It was about ten in the morning.
Roman Grimiko, sweaty and uncombed, waited for his son and daughter to arrive.
He prayed and talked to himself as he loosely scrambled eggs with some butter in a hot pan.
your mother and I will always be okay
For a second he considered making hash, but mindlessly ate the eggs while thinking of things to do with them.
Still he peered into the fridge:
Carrots. Milk. A bean soup from yesterday.
Cold, rare sliced beef.
A small cube of cheese floating unappealingly in its brine.
Mustard. Pickles.
An apricot nectar in a can.
It was all so beautiful.
Can you ever forgive me
Roman had lost his check book over four months ago.
He only realized it was missing this morning. He telephoned the bank (finally, at their repeated request) and wasn't actually certain until that moment which bank it was that he and his wife kept their life savings.
It was bad. Their money was gone. Close to a quarter of a million dollars.
That's close to a quarter of a million things they did and didn't do since 1963 in order to save that money.
Money that no one ever touched, except to pay the few bills they still had.
Roman's checkbook, covered in a cracked, dark red leather case, had always been in the middlemost desk drawer for as long as he could remember.
The checkbook had, in fact, been the only thing in that desk drawer, save for a pen, for well over forty years.
It was a bic pen.
A bic pen that had been obviously chewed on one end.
A bic pen that now rolled freely around the middlemost drawer, happy at last.
Roman remembered right then the pass-code written (for his convenience in his own longhand) on the flap of paper situated right above the checks themselves.
How he could see that checkbook now. So clearly in his mind. He could almost summon it back into the drawer, where it belonged:
back, back, back you go
It was late last winter that the Grimikos needed a new dryer. Of course, this requred a check.
Stan's Used Furniture & Appliances
Of course. It all made sense, now.
The bank had continually asked him to address his over drafts via hundreds of voicemail messages.
Messages he never checked. That is, until today.
Because Roman Grimiko never uses the telephone.
So now he waits. For his son and daughter to arrive.
They would be calm, he thought.
They would laugh. They would remedy this with their computers in five seconds and think he was silly.
Yes. It would be great!
Only, he had to tell them what had happened first.
And the thought paralyzed him.
lord, god, нет никакой возможности избежать реальность!
He poured some cold apricot nectar halfway into a glass, then added an equal amount of vodka. He noticed how the vodka rested on top of the nectar as though it were impermeable.
How, then, the vodka tore through the nectar in a slow, terrible way.
It reminded Roman of egg whites and blood. Of blood separating into several other liquids upon death.
He drank it down.
Right then, keys rattled in the kitchen door and Roman's eldest daughter, Nat, was suddenly in the kitchen sifting through a pile of mail.
A combination citrus and cigarette scent trailed around her. She was noisy even though she didn't say a word.
It was her gum popping; her many bracelets, her cell phone - her continuous clinking and trinkling. Her suntan without any sun; her laugh without any smile.
Roman noticed a huge gold ornament swinging on a narrow chain from her handbag. An ornament that certainly meant something.
Dad, it's so fricking hot in here. Can we please turn on the AC?
Hello, my darling. Is it hot?
Um. Yeah. It's gotta be 90 degrees in here.
I'm sorry, pumpkin (kiss on the forehead), you know mommy doesn't care too much about the heat. I'll close everything up. Do you want some tea?
No.
Okay. I'll get the upstairs windows. Will you check the parlor?
Yeah, so, what's going on?
What.
Why "must we talk" before mom gets home?
Let's wait for Alex, shall we?
Al 's at work. Didn't you get his message?
(pause)
Natasha?
Yeah.
Did you bring it with you, your computer?
No. Why?
(and less than a minute later)
Daddy. What's going on?
Jul 21, 2010
utter nonsense
Once, long ago, when I heard the sound of the rain coming down through the gutters, it sounded to me like bubbly water trickling across wonderful blue rocks.
You know, those blue rocks that are found in sea-side caves during certain tides?
The blue of the rock being dependant upon the presence of water?
The water definitely being sea water?
The sea water definitely being salty?
Ring a bell?
This, usually while waking up. My head fairly close to the window at the old, old, apartment. The window in question being quite close to the metal gutters. The watery, trinkle-y sound happening whenever it rained.
What I saw in my mind was so very stock footage 2002:
Zen: Four Rocks Arranged In A Non-Threatening Square
Sometimes, in the present day, as I make my way to the office, I'm refreshed by what feels like rain.
We all feel it. Especially if we are walking close to the sides of the buildings where a narrow band of shade gives one the illusion of a reprieve from the heat.
Of course, it's just water dripping down from millions of air conditioners from millions of floors above our heads.
Now, this is not technically weather.
And, the fact that such rain drops (any rain drops) hurtling down at us from miles above doen't kill us is curious, but I never bother to wonder about this.
Nor do I ever bother to wonder whether or not it is actually spit.
Yet, I do imagine such spitters as laughing at us from the safety of their ivory towers, where spitting down upon us is the only conclusion.
They do it because they can. They do it because they have to. They do it with mock regret, music blasting and probably martinis.
It's like these knotted up wads of money that I keep finding in the street. It's broad daylight but no one else ever notices this money but me.
I usually wait until I'm miles away in a taxi cab before I check to see how much money it really is.
I unfurl the found money one crinkly piece at a time.
You know, those blue rocks that are found in sea-side caves during certain tides?
The blue of the rock being dependant upon the presence of water?
The water definitely being sea water?
The sea water definitely being salty?
Ring a bell?
This, usually while waking up. My head fairly close to the window at the old, old, apartment. The window in question being quite close to the metal gutters. The watery, trinkle-y sound happening whenever it rained.
What I saw in my mind was so very stock footage 2002:
Zen: Four Rocks Arranged In A Non-Threatening Square
Sometimes, in the present day, as I make my way to the office, I'm refreshed by what feels like rain.
We all feel it. Especially if we are walking close to the sides of the buildings where a narrow band of shade gives one the illusion of a reprieve from the heat.
Of course, it's just water dripping down from millions of air conditioners from millions of floors above our heads.
Now, this is not technically weather.
And, the fact that such rain drops (any rain drops) hurtling down at us from miles above doen't kill us is curious, but I never bother to wonder about this.
Nor do I ever bother to wonder whether or not it is actually spit.
