You met him at a party, for example, where he stood against a wall eyeing you as though he could eat you up, his eyes ironic and helpless at the same time, longing for you and you knew it damn well, and then when you gave in, when you finally (after the initial mandatory and long-winded chase) let him, there you went feeling happy and safe for a perfect, incomparable, what seemed to be in hindsight ten short minutes, until you found him looking helpless with ironic longing at some stranger across another room … or street … or beach. And you envied him. You begrudged him the thrill that he was now feeling for someone else.
If she could become responsible for her own reality and keep it that way, she’d never have to feel that pain again. In went the color film. Jamaica Avenue was just what she needed, and she wanted it early, before the onslaught of heat would settle and paralyze the faces of the people. On second thought, perhaps she wanted just that. She hesitated. Up and down the broad street, shaded by the el train, nobody was out. She pointed her camera this way and that, felt nothing, put the camera down. No sense in wasting film. The Blue Swan Shoppe was on the corner and she decided to sit down in there for a bit. A cup of coffee and some air-conditioning would put her right back on the creative track.
The Blue Swan was not as she remembered it. They no longer sold penny candy at the cashier, or quarter candy for that matter. This was a place. Plastic turquoise booths and pink flamingo napkin caddies. There was no Architectural Digest on the magazine rack. Not even a Better Homes and Gardens or a humble copy of Mademoiselle. If you didn’t feel compelled to investigate such provocative headlines as: “Siamese Twins Invent Arthritis Cure” or “Liz Moves In … Lock, Stock, and Jewelry Box,” you were more or less out of luck.
Claire avoided the greasy-looking tables and sat down at the counter. The dark smells of last night’s cold chili and salsa hung low in the air and on the counter there was a large tray of refried banana cut up into squares. The atmosphere conga’d with soft cucaracha from a younger Tito Puente. You couldn’t help but mull over the gregorian orange that tapered the oilcloth in tiptoeing poodles. A throwback, no doubt, to the mystical Irish who had once lived above these stores. Different cups of tea entirely. Now Puerto Ricans, Indians, Peruvians, and Guyanans paid rent for the privilege of dreaming in the drone of the great roaring el.
They were darker, these people. Their dreams were not as grand and so they would inevitably make out better; rent a store, work day and night, buy the store, work day and night and weekends, too, buy the building. And then rent to the next generation of foreigners who lollygagged in.
“Heezha cawfee,” the kinky-haired matron clunked the cup down onto the counter.
“Thank you.”
“Better tuck innat camera, honey.” The waitress eyeballed right and left. “They’ll grab that from ya. Don’ worry!”
No, they won’t, thought Claire. She gave the waitress a conspiratorial wink and made a show of settling it into her lap. The coffee was good. One thing the Latinos had brought with them into the neighborhood was good, rich coffee. There were all sorts of gooey apparitions made out of sugar, but no, thought Claire, she’d just have a cigarette instead. She was forever having something sweet or a cigarette instead. Michaelaen had told her that she smelled like an ashtray. That was nice. Don’t worry, he’d patted her arm with his small hand when he’d seen her face fall, he liked a good ashtray. What generous grace from one so young.