Tuesday, May 20, 2008
I would miss New York and my friends, even though things had changed and I sometimes wondered if New York was still that same New York that I had always loved and if my friends were still my friends that I had loved. But my last night in the city affirmed my love for the brick, the dust, the people, my friends. Nevertheless, I was ready to go back, excited to get back to my own place, my apartment with its silences, solitary walks to work in the morning in the quiet city, the disjointed feeling of waking up someplace completely alone, isolated, desolate, knowing where those hidden spots of life in Tashkent existed, for contrast. And, I missed Henrietta.
Though I dreaded that long journey back, the eight hour flight to Frankfurt, the two hour layover that would be spent finding the next departure gate I would navigate across trains and terminals and escalators, and time killing to the next leg, a seven hour flight, on a plane that usually would be empty, since hardly anyone went to Uzbekistan, and would afford me an empty row of seats in which I could stretch out and sleep.
That morning, my father left before I woke up as he was catching a flight for a business trip, and I was to leave the keys with the building concierge. I waited in the lobby for Robert who had offered to drive me to airport in his boyfriend's car. I looked forward to catching up with him in what would ordinarily be the first leg of the many legs of the long and boring trip back; he could regale me with his amusing stories on the road travelling across the country for his work on a rock music TV show, working with rock singers and their entourages; he could tell me about his new relationship. Of everyone I knew, I thought that his life was probably the most interesting, most enviable and I looked forward to the ride.
I could see the clean white 4x4 Chevy Blazer pulling up outside. New York is full of these cars, but in Tashkent, where everyone either drives a 20-30 year old Soviet manufactured Volga or Lada held together by duct tape and hope, or one of the lightweight Daewoo cars manufactured in the Ferghana Valley, it is only the internationals, recognizable by their red diplomatic license plates driving these big cars. Or possibly some rich Uzbek mafia type. Regardless, they were rare and on Tashkent's quiet streets, these cars turned heads. I didn't even conceive that the one outside could be Robert's until I saw him emerge from the front passenger seat after I sat there daydreaming. I got up and lugged my beat up bags. He came up to me, gave me a hug, and took one. From the back, I could see that in the driver's seat, was the boyfriend, or so I assumed, talking on a cell phone, not turning around to look at us. "Is that him," I asked, ready to meet the person I'd heard so much about.
"That's Brian," Robert said, smiling, dragging the suitcase full of peanut butter jars, books, four different kinds of sunblock moisturizers, bags of Starbucks coffee, a french press, little gifts and souvenirs for friends and colleagues. "Heavy," he grunted as he picked one up loading it into the back. "Do you have a man in there?"
"I wish...instead, I've got other similar things like that that I can't find out there," I said. "You can imagine that I'm doing without a lot of things. In a way, I realize you can live without a lot of them, but, they're nice to have around." And then I proceeded to tell him that I would keep things like peanut butter stashed away in a special cabinet that I would open only sporadically. In then end, you'd have two jars of peanut butter that would last you a whole year. After a few months the peanut butter would have hardened or taste bad. You would start to realize that you could live just fine without it. It starts out with peanut butter, and then, you discover that there are many other things that you learn to live without, to the point that you realize that you need very little to get by on. And then, before you know it, your whole view of things changes, and the nice comforting things in the cabinet strike you as extraneous next to the really important things that you want in life.
I got into the back seat which was large and I had all to myself, since Robert got into the front passenger. Brian at the driver seat continued talking into his cell phone, before turning on the ignition, turning to me to smile a not particularly warm smile and mouth out hello between exclamations in his phone conversation, which seems to take a leisurely pace and has something to do with taking care of cats. From my momentary glimpse of his face, he has a pleasant, ruddy, bearded face, and I can see that he has a large, beefy figure. He is what they call a "bear." But his voice is all pussycat; nasal, with a New Yorker or gay inflection that was whiny, punctuated by regular sighs, but loud, in such a way that it seems to command my and Robert's silence. And when Robert turns around to say something to me, the boyfriend hushes him with a curt and loud "shhh" and pointing at the dashboard. I whisper to him, "maybe you'll sit in the back with me so that we can chat a little more?" I felt I had so much to tell him.
He whispered back perhaps a few decibels softer than me, "I told him I'd sit up front and keep track of the directions." It would be so much easier to have a conversation if he were sitting next to me. But we drive off, as the boyfriend continues to talk about a very good veterinarian on 19th Street. So, like in any taxi ride I might take to JFK airport by myself, I stare out the window at the Manhattan Queens bridge, the East River below, Roosevelt Island, and then soon Queens ahead, which will be rows of houses, then later some cemeteries, Shea Stadium. It was a pity, Robert and I always had so much to talk about. Over the months, we wrote each other long and thoughtful emails. I told him about my work and my social life, even about Yulia, which I know he had lots of questions about. Upon entering Queens, the boyfriend excuses himself on his phone call, turning to Robert, "I hope you are paying close attention."
