Journey To "The Other Side Of Paradise"

Where am I? Downstairs at Strand Bookstore, hoping for a review copy to greet me in their stacks. Crossing my fingers, hoping for just one copy to appear with some ease … but no. I guess the thing that maintains the dissonance there is that it’s a relatively large independent bookstore - in Manhattan. I felt like I was being watched before I came across the first sign confirming my suspicion, electronically and the old-fashioned way. I wonder if I’ll turn into one of these people; floating about, trying not to look as lost as I am. Carrying my laptop probably puts me even higher on someone’s list of surveillance objectives, still, I could get used to the murk of it - but not today. A great deal, possibly delaying my purpose, made my suffering worthwhile. On the way out, I passed a frazzled-looking guy with huge assortment of older-looking books in a shopping cart in front of another register. “The Angry Black South” caught my eye. Asked him, out of courtesy, and picked it up, in awe of The Good Black Folk smiling as illustrations on the back cover. $1.00 was printed on its reddish-orangey label and I try to imagine what this place must have been like more than half a century ago. (And can’t.) I asked him about it, going from his peripheral vision to his immediate focus with a pace indicative of either old age or psychotropic medication. I ended up leaving that book, its value (whatever it was) and his sales process of “getting back to me” right there. Hopped on the nearest bus, especially grateful for the still-valid transfer in 90-degree heat and rode to the nearest library for its free Wi-Fi connection. Tweeted in one tab, responded to a photo request (stay tuned) in another and continued my search for Staceyann’s book in yet another. It’s not the sticker shock of a hardcover book that’s so bad; it’s the commitment. Yes, committing dollars I can’t afford to spend without thinking (if at all) but also committing space on my bookshelf among other books I thought might be interesting that sit unread, gathering dust. A quick flick through some auctioning sites for used books turned up one option; Housingworks, with a location down the block. Took a look through their books; like most thrift stores, they’re unordered. (Maybe that will change?) Even if I had to visit one of their other locations, it would be worth it to have this book in my hand today. Discovered that it’s their policy to ship all auctions from their bookstore café, even to customers within New York City. I asked for directions and headed out on foot.

I got there and still had enough to get the book, even after traipsing about in heat almost too thick to breathe. (Must’ve been that extra Burst of Light *HUG*)

Was Greenwich Village always like this, chocked full of European women trying to emulate what they saw on “Sex And The City” (whose lead characters emulated/mocked that certain class of European women) with their tiny-ass dogs on longer-than-the-sidewalk leashes and carrying dozens of shopping bags in gigantic sunglasses on celphones (and all wearing the same, poofy, ugly-ass dress), and I just didn’t notice? And how, in a city with so much ongoing construction - even in the middle of our worst economic times - giant, garish buildings which obliterate the concepts of historical districts or historic preservation, can there be such a thing as un-affordable housing? Greed. Greedy-ass people who don’t even seem to be ashamed of their greed. And the people who want to look like and live like those people. And their offspring. What did I really know about either the New York City where I was born or that I decided to return to? Maybe not much, but enough to claim my heritage as a ‘Native New Yorker’ wherever I was as a boy and enough to want to come back here when I grew up to make it my home.

But the purpose of this blog entry was to chronicle what followed after I arrived at Housingworks Bookstore Café. After circling more than a couple of times in this damned heat, I did eventually find Crosby Street after walking westward and downtown much further than I had to. I walked in and felt welcomed by the grungy, earthiness of its wood. I was weary and drenched, but they had what I’d been looking for - this book at a much more affordable price. I was gonna be alright. And I could say “Let’s talk about your latest project - your memoirs.” as our potential conversation overlaps, references and contextualizes everything else I wanted to discuss with much more substance than if I hadn’t read this book, instead of only “I’m proud of you for just being an openly lesbian Jamaican artist.” and “Look at what a great picture my friend took of you!” (a picture which, now that I own the book, I think is much more evocative of the subject and her story than the one currently used). I could say I’d done everything within my power to facilitate a more relevant conversation between us - mission accomplished. As I tweeted, everything I wore was waterproof and would dry eventually. I smiled as we finished our transaction, wiping sweat from my brow and the back of my neck with my rag just as quickly as it came. I asked the cashier what she recommended cool to drink. “Mint Iced Tea” resounded like a beacon! “Two!” and “Large!” followed me to the back counter; maybe with a little less excitement than that, but definitely with all the appreciation I could muster.

