Monday, March 17, 2008
“What about you,” my sister asked, “are you seeing anyone?”
I didn’t feel much like telling my sister about Yulia and my confusing private life in Tashkent; it had been hard enough in my life at one time to come out as gay to family and friends. Now, I would have to come out as gay, but seeing a woman. I would need a drink, and just as I was calling a waitress, my cell phone began vibrating. It was Mario, a friend and neighbor who, before I left New York, was someone I had entrusted with my house keys. Back then, we would speak on the phone or see each other every day, it seemed.
I remember how back then a famous alcoholic and reclusive professor of English literature died in my building, having drunk herself to death. She was only discovered a week later, her body covered in cockroaches; the story was even in the New York Post. Convinced that I would probably be living alone for the rest of my life and that no one would notice my death, was a similar fate to happen to me, I gave Mario my keys and told him to check in on me if he ever didn’t hear from me for over two days. If I was going to have to die a lonely and sad death like that, I didn't want to be covered in cockroaches.
You couldn’t disappear like that in Tashkent, I thought, even if you tried. Tashkent is a big village, as they said, and like in villages, people always made your business their business, not to mention the omnipresent and invisible secret services. This might have annoyed me at times, but on the other hand, I didn’t feel myself as insignificant as I might have once felt in New York, where my death or disappearance would not be noticed, that is, much more than the nuisance of a cockroach infestation for the neighbors.
Mario shouted over heavy background noise into his phone some instructions. He already seemed to be in a bar, which he explained was not far from where I was, and I was to come there, and from there, we will go on to another bar, which was going to be the happening place to go , that “everyone was going to be there. You will see everyone.” “On a Tuesday night?” I asked.
“Tuesday is the new Thursday,” he said, sounding like he had a head start on me on drinking this evening. I suppose it was exciting to be in a city in which every day was a reason for partying. Before I left the city, Thursday was the big night out. In Tashkent, you could only be lucky to find the Lucky Strikes full on a Friday or Saturday night. The other nights, it was just quiet, and that’s how I wound up having many one-on-one conversations with the bartender, Feruza, who told me that the city authorities were going to shut down all bars and nightclubs at midnight and that the only places that could work after were the nightclubs owned by the president’s two daughters. She also told me that soon there was going to be a ban on billiards and that Lucky Strikes was looking to sell their billiard tables. Both things she told me turned out to be true by the end of the year.
“He wants you to go to Beige?” my sister asked.
“Beige?”
“It’s the big gay place on Tuesday nights. Even I’ve even been there!” She said, and I didn’t ask why. “It’s fun!”
“Will you come along?”
“I would, but I’ve got to get up and work tomorrow.”
“So does Mario,” I said. “But that doesn’t seem to stop him.” I did not state the obvious here -- Mario was gay and single, and my sister was moving in with her boyfriend. We picked up the check for my sister’s frappuccino and walked along sidewalks that were empty just an hour or two ago, that now had the happy hour crowd spilled all over so that there was barely enough room for us to stand next to one another, to continue a conversation as we wove our way through all the bodies. And I didn’t want to speak loudly, again.
We reached the place where Mario was waiting for me. My sister reached out to kiss me on the cheek. “You’re completely red and sweating, are you ok?” I had grown unused to crowds. I felt claustrophobic and uncertain if I was ready to enter a crowded bar. But I told her I was fine, though she looked at me askance. I told her to go, and that I would phone her in the morning.
I didn’t feel much like telling my sister about Yulia and my confusing private life in Tashkent; it had been hard enough in my life at one time to come out as gay to family and friends. Now, I would have to come out as gay, but seeing a woman. I would need a drink, and just as I was calling a waitress, my cell phone began vibrating. It was Mario, a friend and neighbor who, before I left New York, was someone I had entrusted with my house keys. Back then, we would speak on the phone or see each other every day, it seemed.
I remember how back then a famous alcoholic and reclusive professor of English literature died in my building, having drunk herself to death. She was only discovered a week later, her body covered in cockroaches; the story was even in the New York Post. Convinced that I would probably be living alone for the rest of my life and that no one would notice my death, was a similar fate to happen to me, I gave Mario my keys and told him to check in on me if he ever didn’t hear from me for over two days. If I was going to have to die a lonely and sad death like that, I didn't want to be covered in cockroaches.
You couldn’t disappear like that in Tashkent, I thought, even if you tried. Tashkent is a big village, as they said, and like in villages, people always made your business their business, not to mention the omnipresent and invisible secret services. This might have annoyed me at times, but on the other hand, I didn’t feel myself as insignificant as I might have once felt in New York, where my death or disappearance would not be noticed, that is, much more than the nuisance of a cockroach infestation for the neighbors.
Mario shouted over heavy background noise into his phone some instructions. He already seemed to be in a bar, which he explained was not far from where I was, and I was to come there, and from there, we will go on to another bar, which was going to be the happening place to go , that “everyone was going to be there. You will see everyone.” “On a Tuesday night?” I asked.
“Tuesday is the new Thursday,” he said, sounding like he had a head start on me on drinking this evening. I suppose it was exciting to be in a city in which every day was a reason for partying. Before I left the city, Thursday was the big night out. In Tashkent, you could only be lucky to find the Lucky Strikes full on a Friday or Saturday night. The other nights, it was just quiet, and that’s how I wound up having many one-on-one conversations with the bartender, Feruza, who told me that the city authorities were going to shut down all bars and nightclubs at midnight and that the only places that could work after were the nightclubs owned by the president’s two daughters. She also told me that soon there was going to be a ban on billiards and that Lucky Strikes was looking to sell their billiard tables. Both things she told me turned out to be true by the end of the year.
“He wants you to go to Beige?” my sister asked.
“Beige?”
“It’s the big gay place on Tuesday nights. Even I’ve even been there!” She said, and I didn’t ask why. “It’s fun!”
“Will you come along?”
“I would, but I’ve got to get up and work tomorrow.”
“So does Mario,” I said. “But that doesn’t seem to stop him.” I did not state the obvious here -- Mario was gay and single, and my sister was moving in with her boyfriend. We picked up the check for my sister’s frappuccino and walked along sidewalks that were empty just an hour or two ago, that now had the happy hour crowd spilled all over so that there was barely enough room for us to stand next to one another, to continue a conversation as we wove our way through all the bodies. And I didn’t want to speak loudly, again.
We reached the place where Mario was waiting for me. My sister reached out to kiss me on the cheek. “You’re completely red and sweating, are you ok?” I had grown unused to crowds. I felt claustrophobic and uncertain if I was ready to enter a crowded bar. But I told her I was fine, though she looked at me askance. I told her to go, and that I would phone her in the morning.
Labels: Sister Part 2
¶ 1:50 AM
