Although you run through me
like deep streams of a hot morning shower
you wash nothing off of me,
leaving me with my dirty thoughts
and a pile of laundry beside the couch.
Beside me a dog that barks for love
and is beaten to silence,
Outside the door a lawn overgrown
with diminishing hope for water.
In this three bedroom house
without you I wait for the ceiling to fall
but it hangs on by its tresses like claws
onto the laughter filled days that echoed here.
Now I can do the cleaning
with environmentally friendly detergent.
Take out the trash again
and yes even clean the oven.
Brew another pot of coffee
pour a cup for me, a cup for you.
The passing hours clouding my memory
As this house and I wait.
Waiting for you to come back to me
again.
Troy James Vega
Category :
One usually goes from bad to worse, hopeless to desparate from deep to rock bottom. Well, I was sinking deeper into my depression too. Days were rolling by, I was sending job applications by the hundreds per week. Still most of the time I never heard back from any of the employers. I was convinced it was because of my visa status. No one wanted to go through the trouble of applying for an H1-B visa for a foreigner when their doors were lined with hopeful citizens. It all made perfect sense to me; however it was still hard to accept that I was yet again on the outside, yet again not a part of the in-crowd.
I was Americanized to a point of no return. A point at which one goes back to his own country only to find his own people dismissing him as a foreigner. Furthermore, I had finally put the sexual orientation issues part of my life behind and focused on my career. Needless to say the bust of 2001, and 9/11 really arrived at the wrong time for me. Then again, I guess there was no good time for either one of these two event to arrive. They never were and never would have been welcome.
My partner David insisted that I return to Austin, TX where he had an apartment. He himself was almost never there because he commuted to Long Island for his job. He worked as a consultant on one of the information system migration projects of a big hospital in Long Island. He also was not yet completely disengaged from his project in LA. So he was traveling to LA one week, then to Long Island in the next, and spending one weekend in Austin and another in New York City with me. This was a taxing schedule for both of us. We did not see each other much that whole year. Needless to say, things were not the same, there was less and less to talk about, less and less intimacy, and it all just did not feel right anymore.
If he had not been as mature and as patient as he is, he and I would have broken up long time ago I think. What's worse is I was stranded in alternate options land with all the time in the world. Two ingredients one should never put together: time and options if he is intending to keep a relationship going.
The thing that was on my side however was the fact that most Manhattan boys at one time or another did something or said something that immediately threw their cover. Most of them seemed so normal, so nice, so interested at first. They immediately sniffed out that I had a weakness for compliments, and man they piled them on.
It is through this experience that I learned that you can make people do whatever you want if you just find the right place to rub. Self esteem usually is the point that's common to most people out there. So that's where they hit first. If it's not that, then it's money, if not that then it's status, or drugs, or sex or something else.
Most of the time I am very good with sniffing out what someone is up to. That's because most of the time, people usually have little patience and theyget to the point pretty fast. Just when I thought I had people figured out, I was fooled. Just when I thought I could not be deceived I made the biggest mistake of my life.
I am not ready to write about this experience yet but I am willing to say that during the last three months of my stay in the big apple, I was really tempted by something, by someone, by another path that could have been mine.
Most other people would have taken the other path, but I felt this would be the wrong choice for me, the wrong solution to my woes, and perhaps an addition to the pile of troubles I had created for myself. So I passed it on, I turned it down, I pushed it away, and out of my system as forcefully as I could.
It flew out of me like a projectile, tearing bits and pieces of me off, and leaving gushing wound behind that just as quickly as it formed, filled with blood and strangely started a speedy healing process. By the time I moved back to Austin, there was only a scar left, a subtle reminder of a mistake, a bitter keepsake from my last days in New York City.
I had given the King Midas his haircut, and now I had to keep my mouth shut.ˇ
I was Americanized to a point of no return. A point at which one goes back to his own country only to find his own people dismissing him as a foreigner. Furthermore, I had finally put the sexual orientation issues part of my life behind and focused on my career. Needless to say the bust of 2001, and 9/11 really arrived at the wrong time for me. Then again, I guess there was no good time for either one of these two event to arrive. They never were and never would have been welcome.
My partner David insisted that I return to Austin, TX where he had an apartment. He himself was almost never there because he commuted to Long Island for his job. He worked as a consultant on one of the information system migration projects of a big hospital in Long Island. He also was not yet completely disengaged from his project in LA. So he was traveling to LA one week, then to Long Island in the next, and spending one weekend in Austin and another in New York City with me. This was a taxing schedule for both of us. We did not see each other much that whole year. Needless to say, things were not the same, there was less and less to talk about, less and less intimacy, and it all just did not feel right anymore.