They also host a free Wi-Fi network. It’s a busy place but there was an open space to settle along the window … with whoever was sleeping there with a pair of silver crutches, charging a MacBook and a knapsack that took up most of the table. I sat there and rested as much as I could in the bit of space left over. I didn’t want to wake the slumberer, but I also was ready to sit down, relax, rehydrate and get online. I asked a woman sitting nearby about the outlets, each one was standard with two plugs. Which meant that whoever was sleeping in that corner had access to two plugs, when there were no other plugs available. “Excuse me.” woke her up, careful to temper my fatigue with politesse. When I asked to use one of the plugs at this outlet, she said she was using both of them. I told her that I realized that, asking her to share the outlet and the space. Her response was that she didn’t have to share the space. She suggested that either I wait for someone else to leave or to get management as she began using her knapsack to push my PowerBook off the table.

All I saw was a red blur. I let her have it.

I was the one who got loud and didn’t mind getting loud. I told her that I wish she would push my laptop off of this table. I didn’t want to have to resort to getting management - or to involve anyone else, for that matter - but I couldn’t continue with either a calm demeanor or a straight face. I put my PowerBook in my lap and said “Management? Here I am, trying to talk to you peacefully, even though you’re here asleep and looking like you haven’t bought anything yet you’re using two plugs as you sleep when I only asked for one, and you want to tell me to go to management? When not only have I just bought a book, I also just bought some stuff from the café? You really want me to go to management with that? Well, alright!” She was showing me how adept she was at this. When I brought someone over, her MO was the wide-eyed shrug and language that’s supposed to suggest not only her lack of understanding what she’s observing but that’s also supposed to identify herself as an observer along with everyone else in the room. She told Charlotte (the woman I brought over) that I came out of nowhere, demanding her space. Misrepresenting how I approached her. She told Charlotte that she was waiting for someone and was saving the space for both of them. Then I heard her begin to misrepresent Charlotte (which actually calmed me down a bit, come to think of it). I listened, only interrupting whatever sounded like a blatant lie with enough to clarify the difference. I felt the guy behind me touch my shoulder, offering his space. Other people were leaving as this went on; she pointed at the empty spaces, insinuating that the only real option was for me to move to one of them. I was about to get up and move my stuff, but I said “No - whether you like it or not, you have to share this space. You said you’re here waiting for somebody? Fine. Whenever that person gets here, I’ll move and will find another space. Until then, I’m going to sit right here. By the way, it’s 3 o’clock now and they’re closing tonight at 6pm for a special event.” I crossed my legs, sipped my tea while focusing on checking my email. Charlotte wasn’t asking either us to move, but she was asking if either of us were willing to share the space, asking if we would be fine with that. With my lilt, I said “Oh, I’ll be just fine.” while Charlotte stood there, obviously concerned, before she left. Without even looking up, I took another particularly loud slurp of my sweet tea just to let Ms. Ex-Slumberer know just how comfortable I was going to remain right in that spot. The time ticked by. She kept mumbling something under her breath in my direction and blowing her nose. Was she crying? Then I smelled something really not right, like a dirty toilet, but I was beyond the point of no return. I saw another table open up in the middle of the floor; Charlotte sat there and folded napkins with silverware with another staffmember. Someone eventually announced that they’d be closing the caf&eacte; early for this upcoming special event. I stayed until about 5:40pm. Of course, her arrivant never showed up.

My mother didn’t raise me like this, with this bitter, spiteful resentment. I busied myself doing online stuff but beneath the facade of cool, calm, collectedness simmered a residual, seething rage that wouldn’t even allow me to look across the table at this woman. I kept thinking “How indigent could she be? She’s perfected the sound of someone educated (although she looks crazy and lies without a conscience) and her laptop is better than mine.” but that and the contents of that knapsack probably made up everything she owns in this world if she’s sleeping up in here. I could see myself in her place, barely able to afford my own rent (and never knowing anything but that brink my whole life) - but my ass would have given up one plug. I hope that no matter my circumstance, I would have the compassion and the compunction to share. Still, I was embarrassed as hell. I packed up, walked over to Charlotte and said “I’m sorry.” and left; too embarrassed to even stay for her entire response. It sounded something like “I understand your frustration …” but I was already headed out the door.

I walked back through The Village, sad, struggling to even recognize the place that existed when I moved back to the city almost (wow) two decades ago. What else can I say without getting nostalgic? House music *sigh* … I remember getting RuPaul’s autograph at that record launch gig held at Sam Goody (now a Staples office supply store) and wondering if his hair or makeup would survive his own deluge of sweat. Still, she kept dabbing, smiling (could it be possible to have a more perfect set of teeth?) and signing; dabbing, smiling and signing. Then he called us ‘barbarians’ … *sigh* So much has changed since then, not for the better. I headed to the uptown train and prepared to spend a good chunk of the weekend under my fan, reading this book.