Robert turns away from me and watches the computerized map on the very high-tech dashboard of Brian's car. It is so high-tech, that it even gives recommendations based on traffic reports for where there is less congestion. Which confuses me, because we seem to be stuck in traffic that is moving so slowly. He puts down his phone for a moment to ask Robert when it was time to make the turn. "I think we missed the turn, just keep going straight ahead, we'll go on the next turn."
"Goddamn! Why aren't you paying attention!" Brian explodes and abruptly twitches which causes the huge car to swerve ever so slightly and makes me feel carsick.
He changed his voice quickly to the even voice he was talking on the phone with. "Sal, I'll call you back later, OK?" and then he puts down his phone petulantly and as if exercising the greatest effort in controlling a rage boiling inside. "You were supposed to tell me when to turn, so that we wouldn't be stuck all afternoon in traffic."
I was not liking Brian very much and had the distinct sense that he didn't really like the idea of driving me to the airport, that perhaps Robert had too hastily made his kind offer to me. All I wanted was just to disappear and regretted that I hadn't just taken a taxi. I thought, perhaps to offer to get out -- somewhere on the highway, I suppose, and to find myself a taxi. But that wasn't possible, taxis didn't stop on the highway. I was a hostage in this car and there was nothing good I could expect to come of it, except that I would get a free ride to my destination in what would likely be a very long and painful 40 minutes, or less if we were lucky. I was just happy that there was silence, albeit a hostile one -- because it could be worse; they might start to quarrel. I thought that this might do irrevocable damage to my friendship with Robert, who on the one hand, I was upset with for having put me in this situation, and on the other, I could only feel bad for, terrorized by this psychopath boyfriend, and who must feel completely humiliated, after having told me about some of the good things happening in his life, including having found himself a relationship. Perhaps I was over dramatizing it, but I felt that it was all a big lie, that I had been lied to. And that Mark, much like everyone else in New York, seemed to put out a nice face for me, and that all along, I was seeing behind the mask. Robert, I was sure was embarrassed. And I was embarrassed for him. We would probably be too embarrassed to ever talk to one another other again after this incident, which suddenly cast a light on the ugly reality
From the moment I got into the car, I realized I had sensed something was not right. After all, hadn't Robert told him about me? Wouldn't he be interested in talking to me and hearing about my life? Instead he just ignored me and talked about cat care. Further, I had always, in the back of my mind, thought that there was something strange about the way he'd gotten my email address a few months back to invite me to the surprise party he was having for Robert. Of course the gesture seemed nice, holding a surprise birthday party, but how did he get my email? Did he get Robert's entire address book? He seemed the type of control freak that would hack Robert's email account and spy on him.
Upon arriving at the airport after what seemed like an endless ride in silence, I decided to be diplomatic about the entire experience. I had, after all, saved $60 of cabfare. That was how much it would take to feed me for a week or two in Tashkent. All in all, had I taken a yellow taxi off of the street in New York, I too would have ridden in silence. "I am very grateful," I said. "It is kind of you to drive me." Then again, in a taxi I would have been spared the disappointment of not getting to talk with my friend, or witnessing a friend being abused.
"It was nice to meet you," he responded as I walked out of the car straight to the trunk to take my bags. Without looking back, I could tell that Robert got out of his seat and followed me. I opened the back myself, took out my bags one by one, ignoring Robert beside me, who seemed to be trying to help. To break the awkward silence, I said nothing except that I could probably handle my bags by myself, though what I wanted to say and almost did say was that I hoped for his sake that by the next time I'd see him that he'd have broken up with this guy. But I thought it wiser to keep my silence, it would only be the right thing to somehow console Robert, who clearly had it off worse than me. I was going on a plane and would be alone for hours in peace. He had to ride back to Manhattan in traffic with this brute.
"Please let me help you carry them into the terminal." I let him take a bag and we walked in silence to the registration line where I set down my bag, and he sets the other one down beside it. I couldn't seem to look at him, but he stepped in front of me, so that it was impossible not to look directly at him.
"I’m really sorry about that," he said. "You didn't need to be in the middle of it."
"I know," I said and hoped that in my glance, I expressed to him that I wasn't so upset, but more worried about him riding back with Brian. "Good luck getting back." I put out my hand to shake. I realized that handshakes were more Uzbek than they were American. Here they were formal and cold, whereas there they were routine. I went up to the registration desk and felt relieved to be leaving, to be freed of New York and of Robert and Brian and their unpleasant company. To be heading on two seven and eight-hour flights with a two-hour layover in between, in which I would probably not say a word to anyone and would be alone in my thoughts for hours. I sort of felt good about getting out of New York.
