The Collection of stories Sept. 1 - 13
Posted by matt gierhart | Filed under All Drawings
I’ve updated the September stories as far as I’m going to post on the blog. I think it has an okay ending if you only get to read the blog and not the compendium (where all 30 sections of the story will be published).
To make your reading experience easy, I’m going to include the not yet fully edited parts (1-13) of the September story.
I hope you have enjoyed this story more than my mother, who liked the first bit but not the second half. But everyone has their taste.
September 1
In the summer of 1977, after arriving home from her first visit to a doctor in Japan, my mother, Nancy, opened the door to her flat and then immediately closed it. She had seen a pair of large footprints trailing through the apartment. She stood at the closed door and felt her nose running. There were two feelings inside of her, one: why are there footprints in her lit apartment? Two: her father’s warning about crime in Japan, which she typically dismissed to his involvement in the Pacific front of World War Two. She turned, walked down the hall and reported an intruder to the doorman. He calmly stated that even a Japanese hooligan wouldn’t have left their boots on to trample through her apartment. She reasoned back that a thief or rapist or murder surely would disregard such an etiquecy. The doorman, who had an interest in the life of this young American girl living in his country offered a personal escort into her flat.The doorman and Nancy arrived at the door again. She stood to the left of the door and he smiled to her as he began to open the door. This time there were feet in place of the footprints. Mel, her boyfriend, my future father, from America stood in front of her and the doorman, whom he had already introduced himself to but had forgotten how to pronounce his name. Nancy peaked around the opened door.
Miscommunication with travel schedules happened often in the era before mobile phones and email. Mel’s first trip to Japan and first trip from the North American continent delivered him to Tokyo Nartina International Airport alone and overwhelmed. He called her phone multiple times, but she was at the doctors treating a cold (hoping to rid it before his arrival next week). He had packed her address and some extra cash he exchanged about a month before he left. So cash in hand he followed the signs for taxi, there he found a driver who only knew English swear words. After forcing himself to laugh at the drivers repeated use of the word ‘shit’ he arrived at the apartment building. There Mel introduced himself to the doorman who also enjoyed the word ‘shit’. He explained his situation and asked to wait in the lobby. The doorman immediately let him in, after asking him questions of his home country he came up with a wonderful plan to surprise ‘Ms Nancy’ and tucked Mel away in her flat. Now the three stood at the doorway. Nancy imagined the letter Mel sent her with the date of his arrival, Mel was confused why she was still only peaking her head from the door, and the doorman gleaming a smile, announced SURPRISE!
After Mel learned to take off his shoes, their confusion settled into a poorly written letter or the confusion of a head cold. Nancy moved to her sofa, which was bright green and did not have any arms. It was just a cushion really, a long cushion, Mel thought. Nancy described that she didn’t like Japanese couches because they did not have a back, so she had positioned the couch against a wall so it would. Mel followed her to the sofa and she laid her sick head on his lap, slightly afraid that she would make him sick, but closed her eyes and rested the same. He leaned against the wall and looked down to the rug where their shoes were, Nancy, the three-month native, had let her flip flops drip over onto the faux wood floor. His boots touched no floor. He spoke to her, I thought there would be those paper doors. She replied with her eyes closed, Shoji doors? A transparent paper door? He had not heard the word shoji, but understood the definition, Yeah. Nancy, still with her eyes closed, No, those are mostly in hotels or in the older parts of town. Mel looks down to Nancy’s sick head, then to their shoes, Do you eat with chopsticks? Her eyes stayed closed, Yes, but I did learn that the Japanese originally used something like the fork. Well a three-pronged eating utensil. But they stopped because they found that chopsticks could do everything they needed.
September 2
Before Tokugawa Ieyasu settled in Tokyo (then Edo) in 1603, the hills and mountains were described as nature’s commerce. As the city began to grow into the cultural capital of the Japan (under the name Edo) Tokugawa decided that the architecture development should be a complement to hills rolling into the mountains to the south. With great strain, the development of Tokyo was built with very tall buildings far apart from each other. Around these 17th century skyscrapers, surrounding buildings would decrease in size, giving the illusion that the series of buildings created a hill, harmonizing commerce between Tokyo and nature. At the time of Tokugawa’s death, you could stand at the northern point of Adachi and the buildings, in the shape of hills, rolled into hills, and the hills, in the shape of mountains, rose all the way to the Yamizo mountain range and finally to the great mountain Fuji. Tokugawa saw this design a reminder that what is foreign should not contrast nor unite with its native surroundings, rather it should complement.
