All He Asked For in a Film

He was alright before the 80’s

His music didn’t stink

But he didn’t have the catch of Springsteen

Even though he looked the part

Falling into a time machine

Everything became clear

He would play the songs of successful writers

Years before their time

and take all the credit

Suddenly people from a Yoga class

With the teacher praying all over them in the desert

She was beckoning a little

In the heat, and naked

She asked directions in Czech

The American dream re-imagined

He awoke suddenly, embarrassed from having shared that dream

looking back at previous sentences here

and realizing, few made sense

how would anyone be able to follow

and project their void?

But when he awoke in needles and shivers

the girl he knew as “I Need a Limb” was actually Anita Lim,

she was sick and her disease crushed one side of her body

naked and unashamed of being exposed

all the people around her watched her sickness

bones sticking out of her sockets

hips, extra sharp

shorter on one side than the other

and her boyfriend tending to her last moments

He was shocked by such a dream

He wanted to call her and see if she was really alright

however there was the fear that, because she was so young

and because they were not close anymore

that all this inquiring and confessing to this mania

would only drive her further away

So he sat and thought about “A film with her in it”

about her, about following her around

asking her questions

like the ones probably being asked of their last date

when they watched a film at home

it might be enough to salvage the thought

For a moment he forgot about her

and remembered again the night he sat down

not really dismembered

or sad in faith

but accidentally opening and reading the thoughts he'd expressed

a few stanzas before

His day in New York

seemed quintessentially real

last night, while eating Thai food in Chelsea

the transvestite at the neighboring table

took a dislike to him

she insulted him in Spanish more than once, as if he could not understand

finally he spoke back

she then laid into him, left and right

as if waiting to ambush him

there he was, suit and tie, chopsticks in hand

appearing belligerent, rude and threatening

why should he, white meat,

get offended by an angry pretty girl with a man's voice?

This morning he heard the answer, as he rode his bike into the subway against the commute

He leaned the bike up against the pole inside the car,

and sat on the empty orange seats of the N line

it felt wet

He looked up, no dripping condensation from above

He smelled his hand and inhaled the piss of many, many a homeless, many angry, many forgotten, many of gender unknown.

Searching for Anonymity

He prefers a shadow to spotlight. 

He often likes to be alone but does like the crowds.

Being deemed insignificant. Cannot be noticed. 

He feels a small amount of paranoia when more than one stranger has noticed him.

Fear of being bothered with having to give explanations about who he is, why here, where going. 

There is also an innate, paranoid fear of being assaulted, or even arrested. As the wrong guy of course. This feeling could happen anywhere in Middle America or the middle of Africa, in a small town, suburb or out in the country, in a poor village or a decrepit city.

Prior to leaving for Lusaka, he purchased several items of clothing for different purposes. He wanted to be dressed for field work in the dusty agricultural and industrial areas he was to visit, and wanted to play down any form of luxury while in the city. But he also wanted to be ready for any potential business development meetings for future work, since his assignment in Africa would only be six to nine months, and he would need to find his future from there. So he went shopping in a few department stores and in an Army/Navy store. He also needed clothes for working out, so that he would not get so out of shape by sitting in a hotel room typing away and putting away all that beer, wine and scotch that would be consumed in the hotel bar.

For exercise, he used a gym in the hotel, if it had one. Or he ran outside while exploring the neighborhood surrounding the hotel where, in a safe manner. As a runner back then, he could move quickly through Lusaka neighborhoods largely unnoticed - or so he thought. That would be American thinking. He would always be noticed. A friend who once lived in Paris told him that Americans were always noticed jogging in Paris principally because they were jogging, especially early in the morning, often with baggy sweats, rather than the French or other Europeans, who would be dressed in the latest tight fitting, shiny athletic gear. Later, Americans caught on. And now no one can be seen exercising without Nike approved fashion.

But Zambia in 1995 or any other year was neither America nor France. It was and is, southern Africa. He would be noticed no matter what was worn. It became immediately obvious that any new and trendy fashion would stick out, with American or European, and unless he had the right 4 x 4 and attitude, accent and ability to speak local languages, he was not going to be confused with a white-descended African.

Although he wore old t-shirts and shorts to put off any notion of wealth, to almost anyone living in Lusaka or elsewhere in Zambia, wealth was relative in comparison. He could be sweaty coming back from a run and the prostitutes in the hotel would still follow him if the security guards did not stop them. 

Before leaving the States, he had purchased a pair of black running shoes, thinking that they would not appear so dirty as quickly. Zambians had not seen these black sneakers yet. Everywhere he went, the men and boys stared at the shoes as if they had rockets attached to them.

Running did not reduce his visibility or anonymity. People just didn’t run very much, especially foreigners. Maybe local distance runners training as athletes could be seen running, but they would be in a track, well identified. They would not be a  white man with an an un-athletic body running in shabby rags around the diplomatic neighborhood and government center. Neither did many of the foreigners walk around much. They were always driving around in 4x4’s or cars or being driven. So instead of being left alone while running or walking, taxis followed him and tried to solicit my business, “no need to run, my friend, I will take you”, “where are you going, boss, get in?”, “it’s too hot for you Mister, I have a comfortable car, which hotel do you stay?”.

He rarely took a taxi except when he went to the Lusaka jazz club. He would walk out there when the sun was still out, and come back a bit drunk after drinking local beer and dancing and sweating with the local girls. He would get away alone and would jump into a taxi, sometimes finding the driver just as drunk as him or passed out.

When he returned to the States, he got what he needed in New York. So many people who couldn't care less me and he loved it. It was the mid-90’s.

Years later he still doesn't like being noticed on his Brooklyn balcony.