Monday, September 25, 2006
Good Morning America!
I was still in my clothes when I woke up in the middle of the night, a blanket wrapped around me, a pillow under my head. Out the large window above me, I saw the pale, starless New York sky and realized how in my parents’ divorce settlement, my father kept the telescope I remember he had ordered from a mail-order catalogue when I was just a child. And I wondered, what could you really see from it in the New York sky?
I fell back asleep and woke up again to find the room bathed in light, the sound of a chopper outside and in full view from the window, the sound of Bob Marley played loudly in my father’s bedroom. From the 42nd floor, the city below looked like an architectural model of a city, the buildings clean with straight edges, with uniformly shaped windows, almost impersonal, without the very shabby and individual windows and buildings like those from the view of my Tashkent kitchen window. Below, the streets weren’t cracked and crooked with haphazardly planted trees, with the bases painted white, for a reason I could never find out. In New York, they looked new and clean.
My father emerged into the living room, freshly showered and tying his tie onto his crisp, starched white shirt. I walked to his refrigerator and only saw a few beers, some cranberry juice, some condiments. A typical bachelor’s refrigerator. I thought to ask him about coffee, but knew that there was no way he would keep any in his house. Just as there wouldn’t be cigarettes. I wasn’t sure if my father knew or suspected that I smoked. I was sure that he would hate it if he did know, or if he ever caught me doing it. But I’d been forewarned upon my return to New York that cigarettes had become extremely expensive because of a new tax on them. And that it was illegal to smoke practically anywhere in the city – in bars, restaurants, clubs, parks, hotel lobbies. If you wanted to smoke, there was nearly nowhere to go. So, you just didn’t smoke. I wondered if that would be a problem for me.
My father asked me if I slept well. I told him that I did. I felt rested now. “So what are you going to do while you are here, do you have any plans?” he asked. “Do you want to stay here the whole time?”
“No plans…Just see people.” I said. “I’ll probably stay here another night, then probably stay with friends.”
He gave me a copy of the key. “Let me know if you want to come back.” He adjusted his tie in front of the mirror, opened his briefcase, methodically flipped through some papers, closed the briefcase and left.
When he left, I sat down on the sofa and opened up my address book and flipped through the pages. I couldn’t decide whom to call first. Not that it mattered much. Everyone would be at work at this time. I’d probably have the day to just wander the streets. It was a lovely day outside, blue skies, bright sunshine. Funny how in this huge city, the place which I was supposed to consider home, I anticipated feeling as alienated and alone as I did in Tashkent, looking down in the tiny orderly city so far below. I know I had just arrived, but I suddenly imagined a whole life of looking out at windows and feeling very alone.
The first entry in the address book was Jonathan’s; and coincidentally, he worked right down the street from my father’s building. Would he be able to have lunch with me? Would he care to hear from me, or had I strayed so far from his orbit, or from the orbit of all the people I knew at home that I had become something alien or at the very least, something forgotten. It was early still and I dialed his number expecting to leave a message on his office voicemail, but he picked up. “Jonathan, it’s me,” I called into the phone and his warm voice boomed through the receiver in his typically genial and excited manner.
“Get out! You sound so close. Where are you calling me from, Uzekistan?” he said, as he and others always would mistake the pronunciation of the name of the country where I lived. It came out as East Pakistan, Ubekistan, Ureckistan, Ulekistan, even Azerbaijan…
I told him that I was down the street and asked if he could see me for lunch. “Of course,” he said, and immediately, I felt cheerful, that New York wouldn’t be so bad, that coming back to the US wouldn’t be such a culture shock. To call someone in the morning and see if they would have lunch for you – that was really something that I could only do in Uzbekistan, that spontaneity that one had, especially given the feeling that you always had so much time on your hands, that so much time was spent in a somewhat benign boredom. Here in New York, I remember that everyone was always so busy, that plans had to be scheduled far in advance, that many of my friendships over time as people settled into careers and domestic situations, mutated into phone relationships. And here, someone was going to have lunch with me in just a few hours! ¶ 5:12 AM
I was still in my clothes when I woke up in the middle of the night, a blanket wrapped around me, a pillow under my head. Out the large window above me, I saw the pale, starless New York sky and realized how in my parents’ divorce settlement, my father kept the telescope I remember he had ordered from a mail-order catalogue when I was just a child. And I wondered, what could you really see from it in the New York sky?
