Miss Jaci.
It has a certain ring to it.
Memorial Day saw me acquire two new friends in
Doreen and Lenny, who live in New Jersey. Doreen, originally from Georgia, is a
very friendly soul who insisted on high-fiving me at the end of every sentence.
I joined in because that's what I've seen them do in the movies, even though I
could understand very little of what she said outside of "Miss Jaci".
This much I managed: married for
32 years to her husband, whom she adores, she is a Virgo (he's a Gemini) and
they have a 39 year old daughter. They clearly have a very active sex life, but
she is not averse to the DIY method if a man is not available (major high
five!). At least, I think that was the gist of it, because when I said
"Thank god for batteries!" she all but sliced my right arm off in
what was more of a high five hundred, accompanied by cries of "I like you,
Miss Jaci!"
Doreen and Lenny were in town for
Fleet week, although as Doreen got into the frozen Margaritas at Mr Biggs bar
in Hell's Kitchen, thoughts of the open-air museum on the banks of the Hudson
seemed to fade. We did, however, talk a great deal about war and the sacrifice
of young lives for what is, invariably, "just a piece of land".
"Why can't we all just get on, Miss Jaci?" sighed Doreen, before
launching another high five attack on the only limb I had left in working
order.
The number of fresh-faced men in
uniform in the area this week has reminded me just how young these people are:
mere kids who risk their own lives to keep the rest of us safe. I used to be a
pacifist who was against war of every kind; I am still a pacifist, but am also
a realist who knows that the world has to be protected from lunatics for whom
killing is a sport, and now, I have nothing but admiration and respect for the
young men and women who do what I, sitting on my arse with a curry, a bottle of
Rioja, and Suits on the telly, would never have the guts to do.
Doreen spoke to me movingly about
the death of her mother and brother, both within a short space of time, and
said that she is known as "Auntie Love" in the family, quite simply
because she loves and cares for everyone.
As a parting shot – literally,
in the guise of another frozen Margarita, and metaphorically - she warned me to
stay safe. "Don't tell anyone about yourself," she warned. "Get
everything you can about them, but give nothing away."
It's advice my grandmother once
gave me - "Keep your own counsel" - and would have benefited me
hugely, had I ever had the inclination to heed it.
But then maybe, if I had, I
wouldn't be here, in another strange city, living amongst strangers and picking
up aliens in bars.
It’s always the morning after the
night before I dread when, flipping through the business cards I have acquired
the night before, I discover exactly what I have been dealing with. Those
people who seemed so lovely - so much so, that you decided to pay their bill -
turn out to be everything you can’t abide: invariably, enthusiastic proponents
of God, fairies, or things that go bump in the night.
It’s very easy to meet people in
NYC; it really is the most friendly place I have ever been. But it’s also the
place where, within a few hours, you want to get rid of the very people who,
just hours ago, you were swearing undying love to.
That’s because one gets through so much in a very short space
of time. Births, marriages, deaths, affairs, worries, mortgages, war, guns –
there is absolutely nothing that people in this city will not open up about
after their first sip of the many alcohol beverages they consume.
And yes, they do. I tell you,
after LA, it’s like landing head first into a distillery with nothing but a
very large straw for comfort. My building began its movie summer season last
night with an open bar for residents. And I mean open. There may have been just
a couple of choices of wine, but every spirit was freely available the entire
night, along with boxes of sweets and four different kinds of popcorn. Heck, it
was so open, a few of us forgot to watch the movie.
So, Fleet Week has come to an end
and I am looking to the next million things it is possible to do here in any
one day. The Guggenheim is hosting an Italian meal, for example, to coincide
with an exhibition of Futuristic Italian art.
My head is already full of the
dozens of new friends I will have to sack following the pasta course.
Arrivederci?
You must be flamin’ joking.
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