Yet, I do imagine such spitters as laughing at us from the safety of their ivory towers, where spitting down upon us is the only conclusion.
They do it because they can. They do it because they have to. They do it with mock regret, music blasting and probably martinis.
It's like these knotted up wads of money that I keep finding in the street. It's broad daylight but no one else ever notices this money but me.
I usually wait until I'm miles away in a taxi cab before I check to see how much money it really is.
I unfurl the found money one crinkly piece at a time.
Jul 9, 2010
sleep
I woke up feeling like I had slept for the first time in months.
I'm certain, according to my own made up unscientific notions, that outer regions of my brain do not get any rest until the middle-most portion has gotten it's rest, first.
Such unscientific notions are the very backbone of this operation, gentle reader. Try to keep up?
Imagine a blot of dark ink that travels outward toward the edges of the paper.
This is rest.
For me. For my brain.
It starts in the middle of my brain and works its way out. And there is no skipping ahead to the outer reaches under any circumstances.
Unfortunately, the outer reaches of my brain is where all of the really important, day-by-day functions are located (in my brain, I have no idea about your brain - nor anything whatsoever about real brains).
So, somehow I woke up this morning having gotten 100% rest. For every part of my brain. And, though my dreams were quickly forgotten, the feeling of being 100% rested will never be forgotten.
My Whole Life Became ..Better.
Breakfast?
No, thanks. In fact, this bagel and cream cheese can go right out the window.
Coffee?
Maybe for fun. Maybe in Spain. But certainly not right now.
Wash my face?
Why ever would I wash my face in light of such restful sleep?
Money?
No. I can finally throw all of these ridiculous (for that matter, terribly decorated) pieces of paper right down the toilet.
As it should be!
That's what I always say.
No. Sleep is my only currency now..
I'm certain, according to my own made up unscientific notions, that outer regions of my brain do not get any rest until the middle-most portion has gotten it's rest, first.
Such unscientific notions are the very backbone of this operation, gentle reader. Try to keep up?
Imagine a blot of dark ink that travels outward toward the edges of the paper.
This is rest.
For me. For my brain.
It starts in the middle of my brain and works its way out. And there is no skipping ahead to the outer reaches under any circumstances.
Unfortunately, the outer reaches of my brain is where all of the really important, day-by-day functions are located (in my brain, I have no idea about your brain - nor anything whatsoever about real brains).
So, somehow I woke up this morning having gotten 100% rest. For every part of my brain. And, though my dreams were quickly forgotten, the feeling of being 100% rested will never be forgotten.
My Whole Life Became ..Better.
Breakfast?
No, thanks. In fact, this bagel and cream cheese can go right out the window.
Coffee?
Maybe for fun. Maybe in Spain. But certainly not right now.
Wash my face?
Why ever would I wash my face in light of such restful sleep?
Money?
No. I can finally throw all of these ridiculous (for that matter, terribly decorated) pieces of paper right down the toilet.
As it should be!
That's what I always say.
No. Sleep is my only currency now..
Jul 5, 2010
friendly
We had arranged it so that we would have time to mill around our old neighborhood for an hour or so before the picnic.
This picnic was located in what was once practically our back yard. So, everything was weird.
Not bad weird. Just weird.
It seems that all I need is to be tired, or to have had a couple of drinks, or be deep in thought - to find myself walking home, to my old apartment, rather than to the train to this my mom's coach house.
Jesus, this town.
It's the lady who sells books from her stoop.
It's the mean hippies at the old building who, for whatever reason it's still so damned awkward to be around - that you'd think we had had an actual feud (but we never really did).
It's things like the enormous double sided Mickey Mouse face that sat on someone's porch for ten years.
It's the corn cobs forever discarded in the gutters.
It's the rusted bike skeletons chained everywhere.
It's Wigs & Plus and how that they never bothered to make it grammatically correct.
As we made our way down the Milwaukee Blvd,
I saw that certain businesses were not only still going, but had expanded into more than one business - sometimes right next door to each other.
I felt bad that Lenny & Me was open on the Fourth. Still, I was only too happy to show Tom the very whys and hows of Lenny & Me.
It felt like he and I had done this before, but in truth, we never had.
Tom found a sort of semi-circle 1960's Rob and Laura Petrie cocktail bar that he wanted. And a couple of old typewriters.
A typewriter. What would that be like at this point?
A toy typewriter I had had when I was little popped up in my mind. It was blue plastic.
It actually worked.
I would do anything for that typewriter right now.
Wouldn't it be funny to write a book that won a Pulitzer Prize and then to admit that the whole thing had been written on a toy typewriter?
So, Tom & Me were at Lenny & Me.
How much had I bought at Lenny & Me? How much had I sold? How much of what I sold there had been bought there in the first place?
So many skirts, so many typewriters, so little time.
So, we bought a raffle ticket to support art in schools, locally.
The prize? A typewriter.
I should mention that it was so hot yesterday that all of my carefully applied-in-layers deodorant immediately slid off upon stepping out of the house.
So, I smelled, as Sylvia Plath might say, friendly for the rest of the day.
Later, after the picnic, when we got back home and hunkered down in the air conditioned happiness that is our living room, I started the process of finally watching District 9.
I'd been afraid of District 9 for so long that I still can't believe I fell asleep before the movie started.
This picnic was located in what was once practically our back yard. So, everything was weird.
Not bad weird. Just weird.
It seems that all I need is to be tired, or to have had a couple of drinks, or be deep in thought - to find myself walking home, to my old apartment, rather than to the train to this my mom's coach house.
Jesus, this town.
It's the lady who sells books from her stoop.
It's the mean hippies at the old building who, for whatever reason it's still so damned awkward to be around - that you'd think we had had an actual feud (but we never really did).
It's things like the enormous double sided Mickey Mouse face that sat on someone's porch for ten years.
It's the corn cobs forever discarded in the gutters.
It's the rusted bike skeletons chained everywhere.
It's Wigs & Plus and how that they never bothered to make it grammatically correct.
As we made our way down the Milwaukee Blvd,
I saw that certain businesses were not only still going, but had expanded into more than one business - sometimes right next door to each other.
I felt bad that Lenny & Me was open on the Fourth. Still, I was only too happy to show Tom the very whys and hows of Lenny & Me.