I fell back asleep and woke up again to find the room bathed in light, the sound of a chopper outside and in full view from the window, the sound of Bob Marley played loudly in my father’s bedroom. From the 42nd floor, the city below looked like an architectural model of a city, the buildings clean with straight edges, with uniformly shaped windows, almost impersonal, without the very shabby and individual windows and buildings like those from the view of my Tashkent kitchen window. Below, the streets weren’t cracked and crooked with haphazardly planted trees, with the bases painted white, for a reason I could never find out. In New York, they looked new and clean.
My father emerged into the living room, freshly showered and tying his tie onto his crisp, starched white shirt. I walked to his refrigerator and only saw a few beers, some cranberry juice, some condiments. A typical bachelor’s refrigerator. I thought to ask him about coffee, but knew that there was no way he would keep any in his house. Just as there wouldn’t be cigarettes. I wasn’t sure if my father knew or suspected that I smoked. I was sure that he would hate it if he did know, or if he ever caught me doing it. But I’d been forewarned upon my return to New York that cigarettes had become extremely expensive because of a new tax on them. And that it was illegal to smoke practically anywhere in the city – in bars, restaurants, clubs, parks, hotel lobbies. If you wanted to smoke, there was nearly nowhere to go. So, you just didn’t smoke. I wondered if that would be a problem for me.
My father asked me if I slept well. I told him that I did. I felt rested now. “So what are you going to do while you are here, do you have any plans?” he asked. “Do you want to stay here the whole time?”
“No plans…Just see people.” I said. “I’ll probably stay here another night, then probably stay with friends.”
He gave me a copy of the key. “Let me know if you want to come back.” He adjusted his tie in front of the mirror, opened his briefcase, methodically flipped through some papers, closed the briefcase and left.
When he left, I sat down on the sofa and opened up my address book and flipped through the pages. I couldn’t decide whom to call first. Not that it mattered much. Everyone would be at work at this time. I’d probably have the day to just wander the streets. It was a lovely day outside, blue skies, bright sunshine. Funny how in this huge city, the place which I was supposed to consider home, I anticipated feeling as alienated and alone as I did in Tashkent, looking down in the tiny orderly city so far below. I know I had just arrived, but I suddenly imagined a whole life of looking out at windows and feeling very alone.
The first entry in the address book was Jonathan’s; and coincidentally, he worked right down the street from my father’s building. Would he be able to have lunch with me? Would he care to hear from me, or had I strayed so far from his orbit, or from the orbit of all the people I knew at home that I had become something alien or at the very least, something forgotten. It was early still and I dialed his number expecting to leave a message on his office voicemail, but he picked up. “Jonathan, it’s me,” I called into the phone and his warm voice boomed through the receiver in his typically genial and excited manner.
“Get out! You sound so close. Where are you calling me from, Uzekistan?” he said, as he and others always would mistake the pronunciation of the name of the country where I lived. It came out as East Pakistan, Ubekistan, Ureckistan, Ulekistan, even Azerbaijan…
I told him that I was down the street and asked if he could see me for lunch. “Of course,” he said, and immediately, I felt cheerful, that New York wouldn’t be so bad, that coming back to the US wouldn’t be such a culture shock. To call someone in the morning and see if they would have lunch for you – that was really something that I could only do in Uzbekistan, that spontaneity that one had, especially given the feeling that you always had so much time on your hands, that so much time was spent in a somewhat benign boredom. Here in New York, I remember that everyone was always so busy, that plans had to be scheduled far in advance, that many of my friendships over time as people settled into careers and domestic situations, mutated into phone relationships. And here, someone was going to have lunch with me in just a few hours! ¶ 5:12 AM
