Sundays v. Bruce. Queens, NY. August, 2023.
Sunday mornings I watch people at the gas station, off the highway,fill their cars on the way to the beach, or the game, or to whateverwholesome activity one shepherds their upstanding family.I wouldn’t know. The last time I went to the beach was 13 years ago.These days, if I’m lucky, I summer with a watermelon, without the seedsI still spit. My stomach stays in knots. It’s been three days since thathuge treeJust wrap caution tape around it. Sure,I could have moved some branches out of that person’s driveway,but I decided not to—I walk to get my steps, all 12,000 of them.Every day, twice on Sundays. If I wanted to lift, I’d go to the gym.These neon sneakers from Amazon squawk with every step I take,like G-d damn birdcall in this plastic place, over sidewalksthen street, over twig then branch, in the rain, sun or sludge.Over the Sunday hymnal of grass and dew. Walking past the opendoors of the new Korean church, there’s a woman in the throes of joy,between the dentist and the insurance office. She tosses back her head,grasping the shoulder of her husband or friend. My ears don’t need to hearpeople laughing that freely. I look for the Bean & Bean coffee shoppe,where they roast what they sell, to take a leak. The facility is pretty clean.The patrons, with their muffins, lattes and shots of espresso, readingon their laptops, in singles or in pairs. I bet they hunkered down together.The delivery guy, from the new chicken shoppe, leaves two large trayson the concrete, dashing back to pick up something he forgot. They smelldelicious. Had I my car, I might consider nabbing one or both of them.Two women, holding hands, walk past me, in hushed voices. I wonderif they sheltered in place together. Probably. Everyone else seems to havesomeone. I don’t know how they do it. Last time I had people, I was a kid.Sundays, we’d hit the same Chinese restaurant’cause my dad used to beroommates with one of the waiters. Wo Hop. Somewhere in Chinatown.I’d pretty much always get the same thing: spareribs with wonton soup—hold the wontons. Some might call me a picky eater, but I eat more vegetablesnow. There was this odd night I tried something new.On my way to the bathroom I passed a jovial table, not realising I’d stoppedto gawk, until they asked if I wanted one. I said ok. They were eating snails,in garlic sauce. You know how they eat snails? Well, there’s a little hole in the shellyou have to suck on the side the snail comes out. You let go of the tiny little holeand the thing shoots straight into your mouth. That’s still one of my favourite thingsabout America. About New York City. Take the right train and you can step intoany part of the world, maybe. The air carrying different accents, odors, languages.The storefronts displaying unfamiliar signage and delicacies in the windows.You can be a foreigner in your own hometown.