It felt like he and I had done this before, but in truth, we never had.
Tom found a sort of semi-circle 1960's Rob and Laura Petrie cocktail bar that he wanted. And a couple of old typewriters.
A typewriter. What would that be like at this point?
A toy typewriter I had had when I was little popped up in my mind. It was blue plastic.
It actually worked.
I would do anything for that typewriter right now.
Wouldn't it be funny to write a book that won a Pulitzer Prize and then to admit that the whole thing had been written on a toy typewriter?
So, Tom & Me were at Lenny & Me.
How much had I bought at Lenny & Me? How much had I sold? How much of what I sold there had been bought there in the first place?
So many skirts, so many typewriters, so little time.
So, we bought a raffle ticket to support art in schools, locally.
The prize? A typewriter.
I should mention that it was so hot yesterday that all of my carefully applied-in-layers deodorant immediately slid off upon stepping out of the house.
So, I smelled, as Sylvia Plath might say, friendly for the rest of the day.
Later, after the picnic, when we got back home and hunkered down in the air conditioned happiness that is our living room, I started the process of finally watching District 9.
I'd been afraid of District 9 for so long that I still can't believe I fell asleep before the movie started.
But I did.
One Fourth of July, when I was seven, we had a huge party. We probably did every year after that, but this one was the first of what I will call the suburban series of such parties.
My dad grilled steaks, shishkabob and bratwurst (which he had lovingly marinaded in beer for over 24 hours beforehand).
My mom made salads, deserts and drinks for everyone.
It was fun.
At some point all the kids piled into our non-air conditioned, but somewhat shady den to watch The Yellow Submarine on channel 7.
I swear that we did this with the same sense of tradition as we did opening Christmas presents or hunting Easter eggs.
The Yellow Submarine somehow got all mixed up with The Fourth of July when I was growing up.
It just made sense.
The whole Yellow Submarine /Fourth of July association was further confused by me at that age with Screaming Yellow Zonkers, which was a popcorn + toffee snack that came in a box.
It, too, was very popular at the time.
As for my confusion (all those yellows) I think it had a great deal to with the very Peter Max-ness of both things (which nobody bothered to explain to me, but was, none the less, very much on my mind).
What was this Peter Max?
Why was it different?
What did Monty Python, The Beatles, Screaming Yellow Zonkers and the 7-Up sign (not to mention a few of my mom's scarves) all have in common?
I wasn't sure.
But something was definitely going on, there.
I was seven.
It was The Fourth of July.
And it was on that day, for some incredible reason, that Mr. Kahnwal decided he was bored (or was it that he was especially fun and clever?) and wanted to go see Jaws.
Just like that.
I mean it. We were right in the middle of eating potato salad, waving off bees and continually changing records when and Mr. Kahnwal suddenly, indugently decided that Jaws it is.
Independant of anything his wife or anyone else thought.
My mom said that we could go with Mr. Kahnwal (though, in all truth, he was going with or without us) and this, too, was wildly unprecedented.
So, we went to see Jaws.
It was something fun and happy all rolled up in something fun and happy.
I cite the Tootsie Pop as the closest of principles to this turn of events.
I should add that, when we got out of the theater, it was just in time to go see the fireworks.
Such was the perfect timing and candy-with-in-a-candy nature of that day.
Yesterday?
No. Yesterday was nothing like that.
Nothing remotely like that..
Jul 3, 2010
my dad is bigger than your dad, infinity
How something as innocent as a post about living in one's freezer could become something about (even if only for a few minutes) living in the gutter - or one's own death, is frankly, beyond me.
Furthermore, how this could be purely be a product of my own machinations is, though not completely surprising, shocking, none the less.
To put it plainly, people have been let go from this organization.
Rest assured, it was in the most ugly and abrupt of ways possible. So that the humiliation never be forgotten (as with any successful lay-off, the goal being utter, crippling humiliation - along with job loss, so that the person learns never to trust themselves ever again; that building something is silly; that paychecks are merely fleeting, etc, etc).
They were given pink-slips. Not merely pink, but perfectly pink. We took weeks to pick out just the right shade of pink for our pink-slips.
Meetings were had. The kind with bagels, omelet stations, and, at one point, an oh-so-quiet yet classically entertaining mime.
The kind of meetings where the finest of coffees is catered in (this a result of a polite, nearly whispered request over the phone that is then confirmed over and over to the point of tears via email) in one of those silver-urns-and-white-cloths deals that is dead serious and includes, somehow, miraculously, a cocoa station (the cocoa station that nobody wants to admit that they want). The kind of cocoa station that provides a real-life whipped-cream maker who wears a big puffy chefs hat and does nothing but makes whipped-cream all day long. And is happily at the disposal of any cocoa wanter, if only one would come forward (yet none ever does).
The kind of meeting where everyone is suddenly dressed for recognition: heels, cuff links, shaven and/or naturally unfair-life-bald heads (it doesn't matter) buffed to mirror like shines, nails neatly shaped and now the color of egg-plant, and all wayward threads and lint banished with utter contempt to elsewhere (an unidentified place), with hems absolutely straight, and buttons on so tight that they themselves threaten to save the planet (wholly independent of anything this meeting is meant to address).
And with brainstorming sessions that are nothing, if not hatefully, transparently self-promoting.
The kind where everyone gets at least a few poorly rehearsed words in. Even (and maybe especially) the guy on the speaker phone who (though in Japan, though on vacation) goes on and on more than anyone else.
So, that when the pink of the pink-slip is finally decided upon, everyone applauds and cheers.
So, that when the pink of the pink-slip is finally decided upon, a wheel-cart of cocktails is finally rolled in.
No. I never saw happier people in business.
No, I never did.
Oh, and they're scented, too. Did I tell you that part? The pink-slips are scented.
Ever so subtly like garbage.
The kind that rots in the Chicago sun over the scope of a long irregular summer holiday weekends, such as this one.
Where one's ill-timed garbage might lie in state over the course of more than two (2) days.
It's an ugly stench, to be sure. But, being as we are a corrupt city to begin with, this stench, my friend, is nothing.
That's, nothin', for those who speak only the native language.
That's nothin', jaggoff.
or:
Have another beef samich and shudup, once, jag!
As well:
My dad is bigger than yer dad.
End of story.
And that is the end of almost every story, here in Chicago. Hate to say it.
