Franklin Ave

I was wearing my short-sleeved black shirt from Barney's and the same Levi's jeans I've secretly been wearing for two weeks straight now when I made the trek out to Crown Heights to attend the Franklin Park Reading Series. My author Blake Butler was reading that night, and it's always fun to see him, so I was looking forward to the evening. I was almost there when it occurred to me that I was on Franklin Avenue, the site of my late brother Michael's law office. I don't know why this had never occurred to me before. I've been to that reading series at least once or twice before. I decided to walk the two blocks there to see how much it had changed, if at all.

As I was walking there, I marveled at how much the block has changed since the years I used to get taken to "the office" whenever I had been kicked out of school, which was often. Back then, it was mostly bodegas, and men peddling beef patties. Mmmmm...patties. What a strange word: "patty." Now, it's like organic restaurants and trendy bars and such. I wonder if my brother would have been happier there if the gentrification had happened earlier? He hated Franklin Avenue so much, and hated being an attorney, too. Towards the end of his life, I sat with him in his SUV in Queens and he told me that he had a dream to become the captain of a boat. I said, "well, why don't you do that, then?" "I can't," he replied, and then he started crying, and I held him. I felt so sad for him, feeling trapped in his life. I've structured my own life in such a manner that, if I ever needed to, I could just quickly gather up my books and outfits and cat and up and move to California. No kids. Just one family member left in Queens. And she thinks I'm crazy, so a sudden departure wouldn't raise any red flags with her. I would miss Paula and Luther, though. And Mary, and Kayleigh, and Cathy, and Kateri, and Heidi, and Michelle, and Sherie, and William, and Rory, and Greta, and Tina, and Amy, and Alyse. And the rest of y'all. I don't think Michael had the luxury of escaping his life. He was much more influenced by and dependent on his parents than I was. Plus he had that house and that very messed-up wife of his.

I peered inside the office, which is now some kind of investment firm. The front entryway seemed unchanged, but further in, it was totally different. They had gutted my brother's office, it was all hip now, like a f*cking loft or something, and I suddenly was going to cry. There were, like, these people inside, sitting and working. Like he once did. I wanted to run inside and scream at them and tell them to get the hell out, but instead I snapped this selfie of myself in front of the old office at 722 Franklin Ave. And then I went and saw Blake read a passage about the deaths of a million people in America, and Nikki was there, too, and I felt better for some strange reason. For the first part of the reading, I was sitting at the bar, gazing at the bottles, facing away from the readers. Then, I remembered that my purpose on earth is to help other people, and that one of the readers might feel slighted if they spotted me facing away from them on their night, so I turned around at that point. I feel very moved and grateful every time I think of my brother and how his job and his wife killed him, while my job and the people I work with restore me to life--every day--and the sociopaths I date have very little affect on me. I don't think it's luck--I haven't lived a good enough life to deserve luck. It's more like grace.

One glove

Every winter, one of my gloves goes missing. It happened again this week. I just checked in my pocket and found this sole glove, without its mate. I don’t know how it happened or where I lost it. Like my ex-boyfriend Kevin, the flight attendant, it could be anywhere now. 

In the past, I used to buy expensive gloves from places like Barney’s and such. But because one always gets lost, my tastes have gotten by necessity much simpler. I believe this pair was from JC Penney’s. The only requirement I have for a good glove is that there be three vents on the back of it. No more, no less. 

I believe it was Kohut who said that human beings have an innate need for a “twin,” or “Other” being. Without it, we feel irritable, distracted, and isolated. Many people find it through marriage, an institution intended to codify this unspoken and unspeakable need. I guess if you were to put a gun to my head and threaten to pull the trigger, I would admit that much of my life has been characterized by a search for the “Other.” Some of you might think that that search was started when I lost my brother Jonathan. Before he died, we had rarely been seen without each other. But I suspect that the search began when I was separated from my maternal grandmother, whom I have no memories of 

I resisted wearing gloves all through my childhood. Today, I resist using umbrellas. I guess there is a certain egotism to that. Why do I need to be protected from the world? I am beyond the world somehow, not of it. Sigh. But New York City is a cold place, and now I am often gloved in the winter. Gloved, scarfed, be-hatted. 

I suppose a visit to JC Penney’s is in order. But for once, I wish that the missing glove would just reappear somewhere, maybe underneath the clutter in my messy office. But I think that about everything I’ve lost. That beautiful grey backpack. The mirrors on the bottom of my mother’s ash tray. Blue. Look at this glove, so lonely and forlorn-looking. I wonder if it comforts it to know that we’ve all been there.