Nancy woke after sunrise and looked out the window from her high-rise apartment building in Adachi at her Tokyo. Tokugawa’s Tokyo had been dwarfed by modern day skyscrapers competing with the mountains. She looked to Mel, still asleep on the couch without arms and imagined him in the airport alone and searching. It made her feel sad, but she laughed at his conversation with her doorman. Since his purchasing a ticket to visit her during her six-month adventure in Tokyo she had begun making a list of all the things they would do together. He would only be there for a week and half. She went to the list to begin to create a daily list of sites. She got out her map, her subway map, and her guidebook and sat them all around her. Soon Mel woke up to see her surrounded in plans.
After breakfast, fruit and pastries, Nancy pulled out a Japanese phone book. Mel, who was quite used to the American phonebook, described the Japanese version as a cookbook. Nancy smiled and continued flipping the pages. She found what she was looking for, called the number, and spoke, こんにちは. Mel had heard her speak Japanese when she was practicing to return and knew she had studied it in college, but Japanese in America is a novelty. Here language was a commodity, and he was a beggar. She said, 英語を話すか and he could feel the Pacific Ocean, California, Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico and then the panhandle of Texas. He could feel his father’s ranch and said, they don’t talk like that where I’m from to know one particular. Saying that meant they was Nancy and she wasn’t from here. She was just here for six months, three remaining.
Later, at the restaurant, evening, a bus ride then a subway into town, Nancy’s cough increased. She ordered water to drink and teared up during one coughing spell, followed by a quick trip to the bathroom (her second trip during dinner). But the restaurant was brilliant. Though Nancy had made the reservations, Mel pushed his way through enough finger pointing and rough English to surprise the table with roses. He practiced the pronunciation of the Japanese word for wine with Nancy, and when the waiter came to the table, he said ワイン (the waiter replied, very good your Japanese is beautiful). Their conversation moved through leaving America being a good thing to ready to return home in three months and was just beginning to transform into I’ve missed you when the cough came. Mel waited through her second bathroom visit with very small bites of his dinner and not laughing at the band’s accent heavy cover of Ruby Tuesday. She returned, apologized and he looked to her miserable face, do you want to go home?
On the way out the door onto the Tokyo streets, Mel looked back at the roses and wine glasses and band. The doors to the restaurant shut as he drug himself back into Tokyo, with echoes of Goodbye, ruby Tuesday/ Who could hang a name on you? / When you change with every new day. Now, here, the streets, Nancy would speak fast and explain in short sentences later. Mel on standby, singing (in accent) Still I’m gonna miss you…
September 3
They took the Tozai line from Takebashi to the Asakusa line and onto Honjo-Azumabashi where a bus took them to Nancy’s apartment where she collapsed. Mel scurried up a kettle and some tea trying to follow the instructions her doctor wrote from her two days prior. Nancy was determined to follow her Japanese doctor’s advice, which would involve the absence of traditional western medicine. Mel didn’t know how to react when she used the words ‘traditional western’, but he now found himself crushing leaves with a mortal and pedestal. He took the drink into her bedroom, she coughed out a thank you.
Nancy took one sip of the drink and frowned. It’s disgusting. Mel remembered why he decided to travel halfway across the world as he got the cough medicine out of her bathroom. As she swallowed, he felt like he was home, at home with her. She lay back on her bed and he emptied out the tea in the sink. He cleaned the kitchen and brought her a glass of water. She drank two gulps told him thank you and goodnight it a single word. He stayed, sat on her bed.
She walked in the living room in a white robe. Mel was already awake and looking at Tokyo through the protection of the glass window as if it were a wild animal at a zoo. He didn’t notice her until she was next to him. She looked at the window next without coughing. She saw their reflection, her in all white and him in dark, everything else floated. We look like bride and groom. Nancy was referring mainly to the appearance of her robe’s reflection in the window. The sleeves were lace-y and the robe made a v-neck that blended into her skin. Mel switched his focus from Tokyo to their reflection. He saw skyscrapers creating a lapel on his black shirt, Japanese characters covered by her hair, and the river Arakawa—the trimming flowing down her dress.
