Homeward Train Ride Short Fiction #1

31 August 2010
A Sexy Shade of Platinum
By Noah Buck
Marcie waited with mounting impatience. She sat alone in the brightly lit room; fluorescent lights making the white walls seem icy and unsympathetic. “One would think a doctor’s office should try to seem at least a little comforting,” she thought to herself. She was not accustomed to counting on other people for anything…especially anything having to do with her health.
She shuffled restlessly where she sat on the edge of the medical bed, her movement causing the tissue paper covering the dense cushion to crumple like crushed autumn leaves.
A moment later the door swung open and Dr. Bloomfield walked in with his gaze glued to the clipboard in his wrinkled hands. “Well,” he said with a sudden smile as he looked up at Marcie, “if it isn’t my favorite supermodel!”
“Hey Dad,” Marcie sighed. She hated when he used his silly nicknames. While she knew he meant them to cheer her but they somehow always seemed to have an inverse effect. Once, when she experienced a late onset of chicken pox during her Junior year of high school, he had called her his favorite leopard-print daughter. She stayed in her room for three days out of sheer embarrassment.
“So,” he continued, chipper as ever, “what’ll it be today?”
“I’d like to change my hair color.”
“I don’t know why. It seems to be a perfectly healthy shade to me!”
“You’re missing the point, Dad! I’m done with brown and that means my cheeks need some serious work!” Marcie took a tone of absolute seriousness which, had anyone other than her father encountered, they’d have thought her utterly crazy.
But lucky for both of them, Marcie and her father were equally ridiculous.
“Alright Pumpkin, you seem to have gotten yourself all worked up and I think a little lipo will do just the trick to calm you down and bring out that gorgeous smile of yours.”
Marcie cooled visibly, her expression now matching the austere white walls. Meanwhile, the doctor set down his clipboard and picked up a small red marker, uncapping and brandishing the implement as a painter might hold a delicate brush. Squaring himself opposite his daughter, he thoughtfully squinted his eyes, tilted his head from one side to the other, then began sketching in small red triangles just beneath Marcie’s strong cheekbones.
“Have you spoken to your agent recently?” he asked her without breaking his stony concentration.
“Felipe and I had lunch this afternoon,” she replied through tightly held lips. She didn’t want him to smidge the lines.
“And what did he say about auditions this week?” the doctor asked, stepping back a moment to review his handiwork.
“He said he thinks I’ll get a lot more call backs if I go platinum. Apparently blonde is huge again.”
“I can see that. All those pop stars. Porn actors- is that what they call them? Actors?”
“I don’t have any idea, Dad,” Marcie replied with a flash of frustration, “next I bet you’ll want me to try out for parts in that whole smut industry!”
“Well,” he replied, “I mean you could really make it in that industry. Look at you, you’re perfect for it!”
“Dad!” Marcie cried out, “I can’t believe you’d say such a thing! I’m your DAUGHTER!” Tears welled at the corners of her blue eyes.
“Marce, you know me well enough to know I am not the kind of person to judge. I just want you to be-”
“-successful! You always say that! Never once- I mean, have you ever- there’s plenty of girls whose parents want things for them- GOOD things! And what do you want? Just a trademark. To revel in somebody else’s compliments. ‘That’s my work,’ you’ll say. ‘Her eyes took four different procedures,’ you’ll say. ‘Not one visible scar,’ you’ll say.”
By now Marcie’s tears had begun running profusely, flowing blood red through the ink still on her cheeks.
Her father stood stalk still, the red marker still poised in his hand. His mouth opened then closed, open then closed. Like a fish. No words.
“Well?” Marcie demanded.
Silence.
“Well,” in an instant contrast she calmed. It was as though she’d had a coughing fit and only just managed to catch her breath. Her face went still again. The tears stopped. The red ink still ran a little, pooling just above her chin.
“I- I’m sorry doctor,” she said embarrassedly, “I don’t know what came over me.” Dr. Bloomfield continued to stand.
“I had a brief- there was a lot of wine in the sangria at lunch- we had lobster. Could we pretend that never happened? I’m ready now.”
The doctor stood a moment longer, looking over Marcie like an archaeologist puzzling over a newly unearthed skeleton. Marcie waited. Then, taking a large breath, the doctor sighed and said, “nothing happened. Nothing at all.”
He stepped in towards her face again.
“But now I need to fix all this damage.”

