The lights are on, but...

Since I moved into my apartment not quite seven years ago, I have had a dizzying number of neighbors. The ones who had children moved to houses and the ones who didn't have children moved because of the ones who did.  A veritable whirlwind of change.

Of all these people, my favorites were Rose and Dave, who lived next door for two years and were my actual friends.  I made them a cake the day they moved in and handed it to Rose through her kitchen window, the old-timey neighborliness of which apparently changed her life. When she introduced me to people thereafter, I was always "Kari who handed us a cake through the window." When we hardly knew each other, I invited them to dinner and managed to pour boiling water on my foot while draining the pasta. When I swore floridly and dashed out of the room, ripping my sock off, they didn't retreat politely and subsequently avoid me in the hall. Instead, they went home to fetch some gauze and then finished assembling the meal while I stood helplessly by with my foot plunged in a wastepaper basket filled with cool water. When I used to be reduced to tears by the stereo-party madness of my previous upstairs neighbors, they administered hugs and alcohol.  Once, in the era when our front gate provided nothing more than a scene-shop illusion of security, there was a night where a drunk man seemed about to come in after me while his friends stood by mute.  When I retreated backward up the stairs with shaking hands and a pounding heart, Dave came to the rescue. They were those neighbors.

When I came home at night, I used to be able to tell if they were in because the narrow line of light would be visible under their door as I came up the stairs.  Checking for it became a habit. I liked knowing they were there. They had a baby and sadly for me, though happily for them, moved to Portland about six months ago. We agreed that we would not like our new neighbors as much as we liked each other.  That seemed the least we could do. Well, I did also get a huge jug of Tanqueray, some chocolate, and some ravioli out of it. My advice: offer help when people are doing last minute packing of their kitchens. In their panicky frame of mind, they unload all sorts of loot.

I have not checked to see if they are holding up their end of the bargain, but I certainly am.  In all fairness, it has been made very easy by the fact that I have no new neighbors.  For six months their apartment has stood empty. I've been grateful they weren't replaced by someone terrible, but I've also been lonely. I miss them. And not only because they never, ever slammed the gate.

Our building was recently sold (which may or may not be ominous) and, though there is still no indication that the apartment will be rented anytime soon, when I walked up the stairs tonight, that little line of light greeted me from under the door. I know this means nothing more than that a workman forgot to turn the lights off when he left, but it's a cruel trick.  In this terrifying moment, watching the vote tallies, and seeing that what began as satire may actually be the dark fate of of our country, I would like nothing more than to knock on my neighbors' door. I'd like to watch the rest of this unfold from the sanctuary of Rose and Dave's capacious sofa. I could do with the company. I'd bring the gin.

Zzzzz

I literally just fell asleep in a chair trying to think of something to write.  It's 10:30pm.

Oh!  There you are, end of daylight savings!  Have you met jet lag?  You two have so much in common. I'll just leave you to chat.

Noir

In the dark, I become aware of a rocking figure. Back and forth. Back and forth. Over and over. Just two rows ahead and three seats to the right. Once I've seen it, I can't stop seeing it. I begin tracking plot, subtitles and, out of the corner of my eye, motion. It is one too many things. I hold my hand up to block my peripheral vision, but I hear the heavy breathing of someone crying hard without sobbing. It is a quiet but undeniable storm. I wonder that no one else seems to notice. In the dark, it appears to be a man leaning forward to avoid the awkward obstacle of the armrest and holding a woman in his arms, tight, tighter, rocking her while she weeps.

The movie is tragic, of course. They are all tragic. Nevertheless, it is surely too melodramatic and too old fashioned to occasion unbridled grief. What are the chances that anyone in the audience has shot a rival in a burst of rage and then, brokenhearted, dragged a massive armoire to block the door from a hail of gunfire from the gendarmerie in the couloir?  And still she gasps for breath as though this story were all too painfully familiar and still he rocks her, though it seems not to comfort her at all. i wonder why he does not bundle her up the aisle, out the door, and home.

The screen brightens and I suddenly realize that there is no couple at all, but just a man alone. I recognize him from every film festival I have ever attended in this town. He is as unchanging as he is distinctive. Plus, at every screening he arrives before me and sits in the seat I would choose myself, so I had noticed him when I'd arrived. Now, in that very seat, he is hunched over, with his arms tightly wrapped around his own shoulders, rocking while sobbing or possibly just gasping for air. I know I should go and see that he's all right, but I think of inching down my row in the dark, stepping on toes, spilling popcorn, blocking the view of the subtitles at the climactic moment, only to intrude on a stranger's private grief, or illness, or insanity, and I stay where I am.

When the hero has taken his own life just moments before the police breach his room via the roof, FIN rolls across the screen and the house lights come up. The man, in his signature cyclist garb complete with ever-present 70's-style terrycloth headband, rises from his seat, checks that his jacket is placed visibly to save his seat, grabs his backpack and heads to the lobby just as he does between every double feature. Just as though nothing had happened in the dark at all.

Half full

This writing every day thing would be easier if it didn't coincide with the French Noir festival such that I keep getting home only minutes before the deadline.

So, at 11:45pm, eager to go to bed (despite mattress problems that still continue apace), in the spirit of something's better than nothing....

If standing in the dark waiting and waiting for a bus that may or may not come feels like some sort of metaphor for life, then arriving at the theatre exactly on time for the movie you were sure you'd miss must be one too.

First Aid

Having found my tights slightly too aptly named today,  I turn demurely to the salad page of the extensive menu, ignoring the noodles (beloved noodles) entirely.  I select the green papaya with grilled shrimp and my soft-spoken waitress inquires "medium spicy is okay?"  I smile, "Yes. That will be fine."

Note to self:  Medium spicy in a Thai restaurant is never fine. Who do you think you are, exactly?

I consume three bites of fire salad before I am compelled to order a side of plain rice for purely medicinal purposes. It is (thankfully swiftly) delivered in a small, deep pot containing a quantity clearly intended for more than one person.  I leave one spoonful behind to indicate self control to anyone who may be observing, though I hope no one is, since, gluttony aside, my streaming eyes and dripping nose are probably not picturesque.

I finish, leave and, tongue throbbing, walk directly to the ice cream store. I am fully aware that ice cream will only compound the tights-tightening sins of the pot of rice, but my tongue is in need of urgent care. The ice cream, like the rice, shall be administered in the spirit of first aid.

Alas, urgency is not the theme of the ice cream store where a line of ten people is waiting to be served by a lackadaisical teenager, the lone employee. Next door, what was for decades a thriving corner store has been transformed into some sort of corner artisanal market, all wide-open space and locally sourced muffins. There is ice cream artfully displayed in a freestanding freezer case.  None of it costs less than ten dollars.  As I cross the street to a decidedly unpromising liquor store, a man coming up 16th Street on roller skates weaves through two directions of oncoming traffic on Valencia, undeterred by the darkness, the newly red light, or his total lack of protective gear. I have to look away.

I reach the store and squeeze though to the back swiveling my head hopefully as I go, but find nothing colder than refrigerated beer.  Dejected, I give up and turn to leave. And there, right in front of the cash register, there is a freezer after all. Oh frabjous day! A shabby but smiling alcoholic, waiting for his derelict-looking companion to pay for their sack of clinking bottles, waves me toward the cashier with a courtly bow. I peer into the freezer and see my very heart's desire: an old-fashioned, completely artificial ice cream sandwich.  A dollar fifty later, I am easing it, rather untraditionally, into the cozy pocket of my down jacket, the better to smuggle it into the movie theatre.

I am in my seat and unwrapping it before it even has time to melt.