The thing is, my dad was probably bigger than almost of all of your dads.
And whatever he may have lacked in height or weight (laughs) he more than made up for in sheer, outright incredible meanness.
I promise you, this.
I dreamt about my dead-dad for the first time since he died, the other day.
(alliterative)
I'd been waiting for this.
It had been 3.5 years and nothin'.
What was he doin'?
He was building me a ceiling fixture to hold not only my wine glasses, but also my pots and pans. And there was some overhead lighting affixed to it as well.
It was my dad being all like my dad.
And he was pretty big in this dream, too.
So, there.
[infinity]
Furthermore, how this could be purely be a product of my own machinations is, though not completely surprising, shocking, none the less.
To put it plainly, people have been let go from this organization.
Rest assured, it was in the most ugly and abrupt of ways possible. So that the humiliation never be forgotten (as with any successful lay-off, the goal being utter, crippling humiliation - along with job loss, so that the person learns never to trust themselves ever again; that building something is silly; that paychecks are merely fleeting, etc, etc).
They were given pink-slips. Not merely pink, but perfectly pink. We took weeks to pick out just the right shade of pink for our pink-slips.
Meetings were had. The kind with bagels, omelet stations, and, at one point, an oh-so-quiet yet classically entertaining mime.
The kind of meetings where the finest of coffees is catered in (this a result of a polite, nearly whispered request over the phone that is then confirmed over and over to the point of tears via email) in one of those silver-urns-and-white-cloths deals that is dead serious and includes, somehow, miraculously, a cocoa station (the cocoa station that nobody wants to admit that they want). The kind of cocoa station that provides a real-life whipped-cream maker who wears a big puffy chefs hat and does nothing but makes whipped-cream all day long. And is happily at the disposal of any cocoa wanter, if only one would come forward (yet none ever does).
The kind of meeting where everyone is suddenly dressed for recognition: heels, cuff links, shaven and/or naturally unfair-life-bald heads (it doesn't matter) buffed to mirror like shines, nails neatly shaped and now the color of egg-plant, and all wayward threads and lint banished with utter contempt to elsewhere (an unidentified place), with hems absolutely straight, and buttons on so tight that they themselves threaten to save the planet (wholly independent of anything this meeting is meant to address).
And with brainstorming sessions that are nothing, if not hatefully, transparently self-promoting.
The kind where everyone gets at least a few poorly rehearsed words in. Even (and maybe especially) the guy on the speaker phone who (though in Japan, though on vacation) goes on and on more than anyone else.
So, that when the pink of the pink-slip is finally decided upon, everyone applauds and cheers.
So, that when the pink of the pink-slip is finally decided upon, a wheel-cart of cocktails is finally rolled in.
No. I never saw happier people in business.
No, I never did.
Oh, and they're scented, too. Did I tell you that part? The pink-slips are scented.
Ever so subtly like garbage.
The kind that rots in the Chicago sun over the scope of a long irregular summer holiday weekends, such as this one.
Where one's ill-timed garbage might lie in state over the course of more than two (2) days.
It's an ugly stench, to be sure. But, being as we are a corrupt city to begin with, this stench, my friend, is nothing.
That's, nothin', for those who speak only the native language.
That's nothin', jaggoff.
or:
Have another beef samich and shudup, once, jag!
As well:
My dad is bigger than yer dad.
End of story.
And that is the end of almost every story, here in Chicago. Hate to say it.
The thing is, my dad was probably bigger than almost of all of your dads.
And whatever he may have lacked in height or weight (laughs) he more than made up for in sheer, outright incredible meanness.
I promise you, this.
I dreamt about my dead-dad for the first time since he died, the other day.
(alliterative)
I'd been waiting for this.
It had been 3.5 years and nothin'.
What was he doin'?
He was building me a ceiling fixture to hold not only my wine glasses, but also my pots and pans. And there was some overhead lighting affixed to it as well.
It was my dad being all like my dad.
And he was pretty big in this dream, too.
So, there.
[infinity]
May 6, 2010
The Sixth Floor
I waited as Oscar whisked two eggs in a small yellow bowl that had once been his mother's.
The bowl, which had traveled with Oscar everywhere over the years, featured a 1960's motif of roosters and farm houses in red relief.
He poured the batter of loosely whisked eggs and a dash of cold cream into a hot pan.
Less than two minutes later, in one motion, he both folded and plated my omelet.
I took a bite.
The cheese, an aged domestic white cheddar (though Oscar never revealed as much) had somehow melted, despite being a hard cheese. And the white pepper, which Oscar used liberally, surprised me, as only white pepper can.
Then, my black rye toast arrived. Kosher with glossy crust, it would be more accurate to say that my black rye bread arrived as it hadn't been toasted so much as it was still warm from the oven, having just been baked. This was one of those really thick slices of black rye bread. The kind you only read about in magazines. And, though the bread had already been buttered for me, the marmalade--homemade, exquisitely tart and served lovingly in an antique aperitif glass--was all my own doing.
I ate my breakfast and chatted with Oscar, the owner of Oscar's Magic Kitchen & Property Taxes, with the kind of contentment other people find only in hard drugs or pulling off perfect revenges. I wiped my mouth on my hand loomed 100% hemp napkin and paid my bill: $1.80.
Oscar, I don't know how you do it..
It was then, with all the reluctance in the world, that I stepped back out into the gray, wet streets, my thin coat pulled around me. On the way I smoked what was left of my cigar. I was now well over an hour late for work.
I turned a corner, then another corner, then darted on tip-toes down a back alleyway (strewn with yesterday's bloody sausage factory output), then, lumbered (about fifteen blocks) cop-like, with heavy, hard boiled steps--through an especially tough neighborhood, then, adopting a more casual attitude, I glided, as though on skates, into the building where I worked.
Good morning!
The doorman, Mr. Hendricks, shook his head at me, You are very late, Ms. Victoria!
I was out of breath: Mr. Hendricks, if you please, may I get an elevator?
To?
The sixth floor?
The sixth floor (pause) the SIXTH floor?
He nodded as he said it, as though to determine he had heard me correctly. He scratched his head.
I suppose you want the sixth floor "right now", Ms. Victoria. Would that be accurate?
I would. I mean, only if..
Okay, then! Let's see..