Momentous and Now

In order that the day not pass without note, despite it now being past midnight, I have to write a little something about what's finally come to be.

I got a job.

A real life job.

A Monday to Friday, actual salary, actual title job.

Moving here in January was something I did with a haphazard plan and a bundle of hopes. The plans unraveled, changed, became hybrids of themselves over and over. The hopes were challenged, wilted, nearly died, but somehow maintained just enough root to finally grow into something just now beginning to blossom.

And I couldn't be more grateful.

A friend and I were talking today about the importance of religion as it relates to the way humans go about their daily lives. Belief in something larger, ungraspable even, fuels the notion that the damn near impossible is actually within reach. Days like today remind of the truth in this idea.

Yes, I worked hard and will continue to do so.
Yes, I made my intentions known.
Yes, I refused to give up.

And no, I will not forget the difficulties of the path that led me to where I am right now.
All of the twists, turns, trip ups, and down falls have chipped away the superfluous parts of my person and left a young, soft, ready-to-grow form. The journey I now face includes the ways in which I'll carve a new face out of the battered features still intelligible on that form.
The craftsmanship is paramount.

I will commit to making it the best I've ever done.

The Internship -or- The Joy of Hearing What One Hopes

It began like any other morning on the upper east side: traffic down Lexington steady and innocuous, cotton sunlight fuzzying the facade of the building across the street as its combination of textured surfaces- brick, grout, glass- reflect the morning into our bedroom.

The feeling hovering about the apartment was altogether average. An average display of average things: average coffee, average shower, average two minute process of deciding what to wear.

The average AM ritual was consequently followed by further displays of the average quotidian activities. Average train ride to midtown, average walk, average cattle call trudge through the line for (yet another) coffee.

Culminating in an average kiss goodbye and similar-feeling exchange of "have a great day", the events to that point seemed to indicate nothing out of the ordinary. Neither better nor worse.

Then came the phone call, the new resume, the interviews, the successes, and the sudden novelty of sensing purpose, motion, a future.

Perhaps I'm over-dramatizing the whole situation. Be that as it may, I've yet to feel so elated at a professional accomplishment. In this case glimpsing a plausible light at the end of a dark tunnel filled with menus, wine bottles, cocktails, gluten allergies, high chairs, and special requests.

Sure, it's just an internship. But it's an industry I care about, a path I've longed to walk, a future I've been wanting to build.

No, I'm not counting my proverbial chickens before they're hatched.
I'm just happy. Happy and reveling.

Would that I could charge down this Open Road and see nothing but clear vistas of pathways bright and wide through landscapes lovely and thrilling.

All the while growing back a few of my very own curls.

Reveries of Robbery

It was the second less-than-sweltering day in a row. One could almost feel the invisible gratitude radiating off of the strolling mass of early morning commuters. No sweat stains today. I walked as everyone else in Manhattan walked on a midweek business day: with purpose. And yet, rising just above the determination, like vegetable oil rising to the surface of a pot of water, buoying optimism saturated my morning outlook.
Fifth avenue held its usual bustle of taxis, busses, and limousines, all bordered by sidewalks teeming with the particular flow of so many pedestrians. I imagined how, from the sky, the busy thoroughfare must have resembled a section of artery under a microscope, the people and automobiles like thousands of bloods cells, charging onward with the general current, clumping up at crosswalks and stop lights only to eventually rediscover motion.
I made my way from 53rd to 42nd, stopping en route to buy a few pieces of fresh fruit from a lone vendor. Once I arrived at my usual morning destination- the central branch of the New York Public Library- I mounted the grand stone steps, skirting the larger-than-lifelike lion statue and walking directly to one of the shaded aluminum tables with their rickety peeling-paint folding chairs.
After settling into my seat I couldn't help but overhear the conversation drifting over from my neighboring table: three construction workers were on break, smoking cigarettes, discussing a robbery committed by a man dressed- robe, mask and all- as Darth Vader. A series of laughs erupted from the trio as the expected jokes were made about the criminal employing the force to overcome the guards, cutting through the vault with his light saber, and emerging from the building with Princess Leia waiting in the gettaway vehicle.
I smiled to myself at hearing their jollity while imagining the incredible scene with no small amount of imaginative details: The starred glass over the teller's counter where Vader had thrown an impeding guard; the rhythmic, mechanical sound of his labored, robotic breathing; the weapons belonging to the security personnel floating peacefully above their heads, suspended by the Sith lord's dark capabilities.
And as the sun filtered down through the breeze-shifted leaves of the canopy of birch trees towering above the wiry sidewalk furniture, I enjoyed its soothing warmth and spent another five minutes radiating gratitude to see what I see, hear what I hear, live where I live.