Though I dreaded that long journey back, the eight hour flight to Frankfurt, the two hour layover that would be spent finding the next departure gate I would navigate across trains and terminals and escalators, and time killing to the next leg, a seven hour flight, on a plane that usually would be empty, since hardly anyone went to Uzbekistan, and would afford me an empty row of seats in which I could stretch out and sleep.
That morning, my father left before I woke up as he was catching a flight for a business trip, and I was to leave the keys with the building concierge. I waited in the lobby for Robert who had offered to drive me to airport in his boyfriend's car. I looked forward to catching up with him in what would ordinarily be the first leg of the many legs of the long and boring trip back; he could regale me with his amusing stories on the road travelling across the country for his work on a rock music TV show, working with rock singers and their entourages; he could tell me about his new relationship. Of everyone I knew, I thought that his life was probably the most interesting, most enviable and I looked forward to the ride.
I could see the clean white 4x4 Chevy Blazer pulling up outside. New York is full of these cars, but in Tashkent, where everyone either drives a 20-30 year old Soviet manufactured Volga or Lada held together by duct tape and hope, or one of the lightweight Daewoo cars manufactured in the Ferghana Valley, it is only the internationals, recognizable by their red diplomatic license plates driving these big cars. Or possibly some rich Uzbek mafia type. Regardless, they were rare and on Tashkent's quiet streets, these cars turned heads. I didn't even conceive that the one outside could be Robert's until I saw him emerge from the front passenger seat after I sat there daydreaming. I got up and lugged my beat up bags. He came up to me, gave me a hug, and took one. From the back, I could see that in the driver's seat, was the boyfriend, or so I assumed, talking on a cell phone, not turning around to look at us. "Is that him," I asked, ready to meet the person I'd heard so much about.
"That's Brian," Robert said, smiling, dragging the suitcase full of peanut butter jars, books, four different kinds of sunblock moisturizers, bags of Starbucks coffee, a french press, little gifts and souvenirs for friends and colleagues. "Heavy," he grunted as he picked one up loading it into the back. "Do you have a man in there?"
"I wish...instead, I've got other similar things like that that I can't find out there," I said. "You can imagine that I'm doing without a lot of things. In a way, I realize you can live without a lot of them, but, they're nice to have around." And then I proceeded to tell him that I would keep things like peanut butter stashed away in a special cabinet that I would open only sporadically. In then end, you'd have two jars of peanut butter that would last you a whole year. After a few months the peanut butter would have hardened or taste bad. You would start to realize that you could live just fine without it. It starts out with peanut butter, and then, you discover that there are many other things that you learn to live without, to the point that you realize that you need very little to get by on. And then, before you know it, your whole view of things changes, and the nice comforting things in the cabinet strike you as extraneous next to the really important things that you want in life.
I got into the back seat which was large and I had all to myself, since Robert got into the front passenger. Brian at the driver seat continued talking into his cell phone, before turning on the ignition, turning to me to smile a not particularly warm smile and mouth out hello between exclamations in his phone conversation, which seems to take a leisurely pace and has something to do with taking care of cats. From my momentary glimpse of his face, he has a pleasant, ruddy, bearded face, and I can see that he has a large, beefy figure. He is what they call a "bear." But his voice is all pussycat; nasal, with a New Yorker or gay inflection that was whiny, punctuated by regular sighs, but loud, in such a way that it seems to command my and Robert's silence. And when Robert turns around to say something to me, the boyfriend hushes him with a curt and loud "shhh" and pointing at the dashboard. I whisper to him, "maybe you'll sit in the back with me so that we can chat a little more?" I felt I had so much to tell him.
He whispered back perhaps a few decibels softer than me, "I told him I'd sit up front and keep track of the directions." It would be so much easier to have a conversation if he were sitting next to me. But we drive off, as the boyfriend continues to talk about a very good veterinarian on 19th Street. So, like in any taxi ride I might take to JFK airport by myself, I stare out the window at the Manhattan Queens bridge, the East River below, Roosevelt Island, and then soon Queens ahead, which will be rows of houses, then later some cemeteries, Shea Stadium. It was a pity, Robert and I always had so much to talk about. Over the months, we wrote each other long and thoughtful emails. I told him about my work and my social life, even about Yulia, which I know he had lots of questions about. Upon entering Queens, the boyfriend excuses himself on his phone call, turning to Robert, "I hope you are paying close attention."
