It's
hard to walk down the hot, wet pavement on long summer evenings. Passing through
Washington Square Park I'm not just reminded of the impending fall, but constantly
confronted with happy summer people. These people are totally oblivious to
me because they are happy--happy that it is humid and rainy, happy to be smoking
cigarettes, happy to be in love, happy that it is summer. They are all wearing
lightweight cotton clothing that breathes the hot air and discolors with sweat,
and they enjoy complaining about the heat or humidity before retreating to
their air-conditioned offices and bars.
Everyone loves summertime cocktails: mojitos and caiparenias and especially
the summertime standby of the frozen margarita in a salty glass. I sit in
a bar alone and drink a frozen margarita with sugar around the rim. I am imitating
the gestures of the people around me, the ones laughing loudly and abruptly
and on their cell phones. I get sugar on the rim because I need the extra
encouragement; most women don't sit at bars alone, even in New York. I'm not
waiting for anyone and I don't want to meet anyone.
I almost got lost on the way to the bar, which is not terribly unusual for
me except that it felt strange to wake up from my reverie and feel like I
did not know where I was going, and not just that I did not know how to get
from here to there. The streets of New York, however logical to natives, have
always seemed more of a maze than a grid to me. Everything is logical, it's
right there on the map, but I often feel like the places I have been before
like to hide. As if the streets can move one to the North or South, East or
West when I'm not looking. Sometimes, I'm sure that if I could pretend to
not look, then I would see the streets move, just as I thought I could catch
my toys talking and walking when I was younger. Unfortunately, today I am
too old to believe such things. In fact, today I am much older: today is my
birthday.
It's easy to feel unhappy when it's your birthday and you're alone. My birthday
always falls on the late summer days when everyone is on vacation. When I
was little, my birthday was a family event that included my grandmother making
everyone do the hokey-pokey by the pool. I never liked the hokey-pokey although
I think those episodes toughened me up for the birthday disappointments to
come. But how can the hokey-pokey prepare you for getting dumped two days
before your birthday? Especially when you had planned a special just-the-two-of-you
night so that all of your friends made other plans or went out of town?
I guess I should be grateful to know that this was not the person for me.
I mean the kind of person who would dump you two days before your birthday
is the kind of person that would skip out of town when your dad has a heart
attack, or when you're eight months pregnant. It's a relief to feel that I
avoided that sort of disaster break-up scenario. I'm sure it could have been
even worse. Dinner and romantic evening were supposed to be my gift I suppose,
but it makes me feel as if the dumping had been planned in advance. That is
the sort of person who would walk out when your kid is diagnosed with some
crazy disease.
Perhaps, the pressure of finding the perfect gift was too much. Dinner is
always appropriate, but I might have hinted that I wanted something more and
created an impossible dilemma. A present for someone you've been dating for
six months has to be non-generic and thoughtful, but carefully guarded against
too much symbolism. It cannot speak of commitment or future, but it can't
ignore the likes and dislikes of the intended. A book may be too boring, unless
it's an art book, but that would be too expensive. Clothing is too intrusive
unless it's a t-shirt and then it's too common. The whole experience of searching
for the perfect six-month anniversary birthday gift is like standing in the
video store searching for a video to watch with someone who is not there without
having discussed in advance what to rent. It's impossible to know exactly
what they've seen and whether they're in the mood for comedy, horror, or avant-garde.
I'm still not sure that it's forgivable to dump someone two days before their
birthday just because you can't find a present, but it's becoming more understandable.
I order another frozen margarita. The bar is filling up a bit and a pretty-but-too-thin
woman is sitting on the stool next to mine, her perfect hair falling neatly
below her shoulderblades. She is chatting at top volume with a friend, complaining
brashly about her boss. I am concentrating on disliking her when she turns
to order another drink for her friend. Her own glass is still mostly full
and she spills some on her vaguely seventies-style shirt and we make eye contact
and laugh together. I am distracted from my own problems. In fact, the more
I think about this whole dilemma, the more certain I am that I've been saved
from some great disaster. And I think that tonight might even be fun.
V.
A. MESSINA lives in Philadelphia now, though her heart is in Paris,
where she has lived, on and off, for the past few years.