1.000 words of self-assurance

10 July 2010

I feel slightly unraveled today. Having ruined what had the potential to be a highlight evening last night by getting too drunk and having a bad trip at a huge concert, I stepped into today with enumerable misgivings about myself.
It was as if I took every single one of my worst thoughts and opinions about myself and not only affirmed them with my behavior but surpassed them in deplorability. I’m tired of these stupid situations that lead to me feeling ashamed.
It may seem overly romantic or idiotically idyllic but all I really want at this moment is for Jason to come walking into the room, sit down next to me, wrap his arms around me and say, “Noah, I love you. And everything is going to be okay.”
Perhaps it’s my life to this point having so few real obstacles that has led me to a place of needing constant reassurance. Whatever the prompting, the result is the same: I want to be protected, to be made safe, and to be allowed to admit I’m afraid.
The notion of fear tends to in some way indicate weakness and I am uncomfortable with the idea of being weak. This used to manifest itself in my constant bodily comparison to people who were more muscular than me. Then it transitioned into my never saying no when people asked me for help. The lifeguard in me then went a step further and I began to feel the need to fix things for anyone and everyone. It wouldn’t have mattered if it was a friend or a stranger, the moment I caught wind of someone’s problem- be it relational, financial, occupational, academic, spiritual, or otherwise- the synapses in my brain would start firing at top speed, madly concocting some sort of panacea for whomever it was that needed a change.
The pressure of this kind of habit is quiet, sneaky, and ultimately exhausting. Thus, I spent years of my life in a quandary as to why I would always end up hitting a wall out of nowhere, utterly spent.
I’d be going like gangbusters, everything seeming to be right where it belonged, only to exceed some invisible speed limit, evidenced by my starting to spin out of control. And then I would fall down and down, my energy seeping out of some giant figurative tear in the quickly deflating balloon of my happiness and success.
Eventually I would operate as a shell of the person I knew myself to be. Foods I used to love would become little more than incidental forms of necessary nourishment. Books would seem too hefty to lift, open, and read. Music would lose its appeal and ability to comfort. And I would be left to do nothing with myself other than go about my days like a robot: no feeling, no depth, just hardened emptiness.
It is during these times (and there have been several) that I search myself inside and out for a renewed sense of purpose. I beg the sky for a secret ladder to descend to my front door where I can simply mount the rungs and, one after the other, climb them higher and higher toward some eventual preset goal.
The charm of this fantasy is the idea that I’m not responsible to do anything other than pull myself up, one hand at a time. Someone or something other than myself establishes the path and destination. I simply stay on track. I believe this appeals to me because I know my capabilities and strength well enough to invest fully into anything I find worthwhile.
And, when I’m already operating on nearly dead batteries, it’s the quest for the worthwhile that leaves me feeling sick and hopeless. By the time I’ve reached the point where I’m little more than an inert lump of misery it’s all I can do not to give up on everything including myself. Thus the prospect of burrowing into the raw, messy truth of the difficulties of being sentient and alive in hopes of unearthing something tiny and beautiful seems beyond Herculean.
Yet somehow each of these episodes comes to a welcome close. My sunshine trickles back in, little by little, and I start to sense the potential all around me. At first it’s just the occasional thought that there is more to be found in everyone and everything, that there is possibility hiding beneath a thin veneer coating the whole world. This gradually becomes a hopefulness to witness something of that possibility. And finally, after catching glimpses of it in people and places all around, I feel excited, expectant, and thrilled to be alive.
Coming full circle I can see why this series of feelings and thoughts could become cyclical. However, on that same note, I do not at all see anything that would lead me to believe that it must.
There is a choice involved in everything I do. Even breathing, which is automatic, is something I must choose to do fully or only half way. In the same sense I have a choice as to my level of commitment to myself to break away from the possible sadness. I can choose to devote myself fully or only half way.
Life is a thing of marvelous complexity and, as such, I choose to regard it as a combination of minute details all playing together into one huge composition of beauty, pain, happiness, growth, and yes, total potential.
As someone who’s been curious about everything since day one, always asking “why, why, why”, I could not be more satisfied than to think of there being no end of mystery in the day to day, moment to moment. And I choose to embrace that mystery with a devout discipline and total abandon.
If I’m to overcome my misgivings, fears, worries, and disappointments, the one thing I can use as a constant assurance of my capacity for victory is that I have a choice: Fully or half way.