Robert turns away from me and watches the computerized map on the very high-tech dashboard of Brian's car. It is so high-tech, that it even gives recommendations based on traffic reports for where there is less congestion. Which confuses me, because we seem to be stuck in traffic that is moving so slowly. He puts down his phone for a moment to ask Robert when it was time to make the turn. "I think we missed the turn, just keep going straight ahead, we'll go on the next turn."
"Goddamn! Why aren't you paying attention!" Brian explodes and abruptly twitches which causes the huge car to swerve ever so slightly and makes me feel carsick.
He changed his voice quickly to the even voice he was talking on the phone with. "Sal, I'll call you back later, OK?" and then he puts down his phone petulantly and as if exercising the greatest effort in controlling a rage boiling inside. "You were supposed to tell me when to turn, so that we wouldn't be stuck all afternoon in traffic."
I was not liking Brian very much and had the distinct sense that he didn't really like the idea of driving me to the airport, that perhaps Robert had too hastily made his kind offer to me. All I wanted was just to disappear and regretted that I hadn't just taken a taxi. I thought, perhaps to offer to get out -- somewhere on the highway, I suppose, and to find myself a taxi. But that wasn't possible, taxis didn't stop on the highway. I was a hostage in this car and there was nothing good I could expect to come of it, except that I would get a free ride to my destination in what would likely be a very long and painful 40 minutes, or less if we were lucky. I was just happy that there was silence, albeit a hostile one -- because it could be worse; they might start to quarrel. I thought that this might do irrevocable damage to my friendship with Robert, who on the one hand, I was upset with for having put me in this situation, and on the other, I could only feel bad for, terrorized by this psychopath boyfriend, and who must feel completely humiliated, after having told me about some of the good things happening in his life, including having found himself a relationship. Perhaps I was over dramatizing it, but I felt that it was all a big lie, that I had been lied to. And that Mark, much like everyone else in New York, seemed to put out a nice face for me, and that all along, I was seeing behind the mask. Robert, I was sure was embarrassed. And I was embarrassed for him. We would probably be too embarrassed to ever talk to one another other again after this incident, which suddenly cast a light on the ugly reality
From the moment I got into the car, I realized I had sensed something was not right. After all, hadn't Robert told him about me? Wouldn't he be interested in talking to me and hearing about my life? Instead he just ignored me and talked about cat care. Further, I had always, in the back of my mind, thought that there was something strange about the way he'd gotten my email address a few months back to invite me to the surprise party he was having for Robert. Of course the gesture seemed nice, holding a surprise birthday party, but how did he get my email? Did he get Robert's entire address book? He seemed the type of control freak that would hack Robert's email account and spy on him.
Upon arriving at the airport after what seemed like an endless ride in silence, I decided to be diplomatic about the entire experience. I had, after all, saved $60 of cabfare. That was how much it would take to feed me for a week or two in Tashkent. All in all, had I taken a yellow taxi off of the street in New York, I too would have ridden in silence. "I am very grateful," I said. "It is kind of you to drive me." Then again, in a taxi I would have been spared the disappointment of not getting to talk with my friend, or witnessing a friend being abused.
"It was nice to meet you," he responded as I walked out of the car straight to the trunk to take my bags. Without looking back, I could tell that Robert got out of his seat and followed me. I opened the back myself, took out my bags one by one, ignoring Robert beside me, who seemed to be trying to help. To break the awkward silence, I said nothing except that I could probably handle my bags by myself, though what I wanted to say and almost did say was that I hoped for his sake that by the next time I'd see him that he'd have broken up with this guy. But I thought it wiser to keep my silence, it would only be the right thing to somehow console Robert, who clearly had it off worse than me. I was going on a plane and would be alone for hours in peace. He had to ride back to Manhattan in traffic with this brute.
"Please let me help you carry them into the terminal." I let him take a bag and we walked in silence to the registration line where I set down my bag, and he sets the other one down beside it. I couldn't seem to look at him, but he stepped in front of me, so that it was impossible not to look directly at him.
"I’m really sorry about that," he said. "You didn't need to be in the middle of it."
"I know," I said and hoped that in my glance, I expressed to him that I wasn't so upset, but more worried about him riding back with Brian. "Good luck getting back." I put out my hand to shake. I realized that handshakes were more Uzbek than they were American. Here they were formal and cold, whereas there they were routine. I went up to the registration desk and felt relieved to be leaving, to be freed of New York and of Robert and Brian and their unpleasant company. To be heading on two seven and eight-hour flights with a two-hour layover in between, in which I would probably not say a word to anyone and would be alone in my thoughts for hours. I sort of felt good about getting out of New York.
Labels: No such thing as a free ride
¶ 6:33 PM
