Valentine

A peaceful Labor Day Weekend in Brooklyn.

1. The Barbecue

The Barbecue was in Prospect Park, held by my sweet friend Fred, who has a giant bushy beard and wears crazy ties. He is also king of the mini Weber, crouched down near the ground, gently turning ears of corn and closely watching burgers. We walked over together: Sean Howe, my friend Frank, four Swedes in a touring pop band, and me. Finding the bbq proved to be daunting. Fred and I called and texted each other more than 10 times, as we wandered around the lake, scanning the horizon and sidestepping swampy puddles. The Swedes' perfectly primped hair started to wilt in the heat. "Can you see an orange buoy out in the lake?" Fred asked. "Yeah," I tell him, "it's right across from us." But everything, from every angle, is right across from us. "The buoy, the fishing area and the barbecue are an equilateral triangle," Fred says with authority. I haven't thought about equilateral triangles for a long time. "Are you the apex?" I ask him, without really knowing what I mean. Fred doesn't know what I mean either. But eventually he guides us to the right spot, a pretty area by a little inlet of the lake that features a large moldering pile of mowed grass and lake gunk by the shore. It doesn't bother me. It's really lovely. Sean and I occupy ourselves by throwing some large sticks into the water by lifting them with our feet. Then, this:

Me: Want to play with the football?
Sean: No.
Me: Want to run around?
Sean: No.
Me: Want to make boats out of leaves and race them?
Sean: Not really.
Me: (pause)
Sean: (pause)
Me: I'm going to go steal that remote controlled truck (which is being raced around by some men near us and is making a really loud and grating whine)
Sean: Then you can throw it in the lake.
Me: No, I'm just going to take it and run away.

So I run off toward the truck, and my feet feel ridiculously light, as they did when I was a kid, sprinting around my house at night in the summer during a game of Ghost Around the Graveyard. The truck, it turns out, is fancy, and thus, it is fast. I try to edge up to it, but the impulse to grab it and flee is fading fast, and the truck is speeding up, racing around a makeshift obstacle course. And the men holding the remote control are eyeing me suspiciously. When I get back to the grill, the Swedes have thrown themselves down in the grass and stretched out like golden retrievers. They are still jet-lagged.

2. The New York Times

Frank is in charge of rushing the Swedes around (they are staying at Gary Olson's house, then that changes, they are staying with Jeff Baron). He stays with me and Brian, where there are fewer grape arbors and less coolness, and more cats. Frank and I lounge around the apartment, reading the Sunday paper. We get into a routine: Frank will say, "Oh my God!" when reading a story. Or he will say, "Wow." "Oh Man." Or "Jeez." Not looking up from what I'm reading, I say, "Hmm" in response to these exclamations, and Frank explains what interesting bit of information he has just come across. Frank is from Boston and says "awesome" a lot. Brian reads the paper with a deep intensity; he frowns as he studies The Week in Review. His cat sits on the arm of the chair while he reads, her eyes half-closed. I read the city section every Sunday with an overwhelming love for New York City: the interesting neighbors, the quirky situations, the stink, and the monuments to people long forgotten.

3. Mr. Key

Mr. Key, in his soft, gentle voice, agreed to have lunch or dinner with me. But now he is nowhere to be found. The weekend was sunny, and now it's rainy, and Mr. Key's bench has been empty the whole time. Mr. Key, where are you?

4. The phone call

In July, I called some random 718 numbers to get ideas for this blog. The first two hung up (one after saying, in the background, "God damn kids and their prank calls"). The third number, T. Ramirez and her friend K. (both aged 15) was more helpful. Wonderful, even. They told me to eat Puerto Rican food, and then kindly offered some ideas about how to cook rice and beans, and what brand to buy. With Tito Puente playing in the background, I make rice, beans, plantains and mango fritters. The Puerto Rican kids in my class two years ago (all 14 of them) were so proud of the food they ate. Most of them could cook, and they brought amazing platters of fried and spicy and sweet things to our winter party. "This is what Puerto Rican people eat for Christmas," one of them said. "We don't eat no fruitcake. We eat OUR food."

They would have been proud of me, those kids, even if my rice was a little burned on the bottom and my plantains were oversalted.

5. Fall

Suddenly, there are a few rusty colored leaves on the ground in Brooklyn, clogging the gutters in the rain and crunching underfoot on the sidewalk. The air is heavy with the scent of end of the summer flowers, the ones I'm allergic to. The summer has turned rotten. At home, the cats all stretch out on the rug together, as I pack and crate and seal up magazines and books and records. A handful of wet leaves I picked up are drying by the window. The house fills with the damp and sweet smell of autumn. I think: "The apples are almost ripe now." I think: "where are my sweaters?"

*This update typed while listening to Slowdive, and re-edited while planning which stoop sales to hit this morning with Sean.