I stood and began shaking the can, a familiar sound—the steel ball inside clattering—reminding me of all the cans of spray paint and varnish lined up on a shelf in the basement of my childhood home. I felt enormous standing next to her, not only hugely, comically muscular—like a wrestler in the ring on TV—but tall, which I’m not—I am only five foot seven.
“That’s enough!” she cried above the racket—I’d gotten carried away, lost in my reverie—and I handed the can of varnish back to Ilona. She squeezed through the crack out into her hallway, sprayed the drawing, and returned. “It has to dry for a while. Now, shall we have something to drink? Coffee or vodka? Those are the only two things I know how to make.”
“Vodka!” I said. “We must toast.”
Ilona broke into a big smile. “Wonderful!” she said.
She made her way to the back right corner of the apartment, crouched down, and began rummaging. I gathered that this was the “kitchen area,” though there was no stove, oven, or full-size refrigerator, only a toaster oven. “I’m going to choose a very special vodka,” she said. “C?roc, do you know it?”
“No,” I said, “that sounds wonderful.” I could see her pouring from what looked like a vodka bottle from an airplane.
Ilona brought over two very small blue glasses, about twice the size of a thimble, filled with vodka. We clinked glasses. “To a new friendship,” Ilona said.
“Yes, to friendship,” and we both took small sips.
Ilona at My Window
NOTES FROM A JOURNAL
9-4-14:
Today was the hottest day of the summer, hot and punishingly humid, as if the city needed to prove that it still had it in it. The heat makes people tense and cranky, but it also bonds—people talk about it in the elevator, in cabs, on the street—commiserate, reassure each other: It’ll pass; fall will be here soon. But on the other hand, the sunsets on days like this are amazing, thanks to smog and heat, the color of the sky unclassifiable—almost a reminiscence, a recrudescence, of pink.
I decided to soak it all up, take a walk. I stopped at Ali’s. “Hello, Sir,” I said, imitating the way he says it to me. We shook hands. “How you doing?”
“Tired.” He told me he hadn’t had a single day off in a month—the boss is away—and he doesn’t get one till next week.
That sounded brutal. “So, what will you do on your day off? Hang out at home …?”
Ali nodded. “Have the sleep, the eat …” He shrugged. “But you can’t plan. Something might happen. The day off doesn’t come, then what? Everything bad. You plan the day on the day,” Ali said with real clarity, force. “Not before.”
I told him that makes good sense: Take each day as it comes, don’t overthink it.
“Yes, my friend, yes.”
_____________________
At the corner of Eighth and Jane, the light was red. I noticed a man on the bench in front of the Tavern on Jane. He held a piece of wood and a jackknife. I couldn’t resist: “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Carving a piece of wood.”
That was a great answer.
I rephrased: “What are you making?” I crouched next to him. The man was probably seventy-five or older, and thin and small. He wore a baseball cap.
“Oh, a letter opener, I suppose.”
I just nodded, but I thought this was great for two reasons: because he was carving something slim and elegant out of a big hunk of wood (and he wasn’t even close to finishing) but also because it was a letter opener he was making, a tool everyone once had—a necessity at one time; no longer so. O has several. But it goes without saying: You don’t need a letter opener to open a text or e-mail.
I complimented him but the man seemed embarrassed. “It’s just what I do. I’m a carver.”
I told him good luck and said I looked forward to seeing his progress on it. “I’ll be back another night.”
“Okay, if I’m still around,” he said.
_____________________
A copy of Joan Didion’s A Book of Common Prayer caught my eye in the window of Left Bank Books. Instantly, I felt myself to be sixteen again and in B. Dalton bookstore in Spokane and spotting that book in a display—New Releases—next to the cash register. I could still recite its opening page: “I will be her witness …” I had to go in. I love this shop because it stays open late. I love it because the clerks are never friendly. I love it because they sell old books, mostly first editions. I say old; most of them are from the sixties and seventies—my era.
Whenever I go in there, the clerk or owner eyes me, as he eyes everyone, as if it is an intrusion, as if I am interrupting him, as sometimes I have—he might be deep in conversation with someone. He might be reading. And sure enough, when I walked in the clerk glared at me from the back of the store.
“Are you still open?” I asked, even though I knew they had to be open since the door was open.
He nodded yes, but as if he were making an exception.
I tiptoed around and toward the back. He looked preoccupied, shelving books. “That looks like a nice copy of the Didion,” I said.