Maybe it was protection against Japan or the enduring romance that is morning or the contagious properties of the common cold; either way Mel got down on one knee, where could no longer see Tokyo. My mother said yes, he rose and they kissed, but she pulled away out of embarrassed of her snot. They embraced and she looked back into the window, they were still bride and groom. Not more than five minutes later, she ingested more cough medicine and then asleep again and Mel went back to the window wondering if it counts when there isn’t a ring involved.
September 4
What my mother saw and answered was true. My parents married four months after Nancy’s return from Japan. They didn’t tell people of their engagement until three months before the wedding, actually didn’t really speak of it to each other either, they each questioned the validly of the Tokyo morning. How much can be attributed to a head cold: a missed pick up at the airport, an engagement?
Regardless, they were married in a small church in Midland, Texas. I know my mother wore her sister’s dress, I know my grandfather offered my father money to not marry and described his love with one the most beautiful metaphors I have ever heard. I know it was summer time. I know they took a honeymoon to El Paso and maybe New Mexico (or even Old). I know they had car troubles. Other than a few pictures (cake, posed pictures near steps, best man/ maiden of honor), I don’t know anything else.
September 5
Three years later, I was born. Last year, I moved to New York City and, recently, I’ve been thinking about trying cocain. God and my life afterall.
September 6
What I mean to say is that I’ve run out of money to travel, and if you stay in the city for an extended period the weight of the building starts to press against your body, like a deep sea diver dealing with water pressure. Right now, I have about $100 extra dollars at the end of the month, this is after savings, food, rent, attempting to give to some homeless people or a church or something stereotypically good, and maybe a little entertainment. The hundred dollars a month I put back to saving for travel or pay off loans or just to buy my freedom from ever having to work again. This month, I think I will only have $50 in the left over fund. It has been at least five months since I’ve been on a plane. When you are on a plane in New York, the buildings are below you and you are relieved of their weight. Feeling the weight pressing my shoulders, I need to some relief that is what the cocaine is for.
September 7
If Tokyo leads to Mount Fuji, then New York is a cliff into the ocean. When you fly into the city at night, the lights feel so thick you almost think you can walk on them, but the ocean is a dark hole nothing reflects off the water. New York is a cliff competing with the ocean. The Empire State building is 1453 feet tall. You have to go out at least 10 miles into the ocean for the ocean floor to be 1453 deep.
September 8
To help the residents of New York lift the weight of the buildings the city has installed some beautiful parks. I’m currently about to leave Bryant Park, my favorite. On the West side of the park there is a large collection of trees just trying to give the residents of the park a barrier. As soon as I cross the threshold of the park, the weight of New York returns.
On my way home I will pass Time Square, which I have a love/ hate relationship with. For the love, it is the one place that allows you to be in New York and transport out just a little bit. Even a New Yorker who has been lived in the city their entire will feel like a bit of a tourist. Personal, I look at the postcards as I walk by. I try to find where the photographer had to be to get the picture on the card. The hate is that Time Square is the final evolution of New York. It is the antithesis of the city, buildings stacked on building; I can’t imagine how sore the street must be. Just with the metaphor of the weight, I am again thinking about cocaine, not as an experience but as a way to depressurize myself.
September 9
I woke up around 8 a.m. because my father wakes up early. I wonder if he had must of a jet lag when he was in Tokyo. I wonder if he slept on the plane ride to Tokyo. I don’t know all the details of his flying and arriving. The story is always short, She wasn’t there, I had the address, got a cab, he used the word ‘shit’ a lot, talked to the doorman, the doorman put me in her apartment for a surprise. Very simple, very reasonable. Surely, he must have been worried or confused, but not in the story. I’ve asked him how many times he walked around the airport thinking mom must be walking around behind him? He answered a few, but I don’t believe him or I know I would do different.
This side of my father makes me rethink cocaine. He arrived and adapted, but when the city got too big, he dropped to his knee.
