Jan. 4 2019
Someone tells me, in a murmur - as if we're being watched - that a celebrity lives on Cranberry Street in a massive, renovated brownstone. When they talk, they put their hands like a cup around their mouth, which makes me think about being eleven, telling secrets, and I want to whisper to them my own trivial bits of hidden history: Today, I saw a dog chained to a fence wearing a knit sweater; last week, I watched a man jerk off on a train; last month, I wanted to vanish entirely. Someone in this coffee shop is taking a phone call and I try to listen in over the hum of Tuesday morning. I can't make out any words and I wonder what it's about, what history I will miss that they'll remember tomorrow. I'm no archivist, though, so I just make it up:
The person is wearing a suit, so maybe he's a broker for a big brownstone building on that tree-lined Cranberry Street. And maybe this week his wife is away, so he's taking some time to reconnect with all the people in his life he hasn't seen or spoken to in some time. Now he's calling all those people, the ones he'd say he'd call if he could, and no one's picking up, and he'd feel strange to leave a voicemail. But this is his only day, and he doesn't want to waste it, especially with such good weather, especially for this time of the season. So, he's just in a coffee shop, on a block in Park Slope, dialing over and over again, a bruised and spinning top.