoned to their liking, how well the wine he recommended paired with their entrees and, most recently, while taking their plates away, if they had given any thought to dessert. “Do you know her work?” Tilting her head to the left, “Who?” He regarded her expression before saying, “Diane Arbus.” “Of course,” she has a quick wit and a half dozen credit cards nestled in her calfskin wallet, “I'd love to own one of her photographs.” He imagined the art on the walls of her apartment in a nearby prewar building. A black and white Warhol silkscreen hung above the couch in the living room where a longhaired chocolate colored cat just woke from her evening nap. A framed poster from G.W. Pabst's,
Diary of a Lost Girl
hung on the wall above the Mackintosh table and chairs in the dining room. He commented on the framed, autographed poster from a Kiki Smith retrospective on the kitchen wall opposite the sink as she mixed their drinks. She handed him a scotch and water with a wink while asking if he'd like to see the etchings on the ceiling in her bedroom. Cindy was biting her lower lip in frustration while scribbling…
Diane Arbus… where is your focus????
in her wire-bound notebook. The actress turned to observe the couple in the audience before claiming, “he is nothing more than the latest way for her to wear her hair.” Cindy wanted to know, and wanted the audience to be clearly aware of what her character's emotional investments were. He smiled, “And for him?” Cindy repeatedly insisted that although they were portraying nameless caricatures they had to remain in the moment at all times. “And for him…” after another careful look over her shoulder she stated, “she is nothing more than a new pair of shoes,” in a cool matter of fact tone. Over the coming weeks she will reach the conclusion that their relationship must have constituted an interesting life experience for him and will occasionally wonder how he will portray her in his fiction. “Are you sure that you're not projecting your own insecurities?” She swallowed hard, “sweetheart,” while searching his face, “I didn't mean anything by that.” He noticed how the crows-feet etched around her dark brown eyes were starting to show through her makeup. “Then why did you ask me that?” Knowing if she strays too far from the persona he began fashioning for her long before they actually met, “you're being so sensitive,” that this date and any subsequent encounters will be total disasters. He shrugged, “Aren't women into that?” “Oh it's for my benefit,” she is incapable of being alone and afraid of being hurt in another relationship, “well that is very flattering.”