On the internet message board alt.new.brooklyn, about 1 a.m. this morning someone wrote: Blow in Williamsburg is ez. Go to the coast end. Dealers look for college kids, walk up to one and if he don’t look confused, ask for some.
Because I’m not a New Yorker, I know that in the rest of the world extended eye contact doesn’t mean anything. But here if you look someone in the eyes for longer than an accident it means: A. “I’m a tourist and I don’t know any better” or B. “I want something.” As of right now, I believe it, I would do the same if I were a drug dealer.
September 10
And there he is, simply on some steps, next to a ratty garden. He looks straight at me as I approach and I begin to walk to him. He accepts my approach as normal, and I know this man will sell me drugs.
Do you have any cocaine for sale? I kept my eyes on him as I said the word ‘cocaine’. It was a dare.
September 11
He nodded, and lifted a loose step to reveal a collection of tiny little bags. I told him I wanted the smallest size. It was $20. I gave him money and he gave me a small plastic bag, clear as daylight. Even though his communication only ranged from a head nod to twenty dollars, he seemed nice. I don’t think he wants to deal drugs, and I really don’t think he does drugs. I think he has a daughter. He might be on bad terms with the mother, but I imagine the little girl running up to him and squeezing him. I can imagine him going around the city with her. They probably stay in Brooklyn. I can hear him explaining rules to her.
Daddy, why?
It is dangerous, sweetie. The sign is there for a reason. See all the broken glass.
I’m sure he sells some drugs on the weekend just to buy make rent or maybe save for her college, or maybe he is a part of some really nice people drug train. Almost like the free trade coffee, but nice trade cocaine. I put my hand in my pocket to and the bag is so exactly made. Do they have bags made especially for cocaine? I haven’t seen a bag like this for other products, and I can’t imagine ever needing sugar or flour in a bag this small.
September 12
Coming back to Manhattan from Brooklyn I look completely normal. The fella next to me has no idea what is in my pocket, and there is a girl across the way that even smiled my way, sorta. After I made it back into Manhattan, I should have gotten out to change at Grand Central, but I didn’t. I realized this at the next stop. I got off there and asked a man stilling on a bench, he looked like he had done cocaine before and probably had a problem. He said, at 125th street you can make a change that’ll get you to the lower East side. I made the change and got on a new cart. There was a man reading a catalog about cowboys or something having to do with the old west. He probably hasn’t done cocaine. A college white girl in a polo with a bike, in the right situation she probably would, but that hasn’t happened yet. A black man sending a text message in a suit, he looks too downtown-champagne type for cocaine. A different black man singing along with his walkman, defiantly. I probably could have bought from him. A punk couple, I think punks do different drugs.
September 13
When my father proposed to my mother, he found how to exist in Japan without making Tokugawa Ieyasu’s mistakes. Tokugawa’s creation of a city journey into nature left Toko with an awkward beginning point to Mount Fuji. Instead of making the difficult climb to the mountains, they were stuck with their own hills. When my father looked out the window from my mother’s apartment he didn’t see a journey from building to nature, he saw a builder’s reaction to nature. The Japanese own dramatic answer to feeling insignificant next to the Yamizo Mountains. The size of nature has been mankind’s battle since we left the caves: How do we exist next to nature’s grandeur? By creating our own nature. How then should we exist next to our own grandeur?
Mel, on one knee, became larger than every building in sight to Nancy. I admit, my father’s path was better, but my Japan is only New York, and I don’t have a girl worth me losing site of the city. I, simply, want to forget there is building in site for thirty minutes or so. I want to stay behind a locked door and exist in my own grandeur.
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September 24th, 2006 at 4:27 am
[...] I haven’t announced it here yet (because we’ve been too busy discussing SaltWater Crocs, babies and great white sharks), but this month Rob and I are doing a little project together. He is doing his drawings, as you all know. And I am writing a story to flow through all of them. The only catch is that I know know what he is going to draw next, so it is a bit of an acrobate act as a writer to try and work this imagine or the feeling I get from his imagine into the story. I go slow then I go fast then I go slow again as the writing goes through. I just posted parts 1-13, which is all I will post online, all thirty parts of the story will be printed in the September edition of the compendium (I’ll put a link up again with the Sept. Compendium is on sell). [...]