Ele Pawelski's Blog

The red plastic raincoat hanging near the door reminds me of my last girlfriend. In fact, when it first catches my eye, my hands get sweaty and my heartbeat quickens. Immediately I glance around the restaurant. I don’t see her.

Five minutes passes. I try not to stare at the coat. Finally, I say I need to make a call and walk through the tables and patrons, shifting my head from side to side. She’s not there. Maybe she’s in the restroom.

I go to the coat. I can’t help myself but reach into first one and then the other pocket. I don’t know what I’m looking for. Something that will confirm ending it was the right choice. These are clean, empty pockets. There isn’t even lint. I touch the sleeve. She was wearing it the last time I saw her.

“Excuse me, that’s my jacket. What the hell are you doing?”[image error]

Notes escaped from the flute and scurried to every corner in the space. It was a lively melody. The flutist swayed back and forth, eyes closed, totally engrossed in her pursuit. There was no stand or music to read from. Like many in the orchestral world, she knew the piece by heart.

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The audience was rapt. No one moved or made a sound.

The pace quickened, racing to the pinnacle. Intakes of breath were more rapid as the musician’s upper body bobbed in step. Her long fingers dashed over the keys.

Silence.

The few onlookers dropped coins into the open case, and then headed down the stairs into the subway’s cavern.

The man looked expectantly in the mirror. He leaned closer and rubbed the glass with his sleeve. Then stood back.

If he were someone else, he might notice thinning grey hair, ruddy cheeks, beak-like nose and an overly large forehead. And eyes that didn’t quite register.

Instead, he yelled, “Audrey, where’s my neck?”

He stuck a finger under this collar and pushed it around. His face reddened.

Audrey drew up behind him. Her gentle eyes showed concern but pursed lips indicated a history of Bertram’s discovery.

“It’s right here, under your bow tie.” She sighed. “Where it always is.”

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‘Accents for sale’ the sign reads. Perfect, I think, I’m in the market for some accents. So I walk in.

The shop is really big: slender tables and overstuffed chairs, Venetian glass bowls and miniature Ming vases, gilt-framed paintings and old-fashioned posters, chandeliers and ticking clocks, pewter photo holders and a pair of Chinese dancing figurines, blue Tiffany desk lamps and wooden trays, chicken salt and pepper shakers, ornate mirrors and a prideful lion statue, a rocking horse and globe on a red stand, metal watering cans and a chess game with pieces arranged mid-contest, a round Coca-Cola sign and a golden bird cage, a stone sitting Buddha and  clown mask, a copy of The Hobbit and mounted antlers. And that was just my first glance.

I spy the antique cash register and sales person perched behind, round glasses on forehead rubbing his nose. My journey takes more than ten minutes as I squeeze between the stuff and the things, taking care to keep my elbows in. En route, I move the White Queen to 2f and push the Black Knight to the side of the board, give the globe a subtle spin, tap the rocking horse into motion and rub the Buddha belly for good luck. As I approach, the clerk is still absorbed with his nasal massage, eyes closed. I clear my throat.

“I’ll take a Spanish accent, please,” I say, debating whether I can afford a Swedish one as well.

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Person One:   I love summer but hate how it takes longer to get places.

Person Two:   I know – lots of other drivers on the road, people going to their cottages, all out and about.

One:    No – it’s because it’s warmer out.

Two:    Yes, more people are going more places making traffic hell.

One:    No – it’s because when it’s warmer, miles expand. Like lots of things that get bigger when heated up.

Two:    Wha–? That’s crazy.

One:    No really. It’s because the miles are expanding. Literally. It’s thermodynamics. And backed up by evidence: think about how long it takes to drive to a cottage in the summer. Way longer than in the winter.

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[image error]The rosary was in stark contrast to its surroundings: beer and wine, a blues band singing Sitting at the Dock of the Bay and sultry voices in conversation. The box was nondescript. From his blank expression, it was obvious he had no idea what the present was before opening it. Her face was radiant as he extracted the set of beads. Hand-carved, she exclaimed, from Bethlehem. Not many people know Bethlehem is in Palestine, she said matter-of-factly. Go on, put it on, she urged. Hesitantly, he placed it around his neck. It looks great, she said getting up, I’ll be right back. He watched her walk away, then tucked the cross into his left pocket and patted the string flush with his shirt.

The art of carefully turning the pages of a newspaper, so as not to crease or bend them, will soon be lost.

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The cacophony of horns indicated something was amiss. But then again, Chinatown was a loud, jostling place with its narrow streets and sidewalks full of pedestrians and tables displaying all kinds of things for sale. Still, the honking persisted.

A small, Asian woman had got caught mid-intersection on a red light. Older, hunched, and overdressed in a pullover for the warm weather, she was pushing a metal trolley full of bags. She would not be rushed. This was her turf. But, those drivers would not let up.

A cyclist, heading west through the green, hopped off his bike in a swoop and ambled over to her. A white guy, he was just passing through. “Do you need any help?” he asked, while putting up his hand to halt the oncoming traffic. “No,” she mumbled without looking at him. Nevertheless, he continued walking with her to the curb; a human shield.

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Beside each other, the two guitars rested comfortably. One in a soft fabric case, the other in a hard case with a battered top held together by duct tape. Both were miserably out of tune and more than twenty years old. Acquired in childhood, the owners had set aside the instruments long ago. She after one too many comments about her flat tone and he upon moving out of his parents’ house and working three jobs to pay the rent.

She remembers the brand new acoustic and the lessons she enthusiastically asked for at 10 or 11, and feeling nervous at a recital a few years later. So nervous that she made mistakes, although no one noticed but her and the teacher. After that, practice became an ugly chore instead of a magical interlude. She tried learning popular songs but her accompanying voice sounded dull. Her mother suggested classes. Instead, she joined a church choir where her tone blended into the whole. Eventually though, the religious selections became unbearable. She put away her guitar, but hoped for a rekindling at a different point in life. It followed her from rental to rental. She hung onto it, still thinking one day she’d pick it up again.

He got his guitar in high school. From a pawn shop, paid for with his own money. In the basement at home, he meticulously wrote down chords and riffs for songs he heard on the radio and practiced for hours. But it was the purchase of mini-speakers that changed the game by enabling his music to drown out his parent’s screaming matches. Downstairs, he played like nothing else mattered. Suddenly, his parents’ angry words started to focus on him. He began staying over at friends’ places. At first that worked. But he had no space or privacy. And little cash. So he quit school and moved into a share house. Some years later, he retrieved his guitar along with other possessions. From time to time, he took it out to tune, but had lost interest in playing. Yet, he didn’t want to sell or donate it either.

When they moved in together, they laughed at the copious amount of guitars for their small household. But stacked them artfully in the spare room. Waiting for that moment they were both still convinced would come. A fine pair, these two guitars.

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