It happened this afternoon

Jason and I met with our future landlord today to sign the lease for our own Upper East Side, one-bedroom apartment.

I'm experiencing such a great deal in these ensuing minutes and hours: joy, relief, anticipation, peace.

We met at the new address during Jason's lunch break, both of us swimming in our own juices as a result of the oppressive heat. I had made a point of dressing slightly less casually than I tend to on these hot days in order that a continued impression of youthful professionalism be maintained. That said, corduroys and a cotton poplin do not afford the most forgiving corporal climate when trudging down blistering hot sidewalks during the peak of midday sunshine. My mid- and lower back were a veritable waterslide beneath the pale green stripes of my shirt.
Jason didn't seem to be in any better position as he was wearing patent leather shoes, navy slacks, and his own incubator-cum-button-up.
Although happy to see one another at this unusual point in any given work day, we were by no means at our sociable peaks what with the effects of the weather giving us both the feeling of being squeezed from head to toe by giant, greasy hands.

Luckily, Issa, the landlord, was ready and waiting for our arrival and let us in the moment we rang the buzzer, sparing us any unnecessary dallying out of doors. We entered his serious, cherry-accented office and within the course of less than five minutes we had reviewed the terms of the annual agreement, discussed a few last minute details, and signed our names on the dotted lines.

The apartment was officially ours.

We thanked Issa, shook hands, and headed back out into the heat, immediately making our way to the 96th street station in order that Jason return to work by the end of his lunch break. I, on the other hand, intended upon escorting him back to sixth avenue, where he would go north to the offices of William Morris Endeavor Entertainment, and I would turn south toward the main branch of the New York Public Library.

We exited the train at 51st street and began the trek to sixth through what could only be described as scorching Hell. As planned, once we came to sixth avenue the two of us said our goodbyes, shared a brief parting kiss, and went off in the directions of our personal destinations.

Still sweating to the point of utter disgust, I couldn't help but smile to myself at the accomplishments I realized I had made in the not-quite six months since arriving in this incredible city.

-A passable, mostly-lucrative job allowing me the ability to support myself.
-Numerous addresses in colorful parts of a variety of neighborhoods.
-Several writing projects of which I have grown increasingly proud and hopeful.
-New friends and acquaintances with whom I can see myself sharing long, beautiful relationships.
-Jason, a man of ambition, compassion, and humility.
-And a greater, more fortified sense of personal strength and capacity than I have ever known to this point in my life.

Yes, all around I feel I've done well.
And what's more, I feel I am allowed to say that of and to myself. I've worked extremely hard and I know that that will only continue, but at least I can look back on this choice and know, with utter profundity, that I am where I belong, I am who I should be, and both of those things are constant only in their potential to change.

Thank you, New York, you've chewed, clawed, spit, and fought...


...And I'm still hanging on.

A Complex Determination

When a child's parents tell that child to keep his or her hands to him or herself there is a certain complex determination born in the child's soul.
It is the combined desire to control him or herself to the point of obeisance and to secretly plan on waiting for the propitious moment to challenge the respected authority and find out, via practical experience, just why he or she was told to behave. Not to mention what might happen in the event of rebellion.

It might be said that this same complex determination is what matures to become nationalism, corporate loyalty, or dare I suggest religion. One is compelled to find a set of standards, a concise methodology for proper existence. But it is tinged with the notion of rebellion, the desire to dance on the wild side and challenge what one has chosen to embrace.