And with that Mr. Hendricks very deliberately began paging through a document that sat before him on his podium. He licked the tip of his pencil, checked off a couple of things, then picked up his phone and placed a call. He looked straight at me with contempt as it rang forever. He then spoke barely audibly in another language to the other party. There was a big, seemingly empty pause.
Finally Mr. Hendricks slammed down the phone, and, without ever looking at me again, shouted, James! Take her to the sixth floor, "right away" will you, please?
I stepped onto the car. It, wallpapered in green voided velvet, plus one huge oval gold-leafed mirror--hanging at such an extreme angle as to threaten to fall off it's one precarious nail at any moment--plus two ashtrays, plus one spittoon, was probably the slowest method of getting anywhere in the world. But I couldn't take the stairs that morning, as they were still, presently, cordoned off by several layers of police tape.
I got onto the elevator. One door closed over another. Then another over that. And finally some apparatus was engaged by James via a crank wheel. And we were off, as they say, to the second floor.
All of the doors re-opened.
Three well outfitted people stepped hesitantly onto the car. One of them couldn't be bothered with getting all the way onto the car, for they were deeply into a conversation on their mobile. Someone finally yelled at them to get onto the car. At which point they all laughed hysterically.
I couldn't help but notice that they smelled strongly of whiskey.
Then, O! Is this car going UP?
At which point James promptly brought them back down to the lobby.
We resumed my trip, which was, this time, promised to go straight to the sixth floor, no matter what.
Wheels turned.
We traveled slowly.
We laughed. We spoke wistfully of our families.
Sixth floor!
I stepped up out of the car which had landed somewhat between floors, this time. James, being over worked, more than a little passive-aggressive and very, very high did this to people all day.
I walked as quietly down the corridor as I could. Like a ballerina or a super-spy. I noted, like always, that it smelled of soy sauce in that hallway. This naturally led to thoughts of all the other hallways in my life: There was the one that had smelled like White Castle, the one that had smelled like apples (or was it chamomile tea?)
I saw, at the very end, past all the other (mostly dark) offices, what was my office I approached my office. I stood at the door. I opened the door. I stepped very quietly in.
Then I saw it. A birthday with pie and fresh whipped cream was already in progress. The unmistakable smell of burnt birthday candles hung in the air, and, what with everyone crowded over by the long work table where most food related things occurred, it was clear that I hadn't been missed.
The fact that it was happening so early meant that there would be more than one birthday, that day. Yes. It was going to be one of those cake days where nothing got done.
And here's me, having already eaten.
The bowl, which had traveled with Oscar everywhere over the years, featured a 1960's motif of roosters and farm houses in red relief.
He poured the batter of loosely whisked eggs and a dash of cold cream into a hot pan.
Less than two minutes later, in one motion, he both folded and plated my omelet.
I took a bite.
The cheese, an aged domestic white cheddar (though Oscar never revealed as much) had somehow melted, despite being a hard cheese. And the white pepper, which Oscar used liberally, surprised me, as only white pepper can.
Then, my black rye toast arrived. Kosher with glossy crust, it would be more accurate to say that my black rye bread arrived as it hadn't been toasted so much as it was still warm from the oven, having just been baked. This was one of those really thick slices of black rye bread. The kind you only read about in magazines. And, though the bread had already been buttered for me, the marmalade--homemade, exquisitely tart and served lovingly in an antique aperitif glass--was all my own doing.
I ate my breakfast and chatted with Oscar, the owner of Oscar's Magic Kitchen & Property Taxes, with the kind of contentment other people find only in hard drugs or pulling off perfect revenges. I wiped my mouth on my hand loomed 100% hemp napkin and paid my bill: $1.80.
Oscar, I don't know how you do it..
It was then, with all the reluctance in the world, that I stepped back out into the gray, wet streets, my thin coat pulled around me. On the way I smoked what was left of my cigar. I was now well over an hour late for work.
I turned a corner, then another corner, then darted on tip-toes down a back alleyway (strewn with yesterday's bloody sausage factory output), then, lumbered (about fifteen blocks) cop-like, with heavy, hard boiled steps--through an especially tough neighborhood, then, adopting a more casual attitude, I glided, as though on skates, into the building where I worked.
Good morning!
The doorman, Mr. Hendricks, shook his head at me, You are very late, Ms. Victoria!
I was out of breath: Mr. Hendricks, if you please, may I get an elevator?
To?
The sixth floor?
The sixth floor (pause) the SIXTH floor?
He nodded as he said it, as though to determine he had heard me correctly. He scratched his head.
I suppose you want the sixth floor "right now", Ms. Victoria. Would that be accurate?
I would. I mean, only if..
Okay, then! Let's see..
And with that Mr. Hendricks very deliberately began paging through a document that sat before him on his podium. He licked the tip of his pencil, checked off a couple of things, then picked up his phone and placed a call. He looked straight at me with contempt as it rang forever. He then spoke barely audibly in another language to the other party. There was a big, seemingly empty pause.
Finally Mr. Hendricks slammed down the phone, and, without ever looking at me again, shouted, James! Take her to the sixth floor, "right away" will you, please?
I stepped onto the car. It, wallpapered in green voided velvet, plus one huge oval gold-leafed mirror--hanging at such an extreme angle as to threaten to fall off it's one precarious nail at any moment--plus two ashtrays, plus one spittoon, was probably the slowest method of getting anywhere in the world. But I couldn't take the stairs that morning, as they were still, presently, cordoned off by several layers of police tape.
I got onto the elevator. One door closed over another. Then another over that. And finally some apparatus was engaged by James via a crank wheel. And we were off, as they say, to the second floor.
All of the doors re-opened.
Three well outfitted people stepped hesitantly onto the car. One of them couldn't be bothered with getting all the way onto the car, for they were deeply into a conversation on their mobile. Someone finally yelled at them to get onto the car. At which point they all laughed hysterically.
I couldn't help but notice that they smelled strongly of whiskey.
Then, O! Is this car going UP?
At which point James promptly brought them back down to the lobby.
We resumed my trip, which was, this time, promised to go straight to the sixth floor, no matter what.
Wheels turned.
We traveled slowly.
We laughed. We spoke wistfully of our families.
Sixth floor!
I stepped up out of the car which had landed somewhat between floors, this time. James, being over worked, more than a little passive-aggressive and very, very high did this to people all day.
