One for the Road? Bar Cars May Face a Last Call

Taken from the April 20, 2010 edition of The New York Times.

“One for the road?”

Bar cars may face a last call, but Jimmy never let you leave his pub dry, no matter the day or the time or the fact that you can’t barely pull yourself up by the bootstraps to get home to your wife. Or kids, if you have ‘em.

I don’t.

Coming home from Grand Central, I drain four or five whiskeys on the train before pulling into Roseyville, a small, too-perfect town an hour north of the City. I head straight to Jimmy’s—every day—for a few more rounds with the boys. We talk about President Johnson’s politics, our buddies in Vietnam, the new secretary at our office—anything to pass the time, anything to keep us from going home to Bonnie, or Molly, or June, or Barbara.

So here’s to one for the road. I’ll take it.



the article.

The Dandelion King

Taken from the April 20, 2010 edition of The New York Times.


The Dandelion King stood stately before his lawn chair throne, an oversized emerald robe hanging off his seven-year-old shoulders, stick-staff in hand. Poolsey the Beloved sat loyally by his side, tail wagging. With an outstretched neck, his majesty slowly surveyed the land before him, an eight-by-ten plot of earth that sat squarely in a perfect, eight-by-ten pool of light, a pastoral respite amid five-story brownstones that flanked its four sides. This was the young King's most favorite time of day--12:05 pm--when the sun floated directly above the yard, dispelling dark, angled shadows and warming the furry yellow faces of a hundred dandelions who reached toward Mother Sun with all their green-stemmed might. He smiled a toothy grin at Poolsey, who flopped to the ground to warm her belly in the newfound light. Knowing the moment would soon pass, the Dandelion King took his throne, stretched his bare legs and lifted a freckled face toward the sun, thankful that she took a minute's rest before beginning her westward descent.


the article.

Rain Sets Records and Stops Traffic

Taken from the March 30, 2010 issue of The New York Times.




Rain sets records and stops traffic as I wait on the Belt Parkway to pick up my mother, who I haven't seen since my sister's college graduation seven years ago, the year I chopped my long red hair into a pixie cut, rented a U-Haul van and moved to New York City. I whisper the words slowly, “Seven years,” tailing off at the end in disbelief and embarrassment. The words make my mouth taste sour. In front of me, taillights pulse on and off, drivers impatient in the standstill traffic, pavement slick and shiny as though it’s been raining baby oil. I’m probably the only one here hoping we don’t move.

I try to imagine my mother sitting next to me in the passenger seat, as she will in the next hour. All I can produce is a mottled collage of flesh tones under thick square glasses, glasses she had when I was a toddler in the 80s, glasses that have stuck with me for 25 years, but not my mother. It was a phenomenon that began to frighten me a few years ago—the inability to imagine the woman who birthed and raised me. To fight it I’ve kept the same family picture up through all of my moves from Manhattan to Brooklyn, Brooklyn to Queens and back to Brooklyn again. It’s a photo from a family trip to Niagara Falls when I was sixteen, when my 13-year-old sister was all legs, my brother had buckteeth and my mom and dad were together. After a while, I realized it wasn’t that I couldn’t remember what she looked like, I just couldn’t imagine her here. With me. Anywhere else was no problem, down to the detail. Even now, I can picture her waiting at the terminal with floral, garage-sale luggage at her feet, alone, craning her neck to see my car pull up, crimson lipstick bleeding slightly into the lines around her pursed mouth. She’s watching everyone else get picked up in shiny cars, imagining them rolling in sudden sunshine down the highway, giggling with loved ones, the passage of time between visits a circumstance and not a statement. She’s thinking, “What will we talk about?” and “How do we mend?” and “Why can’t we be like that?”, just like me. “Just like me,” I say out loud.

Without warning, I feel my heart soften—just enough—and for the first time in years, I don’t resist it. I look into the rear view mirror and clip the hair out of my eyes with a bobby pin. I turn on the radio to Tom Petty singing about two old gunslingers, and I laugh.

I see the airport exit ahead as traffic begins to move. Raindrops slide down my windshield, glowing red and orange with the taillights ahead, and the click of my blinker matches the beat of my heart.

the article.
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