Aiyani Mersai

…and in the evening of Saturday, the first of September of the year two-thousand and twelve I said everything else I could possibly say.  Having repeated myself, my excuses, my reasons, my explanations, my pleas, my fears, emotions, and insecurities, I burst into tears at the important advice from a friend and finally peeled the last layer from my body.  The skin had already begun to scar in areas.  The knees, where I’d fallen so many times from going to fast or not paying attention.  The marks from face-planting or brushing up to close against something too wrong.  The skin on my face cracked against the salty water my eyes would not stop purging.  My hands, and all the microscopic cuts that rolled, almost carelessly by now, all over them from fighting too hard to hold on to things of which no one could otherwise convince me to release.  My un-manicured nails showing what mindless and unaware furosity my teeth can have, and that’s only just on my own hands.  One could only imagine the hands of whomever would harmfully cross my path or of any other whom I cared so deeply.  And yet all these scars and extra layers of skin could not protect me from this.  I had exposed myself to such fire, such passion, the heat burned and only left me wanting more.  More of something I could not have.  My skin, vulnerable and shedding every last piece of protection it offered was left tender, and raw.  And I collapsed.

The memory of hearing your voice say you love me is hard to find purely lately.  Just like the memory of your lips pressed up against mine or your arms wrapped around me.  I have to close my eyes now and focus to find them. They grow more and more distant.  I can’t even convince my mind to let me dream about you.  I’ve never wanted anything so much.  I’ve never felt such loss.  A true death.  An ache that can consume my very being within one second.  I love the time when it was a tour.  When there was a lighthouse.  When coming home felt real because you were there.  It’s so dark now.  The lighthouse is dim and flickers only once in a while.  Every last piece of energy striving to keep it alive.  I cannot see too well because of it.  But I can still hear the waves crashing.  They remind me I’m awake.  That I unfortunately will not wake from a nightmare.  But that I now live in one.  And like all nightmares, I cannot seem to run fast enough.  I cannot see through the blurry vision.  And though I scream no one hears me.  It is a waking coma.  A place where death and life sit and play chess.  These are my vital organs they use to play for what is left of my soul.  I can still live, but I do not feel life.  A faint heartbeat remains, but… there is a heart.

Quiet.  Listen

…sometimes when she inhales her eyes roll.  I wonder what she sees, even with her eyes closed.  “What does the monitor say?”

“Who is The Monitor?”

It’s. Hot. Out. Here.

We’re havin’ a heat wave here.  First of a few that will happen this summer.  Right now the A/C in the window is working hard to make it not 98 degrees, but 65.  It’s comfortable in this room.  Our “new” room.  We (My Darling and I) switched rooms a couple months ago.  We scrubbed the walls, demolished a “closet”-thing, painted, hung new curtains and it’s lovely.  It’s peaceful and roomier.

But then we open that door and you can smell the stagnant air frozen in time in the hallway, living room, kitchen and bathroom.  Those windows are open on the top and bottom to help circulate the air, but there has to be air MOVING around on the outside, and in a certain direction in order for it to come inside.  Any garbage that is not filed under plastic or paper/cardboard, has to be taken out at the end of each day otherwise it  cooks…and leaves an additional moist scent of yuck in the “air” that makes it feel thicker.  So now that you’re in a non-air conditioned room in the house and already sweating, those pores open right up and with every breath you attempt to take in while quickly getting water or doing your dishes, can get stuck in your system, and seep out your pores.

Then there’s the whole “I’ve got to leave the apartment” thing that happens 4-5 times a week.  Sometimes six.  Now, I try to be smart in my own way and wear my work clothes to work, instead of wearing “regular” clothes and taking my work clothes with me to change.  Some say that taking them keeps you from sweating in them on the way to work.  Others don’t like the idea of wearing work clothes out and about, and then there’s me: I don’t want to carry anymore than I absolutely have to.  So I get my bag(s)…(yes sometimes I take 2 purse like things) carrying only the essentials.  My wallet, phone, lip-lip, 3-4 different kind of lip glosses, a couple pens, some kleenex, my ear buds, a glasses case I keep my charger and another set of ear buds in, my keys, some ibuprofen, deodorant, a couple extra hair ties, and a book.  And in the other bag: my two pieces of uniform, a couple markers and pens, some latex gloves, some paper work for work, a book I need for work, my keys and another lip gloss.  I told you–just the essentials.  I mean, I don’t need an industrial strength hair dryer, I tie that shit back.

So, I get my stuff and go downstairs, and go outside and can immediately identify the awesome smells the sun has cooked up for me.  Oddly enough the smell of melting horse poop has made itself known, but only by scent.  I haven’t seen any big piles of horse manure.  I can cigarettes and cigars of people passing by and that dirty sweaty smell kids seem to have after they go outside to play.  En route to the train I’ll also pass a cart selling ice cream by the scoop, but I can never smell it.  Then once in the train the thickness of the heat and left over air creates a sort of wall you can’t see or really feel, but you can sense it with your 7th or 8th sense, for sure.  Sweat is going to happen, and everyone knows it.  Lookin’ around I’ll see women with baby powder brushed against their chest and back, some guys have a towel or shirt they use to blot their face and bald, dripping-sweat head.  Then those doors open to the train and cool air hits you and makes that wall of gross dissipate and I go to sit down and notice a line of moisture left on the seat.  Man, you know that was from someones asscrack.  So, of course I move on and sit elsewhere.