I walked as quietly down the corridor as I could. Like a ballerina or a super-spy. I noted, like always, that it smelled of soy sauce in that hallway. This naturally led to thoughts of all the other hallways in my life: There was the one that had smelled like White Castle, the one that had smelled like apples (or was it chamomile tea?)
I saw, at the very end, past all the other (mostly dark) offices, what was my office I approached my office. I stood at the door. I opened the door. I stepped very quietly in.
Then I saw it. A birthday with pie and fresh whipped cream was already in progress. The unmistakable smell of burnt birthday candles hung in the air, and, what with everyone crowded over by the long work table where most food related things occurred, it was clear that I hadn't been missed.
The fact that it was happening so early meant that there would be more than one birthday, that day. Yes. It was going to be one of those cake days where nothing got done.
And here's me, having already eaten.
Oct 20, 2009
Roman Grimiko
Roman Grimiko awakes incredulous that he has lived to see another day. An offending bit of sunlight falls across his face:
Christ. You've got to be fucking kidding me..
Roman's wife, a petite woman of about sixty, who is usually up well before the sun, has left a small breakfast for him on his night table. The plate is covered with several cloth napkins in a purely symbolic gesture meant to retain the heat.
There on the plate is his usual plain omelet, pickled beets and a slice of toast cut diagonally twice (into four pieces), already buttered, with a dab of grape jelly on each portion.
It's an old joke between the Grimikos, the toast. The fight they had when they first married regarding the proper way to slice toast. How Roman has regretted this joke ever since.
And, there's a cup of black coffee (now ice cold) and a juice glass filled half way with dark wine.
His wife, of course, is at church and will be for the rest of the day.
This breakfast was a loving and mostly useless gesture on the part of Mrs. Grimiko, who knew Roman would not wake up in time for it to be still edible.
Roman, appreciating his wife's thoughtfulness, takes the juice glass of wine and downs it. Then makes his way downstairs to refill it.
Later, he gets dressed and walks through the wet, leaf strewn neighborhood with his malfunctioning umbrella for his bath.This is possibly the happiest part of Roman's day. There his oldest friends will either be bathing or taking saunas. And, afterward, there is always chess and discourse.
shit..
Roman remembers that his eldest daughter will be at the house around three. The thought makes him more nervous than happy. His daughter always has something to say about the business that never quite fits in with his perception of things. At some point, however, they will cook together, and that will change the dynamic a bit in his favor.
He laughs darkly at this. It's a good laugh. Yes, of course. He will ply his daughter with food:
dumplings for the dumpling..
Roman likes to prepare everything for coming the week on Sunday. It's his way of getting out of church. And it works. It turns out that Roman is the superior cook in the family. And this arrangement, which has been in place for over forty years, seems to make everyone happy.
So far he has two small chickens stuffed with sweet onions and paprika roasting in the oven, a pot of goulash slowly simmering on the front burrner, while beef stock brews on the back.
He has half a dozen peppers stuffed with sausage and rice baking in a shallow dish, while a bread pudding with raisins and apples bakes along side it.
His wife will then heat things as the week unfolds, mostly taking credit for all of the cooking.
Yes. It's on Sunday, there in the kitchen, that Roman is at his best. As he explains opera to his daughter, occasionally throwing scraps of sausage to whatever injured kitten he is currently tending to, Roman cooks and dreams of one less day.
It's Sunday. And this is Roman Grimiko at his best..
Christ. You've got to be fucking kidding me..
Roman's wife, a petite woman of about sixty, who is usually up well before the sun, has left a small breakfast for him on his night table. The plate is covered with several cloth napkins in a purely symbolic gesture meant to retain the heat.
There on the plate is his usual plain omelet, pickled beets and a slice of toast cut diagonally twice (into four pieces), already buttered, with a dab of grape jelly on each portion.
It's an old joke between the Grimikos, the toast. The fight they had when they first married regarding the proper way to slice toast. How Roman has regretted this joke ever since.
And, there's a cup of black coffee (now ice cold) and a juice glass filled half way with dark wine.
His wife, of course, is at church and will be for the rest of the day.
This breakfast was a loving and mostly useless gesture on the part of Mrs. Grimiko, who knew Roman would not wake up in time for it to be still edible.
Roman, appreciating his wife's thoughtfulness, takes the juice glass of wine and downs it. Then makes his way downstairs to refill it.
Later, he gets dressed and walks through the wet, leaf strewn neighborhood with his malfunctioning umbrella for his bath.This is possibly the happiest part of Roman's day. There his oldest friends will either be bathing or taking saunas. And, afterward, there is always chess and discourse.
shit..
Roman remembers that his eldest daughter will be at the house around three. The thought makes him more nervous than happy. His daughter always has something to say about the business that never quite fits in with his perception of things. At some point, however, they will cook together, and that will change the dynamic a bit in his favor.
He laughs darkly at this. It's a good laugh. Yes, of course. He will ply his daughter with food:
dumplings for the dumpling..
Roman likes to prepare everything for coming the week on Sunday. It's his way of getting out of church. And it works. It turns out that Roman is the superior cook in the family. And this arrangement, which has been in place for over forty years, seems to make everyone happy.
So far he has two small chickens stuffed with sweet onions and paprika roasting in the oven, a pot of goulash slowly simmering on the front burrner, while beef stock brews on the back.
He has half a dozen peppers stuffed with sausage and rice baking in a shallow dish, while a bread pudding with raisins and apples bakes along side it.
His wife will then heat things as the week unfolds, mostly taking credit for all of the cooking.
Yes. It's on Sunday, there in the kitchen, that Roman is at his best. As he explains opera to his daughter, occasionally throwing scraps of sausage to whatever injured kitten he is currently tending to, Roman cooks and dreams of one less day.
It's Sunday. And this is Roman Grimiko at his best..
Oct 19, 2009
pizza
I tore the pizza from its box in a manner that betrayed not only my hunger, but my utter disregard for removing pizzas from their boxes nicely. I'm always surprised by what little actually stands between me and any given frozen pizza.
It's just a box and some plastic. And it seems like it should be more. That there should be some literature. Or maybe a pamphlet telling me the history of this pizza. Or maybe a prize or some temporary tattoos.
