The way you smile

The sun was shining, the liquor was bountiful. Teeth were sparse but happiness abounded. In this weekend's adventures...

Two parties.

Friday night. There was a party at Sarah Brennan and Adrian Tomine's apartment, to celebrate my friend Fred's 30th birthday. I made a big batch of vodka lemonade and then Sean and I drank almost the whole thing ourselves. It was about 100 degrees, so we crowded around the air conditioner, sitting on a desk with our feet swinging. Fred was glowing with birthday happiness. For his birthday, I gave him a copy of Colonel Sanders autobiography, _Life as I Have Known It Has Been Finger Lickin' Good_. Adrian read the first line of the book aloud to Fred: "Dadgummit!" There were funny little comics tacked up on a bulletin board. Rough draft Optic Nerve.

Saturday night. The lovely Troy and Katie celebrated their first wedding anniversary. I invented a ridiculously strong drink called the Headache, and Sean and my friend Jeff made me a drink which had no name but had a lot of cruddy pineapple vodka in it. The music was perfect, and there was dancing, except for Marc Balgavy, who doesn't like to dance very much but has a lovely beard. I went to O'Connors afterwards, but I don't really remember it. Sean and I ate slices from the newly redone pizza place next to Southpaw on the way home. This morning, The Headache proved true to its name.


One hour in the City Lights Diner.

The City Lights is on Atlantic Avenue and the corner of 3rd Avenue in Brooklyn. It's what I would call a typical Brooklyn diner: giant menu with colorful headings like "Very Delicious Sandwiches", waitresses that won't put up with any crap, plastic glasses that still smell a bit like dishwashing detergent, a clientele that looks tired but calm, coffee that's simple. I used to spend quite a bit of time here; my first year of teaching, I would take homework papers there at night to grade. This afternoon, churchgoers filled a few of the booths, talking and laughing. In their Sunday best, they looked out of place in a grimy diner, but they gave the City Lights a dignity that it deserves. The waitress has a head of wild, curly hair and a boisterous laugh. I order cinnamon toast, and then, before I can say it, she says, "chocolate egg cream?" Which is exactly what I was about to order. I don't remember her from my nights of chocolate egg creams in the second window booth, the same one I'm in now. "Do you remember me?" I ask her. "How did you know that was what I wanted?" She looks taken aback. "Goes good with toast" is all she says in response.

Two policemen come in. They are the Laurel and Hardy of cops; the tall, skinny one teases the fat one for putting a lot of sugar and milk in his coffee. The fat one laughs and shakes his head. How are things in Brooklyn this afternoon? "Quiet," they say. "Everybody's watchin' football," says Laurel. Hardy proclaims that he will kill the Jets himself if they have a bad season, and what the hell, he'll kill the Giants for the same reason. A woman and a little girl, about 7 or so, come in and share a grilled cheese deluxe. "How big is your heart?" the girl asks. "It fits right there," the woman says, tapping on the girl's chest. "It pumps your blood." But how did it get in there, the girl wants to know. We're born with it in there, the woman tells her between french fries. "But," the girl says, starting to get impatient, "How do we move?" "I don't know, baby," the woman says, laughing, "I just don't know."

Outside, the sun is glittering on the cars going by and the sidewalk is full of shadows. An elderly man and woman come in and order burgers. "Hello," I say. "Hello, my dear," says the woman.

Tomorrow: The stories of Sergeant John and Mr. Sit.

*This update typed while watching the end of _The Royal Tennenbaums_, and listening to Al Jolson.