Stepping off the train and walking up the stairs I often smell a homeless person.  There’s nothing else like it. A mixture of dirt, sweat, mold, feces, urine and garbage–all cooked and practically smeared on the human.  Yes, that sounds gross.  Yes, I sound mean.  No, I don’t know what it’s like to be homeless like that.  Yes, I’m sure they didn’t choose that life.  It’s not something I think anyone would choose, nonetheless it’s quite pungent and you can never get used to it.  Hitting the surface means smelling the carts that sell cheap coffee and dried out donuts, or halal stands, or fruit stands and a waft of newspapers and perfume and cologne will pass me by while I move past The Suits.  I’m convinced they are wearing suite jackets because they have soaked their undershirt and  dress shirt with sweat.  I’ll pass by some small eateries and the construction and feel the cold air brush against my body as someone exits a place blasting the a/c.  Then I turn that last corner and pull open the door to my work and feel that A/C.  I’m thankful, then I realize the sweat dripping down my back getting cold and make sure I add another layer of deodorant before I head out to the floor.  Eight to ten hours later, I’ll dread the smells I’ll encounter on the way home now that everyone has been cooking in the heat, sweating, not reapplying deodorant or picking up after their dogs (and horses?).  I’ll walk by all the bags of trash lined up on the curb to be picked up and briefly wonder if it’s better than the smell of a New York Homeless person, and I shake my head at myself and say yes, it is.  I know, I know.  Sigh.

Then it’s home and back to the room we cleaned and painted and have the a/c turned on.  Then it’s to the shower and a small silly banter about going into the kitchen to make food.

Nothing quite like a summer in New York.  Nope, not quite.

FYI: There is an unspoken public transportation etiquette that should be in constant practice.  Granted, some people that live here do not abide by said unspoken etiquette–and all of us that DO follow it want to punch their faces.  These simple tasks seem like common sense when you bullet point it, which is why when they are NOT followed–all of us that DO follow them want to punch faces.

• Let people OFF the train/bus, before you try to get ON.
• Once you step on, keep moving into the train/bus because THERE ARE OTHERS BEHIND YOU.
• The seats are not to be used for your bags.  Hold your crap on your lap, or put it on the floor. Yes, really.
• If you don’t hold on to something you are likely to fall when the train/bus starts to move.  I don’t care how long you’ve lived here and dealt with the stop and go, your stumbling will equal running into people or over them.  And its bothersome.  Hold. on. to something.
• Headsets, earbuds, headphones and any other version of listening devices used to bring the noise to your personal space are designed so the rest of us don’t have to hear what you are listening to.  Turn. That. Shit. Down.  AND singing along with your music is annoying. Rent a car if you need to do that.  Respect the public shared space.
• Don’t marinate yourself in perfume or cologne, but keep hygiene in mind.  Please and thank you (again, sounds like common sense but oddly enough…)
• Don’t sit next to someone if you don’t have to.  And if space opens up, move.  It’s too awkward  sitting next to a stranger when there is room to have space.
• Mind the food you eat, not all of us want to smell what you think is yummy.
• Shut your kid up (the ones that are potty trained and speak words).  Pay attention to them so they will stop yelling and fighting.  Turning up your listening device to ignore them is rude and I will call child protective services on your ass.
• Shut up yourself.  We don’t need to hear your stories, don’t ask us for money (it’s actually illegal anyway) or food.  [Note: I have participated in the giving of money and food, but be mindful and careful] And don’t yell.  To anyone, or the windows–its annoying.

Rule:  Your shoes DO matter.  So it’s important that you don’t care what others think.  hahahahhahah

Rule:  Black women wear fake eyelashes.  It’s not just for a show, it’s all the time.  It’s part of their look.  Just go with it, but careful not to stare.  Although it was foreign to me at first, it’s just as important as their nails and their hair.  We all have our things that we need to feel that we can function.  heh.

FYI:  You will see some people walking around, or riding bikes–wearing a mask.  Like…a doctors mask.  I’m unsure what this is for.  The only time I’d ever seen it was during the big fires a few years ago in la la land and the ash was ridiculous.  Whatever their reason, it’s not offensive, but it is odd that they are all asian.  That I’ve seen…

Rule:  Just eat the food from the Halal stands.  Call it street meat, call it kosher, call it whatever you want.  It’s pretty yummy and pretty cheap.  It’s the vegetables you want to be careful of.  They’re not inedible, but some can be suspect.  Again, just be mindful.

Rule: If you live on only coffee and alcohol it will age you. I’m sure this is the case in most places–but there’s something about New York that makes it worse.  Perhaps it’s the walking everywhere, and the weather, and public transportation thing.  We don’t really smile too much here, in New York.  Seems like we don’t smile, eat vegetables, or exercise unless we are check-marking the “$50,000-$75,000” box. heh.

Yah, so–drink some water, and smile while you’re walking to the train.  And once there get out of the way, don’t stare, hang on to something, and keep your music loud enough so only you can hear it.  And when you reach your destination, make sure people let you off the train before they get on the train

Then for lunch, get some street meat.  heh.