I threw the pizza into the oven. Loudly. Crashingly. And, when I did, the temperature was set so high (in the interest of time) that there were a few (albeit small, totally manageable) flames that leapt out at me.
But I didn't care.
This was progress. I was absolutely famished. And while it baked I could, in the meantime, soothe myself with the fact that this was much faster than ordering in. Or, for that matter, making pizza from scratch.
So, I had some wine and cheese in the interim (without taking note of any spectacular sunset that might be happening at the moment, nor waxing any other wine and cheese specific bullshit about how great I am, or how great you are, or how great life is).
I knew two things:
1. This, my supposed new oven (was anything in this house really mine? Was anything in this house really new?), has a thermometer permanently affixed to its interior for a reason: this oven gets hotter than any other oven in the world.
2. Though I could eat almost anything frozen, I would refrain from doing so this time. I would wait. Even if it meant eating god damned wine and cheese without acknowledging sunsets all god damned day.
And so it began.
As I checked continually for progress, I saw that the edges of this pizza were melting. And the pepperoni, though not my favorite ingredient, was crisping up quite nicely.
And, if it matters, I could actually hear the sizzle of the cheese that had dropped down into the fire (a second fire was, at this juncture, burning independently of that which came more evenly from the boiler).
The pizza was almost done.
Then I got the bright idea to add some water to the fire to really smoke this pizza (imagine the flavor). It was then that the first thoughts about how this pizza might actually kill me began popping up in my mind.
Yeah, I hear those sirens, too..
The whole house was on fire. No matter, it was from this inferno that an unprecedented culinary detail emerged:
The sauce, which at the parameter had caramelized to a practically candied condition, was sweet, delicately spiced and otherwise still velvety at the epicenter. And, aside from what had happened at the edges, the four cheeses maintained their integrity. In fact, at that point, with the pizza and most of the neighborhood ablaze, I felt that (though clearly still too hot to eat) it was only a matter of minutes before the pizza had rested and properly redistributed it's juices.
No. I was all in.
It's just a box and some plastic. And it seems like it should be more. That there should be some literature. Or maybe a pamphlet telling me the history of this pizza. Or maybe a prize or some temporary tattoos.
I threw the pizza into the oven. Loudly. Crashingly. And, when I did, the temperature was set so high (in the interest of time) that there were a few (albeit small, totally manageable) flames that leapt out at me.
But I didn't care.
This was progress. I was absolutely famished. And while it baked I could, in the meantime, soothe myself with the fact that this was much faster than ordering in. Or, for that matter, making pizza from scratch.
So, I had some wine and cheese in the interim (without taking note of any spectacular sunset that might be happening at the moment, nor waxing any other wine and cheese specific bullshit about how great I am, or how great you are, or how great life is).
I knew two things:
1. This, my supposed new oven (was anything in this house really mine? Was anything in this house really new?), has a thermometer permanently affixed to its interior for a reason: this oven gets hotter than any other oven in the world.
2. Though I could eat almost anything frozen, I would refrain from doing so this time. I would wait. Even if it meant eating god damned wine and cheese without acknowledging sunsets all god damned day.
And so it began.
As I checked continually for progress, I saw that the edges of this pizza were melting. And the pepperoni, though not my favorite ingredient, was crisping up quite nicely.
And, if it matters, I could actually hear the sizzle of the cheese that had dropped down into the fire (a second fire was, at this juncture, burning independently of that which came more evenly from the boiler).
The pizza was almost done.
Then I got the bright idea to add some water to the fire to really smoke this pizza (imagine the flavor). It was then that the first thoughts about how this pizza might actually kill me began popping up in my mind.
Yeah, I hear those sirens, too..
The whole house was on fire. No matter, it was from this inferno that an unprecedented culinary detail emerged:
The sauce, which at the parameter had caramelized to a practically candied condition, was sweet, delicately spiced and otherwise still velvety at the epicenter. And, aside from what had happened at the edges, the four cheeses maintained their integrity. In fact, at that point, with the pizza and most of the neighborhood ablaze, I felt that (though clearly still too hot to eat) it was only a matter of minutes before the pizza had rested and properly redistributed it's juices.
No. I was all in.
Oct 18, 2009
lather, rinse, repeat
1. This blog is like someone I got stuck working with who always laughs at her own jokes, makes fake phone calls when she's bored (mostly on her hairbrush; mostly to her mom) and brags compulsively as a form of malice.
It's the constant bragging that really irks me. It seems to set in motion a now well worn routine of "their constant bragging" versus "my attempt to deflect their constant bragging".
This involves two opposing actions:
a. not to seem jealous = because I'm not
b. not to seem like I care = because I don't
It's a delicate balance. And, no matter the subject of their bragging, it's the idea that they want me to be jealous that distracts me from my original goal (that is, to dispel any notion that I am at all swept away by any of their self promoting ideas). This alone tends to bungle the operation (theirs and mine).
And it shows.
It breaks down as follows:
a. I'm not jealous
b. and I don't care
c. I might appear jealous by virtue of not caring
d. thus: I must pretend to care
e. without sounding jealous
f. even though I'm not jealous
g. and I don't care
And on and on.
And this is just between my blog and me. It gets worse with actual people.
2. After years of developing my recipe, I've finally learned how to make the perfect meatloaf.
And, guess what, it tastes just like the McCormick meatloaf packet.
McCormick packet = $3.00
My meatloaf recipe = $600.00
So, McCormick wins (again).
4. Each year I take note of the first leaf that falls in Autumn. It's funny how this always happens when I'm around.
I never pick up this leaf. I don't want to disturb the ecosystem. Of course, this was not always the case. Thus every single fall leaf collected by me (in both the tri-state area and Ireland) has since been returned to their rightful locales.
This took eighteen months and cost millions of dollars but it was so worth it.
It's the constant bragging that really irks me. It seems to set in motion a now well worn routine of "their constant bragging" versus "my attempt to deflect their constant bragging".
This involves two opposing actions:
a. not to seem jealous = because I'm not
b. not to seem like I care = because I don't
It's a delicate balance. And, no matter the subject of their bragging, it's the idea that they want me to be jealous that distracts me from my original goal (that is, to dispel any notion that I am at all swept away by any of their self promoting ideas). This alone tends to bungle the operation (theirs and mine).
And it shows.
It breaks down as follows:
a. I'm not jealous
b. and I don't care
c. I might appear jealous by virtue of not caring
d. thus: I must pretend to care
e. without sounding jealous
f. even though I'm not jealous
g. and I don't care
And on and on.
And this is just between my blog and me. It gets worse with actual people.
2. After years of developing my recipe, I've finally learned how to make the perfect meatloaf.
And, guess what, it tastes just like the McCormick meatloaf packet.
McCormick packet = $3.00
My meatloaf recipe = $600.00
So, McCormick wins (again).
4. Each year I take note of the first leaf that falls in Autumn. It's funny how this always happens when I'm around.
I never pick up this leaf. I don't want to disturb the ecosystem. Of course, this was not always the case. Thus every single fall leaf collected by me (in both the tri-state area and Ireland) has since been returned to their rightful locales.
This took eighteen months and cost millions of dollars but it was so worth it.
Next mission: seashells
Jul 31, 2009
village idiot
So everything is ok, again. I guess.
I did admit to this woman that I barely know (at her card shop today) that I'm now almost constantly nauseous due to moving here. But that was only after she came right out and said how constantly horrified she had been since she moved here.
It turns out she, too, lived in the Wicker Park neighborhood for many years before moving to this particular suburb.
I thought today that, yes, I'm conflicted and, no, I didn't choose to be here, but better to start actively enjoying the architectural history and nice people of this town - because I'm going to be here for a while.
And, because, even if it all does go on within the private confines of my mind, I can't continue being this much of an asshole.
So, I decided to embrace the whole thing.
It's a brand new positive attitude that I made up in my head to overwrite the guilt I had for absolutely hating moving here - when, quite simply, I should be grateful I have such a nice place to live. That is, any place to live.
Did I mention that I lived here a long time ago?
I did. But I've forgotten almost everything.
Like, Euclid. It's a street. But, as recently as this morning, I couldn't tell you where Euclid was.
Sometimes my boyfriend will ask me where "such and such" is located, and I realize that I could walk him anywhere to anything - I've just forgotten the names of all of the streets.
What bothered me most was not being able to locate my dad's office building.
I knew I was in the general vicinity, but, whole new structures had been built to blend timelessly with what were the original structures. So, while everything looked right, it felt askew.
And I had no proof as to how it once was.
I did admit to this woman that I barely know (at her card shop today) that I'm now almost constantly nauseous due to moving here. But that was only after she came right out and said how constantly horrified she had been since she moved here.
It turns out she, too, lived in the Wicker Park neighborhood for many years before moving to this particular suburb.
I thought today that, yes, I'm conflicted and, no, I didn't choose to be here, but better to start actively enjoying the architectural history and nice people of this town - because I'm going to be here for a while.
And, because, even if it all does go on within the private confines of my mind, I can't continue being this much of an asshole.
So, I decided to embrace the whole thing.
It's a brand new positive attitude that I made up in my head to overwrite the guilt I had for absolutely hating moving here - when, quite simply, I should be grateful I have such a nice place to live. That is, any place to live.
Did I mention that I lived here a long time ago?
I did. But I've forgotten almost everything.
Like, Euclid. It's a street. But, as recently as this morning, I couldn't tell you where Euclid was.
Sometimes my boyfriend will ask me where "such and such" is located, and I realize that I could walk him anywhere to anything - I've just forgotten the names of all of the streets.
What bothered me most was not being able to locate my dad's office building.
I knew I was in the general vicinity, but, whole new structures had been built to blend timelessly with what were the original structures. So, while everything looked right, it felt askew.
And I had no proof as to how it once was.
I kept asking myself why I hadn't taken more pictures while I lived here - why no one had.
I felt certain, however, that I was close to my dad's office. Very close. That it was probably that building right there.
But there was no way of knowing.
When I later asked my mom the exact address of my dad's office she laughed like I was being silly.
The truth is, I never knew the exact address of my dad's office. I guess I simply felt my way there by instinct in the past. I've always sensed that it was probably on Marion Street. Maybe Westgate. But nothing more specific than that.
Today, though, with the exact address in my hand, I was able to locate my dad's office.
I see now why it was so difficult to find.
Because my dad's office is just a glass door with a street number on it.
And, if you bother to notice, it's a gray staircase.
But, that's not how I remember it. What I remember is the office itself.
Up on the second level, the office was three or four state-of-the-art rooms of work space designed and built by my dad.
With three or four people who worked and laughed there all day.
And sometimes I'd get dropped off there and get to play with architectural tools at one of the big drawing boards all day.
I remember getting to keep the change after picking up take-out cups of coffee from the restaurant down around the corner. The same restaurant where we often picked up lunch.
I usually ordered either the tuna or the cheese sandwich with chips, a pickle and a coke (which, like the coffee, came in me-generation orange and yellow swooshed take-out cups).
Upon returning to the office, one was always confronted by the chemical scent, that, although you had forgotten about it - or had adjusted to it, had always been there (as it came continuously from the rendering pens, no matter how tightly capped).
And, there was the ubiquitous rubber chicken, that, for some reason, featured prominently in what seemed like every joke made between my dad and his associates, in those days.
No.
None of that would have been evident from street level.
Not even back then.
So, I don't know what exactly I thought the exterior of that building would indicate about my dad's one time presence in that building, today.
Maybe a shadow or a smudge. Maybe an outline left from his logo - or his ego.
Of course, there was nothing to that effect.
And certainly nothing that plainly stated:
John The Architect Of 1972 Once Had An Office Here
I stood there for a second, anyway.
Taking it in. The glass door. The street number. The stairs.
But only for a second. I began to feel weird just for standing there.
There was, nearby, a mom sitting on the bench tending to her baby in a stroller, who simply stared at me.
And then, a woman with many bags bouldered out of the T-shirt store and almost tripped over me.
Because, of course, she hadn't expected me, as no one ever stands anywhere.
And then, a man and his small daughter, both wearing helmets, walked by with their bikes looking 100% mentally healthy.
And there I was.
Possibly lost. Dressed in an outfit that I now wear everyday, because I can't find any of my other clothes.
A getup that would be fine save for the addition (and incredible contrast) of what are definitely the biggest, whitest gym shoes ever (long story).
That's me.
The village idiot. Looking 100% the part.
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