If he had not been as mature and as patient as he is, he and I would have broken up long time ago I think. What's worse is I was stranded in alternate options land with all the time in the world. Two ingredients one should never put together: time and options if he is intending to keep a relationship going.
The thing that was on my side however was the fact that most Manhattan boys at one time or another did something or said something that immediately threw their cover. Most of them seemed so normal, so nice, so interested at first. They immediately sniffed out that I had a weakness for compliments, and man they piled them on.
It is through this experience that I learned that you can make people do whatever you want if you just find the right place to rub. Self esteem usually is the point that's common to most people out there. So that's where they hit first. If it's not that, then it's money, if not that then it's status, or drugs, or sex or something else.
Most of the time I am very good with sniffing out what someone is up to. That's because most of the time, people usually have little patience and theyget to the point pretty fast. Just when I thought I had people figured out, I was fooled. Just when I thought I could not be deceived I made the biggest mistake of my life.
I am not ready to write about this experience yet but I am willing to say that during the last three months of my stay in the big apple, I was really tempted by something, by someone, by another path that could have been mine.
Most other people would have taken the other path, but I felt this would be the wrong choice for me, the wrong solution to my woes, and perhaps an addition to the pile of troubles I had created for myself. So I passed it on, I turned it down, I pushed it away, and out of my system as forcefully as I could.
It flew out of me like a projectile, tearing bits and pieces of me off, and leaving gushing wound behind that just as quickly as it formed, filled with blood and strangely started a speedy healing process. By the time I moved back to Austin, there was only a scar left, a subtle reminder of a mistake, a bitter keepsake from my last days in New York City.
I had given the King Midas his haircut, and now I had to keep my mouth shut.ˇ
Category :
When you have that many assholes living together in one space, being an asshole no longer differentiates one from others. This is when ultra-asshole, super-asshole, and mega-assholes come into play. I wonder why there are no public bathrooms in NYC? With so many assholes roaming the streets one would think it would not be hard to stay in business.
Category :
Since the day I went to school for the first time, the first light of day has lost that welcoming gleam it used to have for me. As I slowly woke up in my bed, I would stretch, turn and let the bands of sun hit my thin legs sticking out from underneath the covers.
With the beginning of school days, I lost my right to those long morning naps, that special right to going back to sleep because the credits of my dream did not roll yet. Since primary school I have been rushing from one thing to another, meeting one deadline after ten others and still not seeing the end of these endless list of accomplishments to be had. In this sense the life as we have structured it in the 21st century feels more like a computer game with endless levels to master and with perhaps no tangible reward other than seeing our name in a list of top players after we have spent the last of our nine lives.
All of this kind of thinking above naturally constitutes, and distills drop by drop from my decades old negative thinking. Like smoking, a habit one can not kick, mostly because every cell of my body is addicted to this bitter poison that seems to poison everything I throw myself into. In this sense, I sabotage most of the things I start, and the opportunities that come my way by blind luck. There comes a time in your life, whether it be your thirties, your teens, or perhaps after you're over the hill, you realize, you just can not continue living like this. Not only is it hard to wake up in the morning, it is even harder to go to bed knowing tomorrow will be yet another day of defeat.
So why do you ask, why is defeat so certain, so imminent, so here, but so intangible. It is because I give life to it. It is hard to look at anything you create objectively, whether it be a child, a painting, or an argument at the supermarket. My failure is kind of the same. I know I create it, I know it is bad for me, yet I feel attached to it with a mother's love for her first born ugly retarded child.
I wish they made a patch, a piece of gum, or perhaps a set of pills I take every day except for the last week of the month for this addiction. But there is no such quick fix.
I have always said that the degradation of one's mind is like falling off of a cliff. Although the event happens pretty fast, much distance is traveled vertically. If one happens to survive the fall, he has to get up, dust off, and somehow find his long way back up. Many people choose to remain at the bottom of the cliff; this is not a poor choice by any means. Who could argue that the top of the cliff was a good place to be in the first place? It was windy, perhaps exposed to too much sun, there was no water and plus it was lonely. There are lots of people at the bottom of the cliff and misery seems to always create company.
On the brink of my thirties, I have just been able to get a to a point where I can catch myself right before I hit my ego with a bomb, just before I step into the interview room and pull the trigger to turn myself into a human bomb, exploding on the interviewer's face with bits of my selfless effacing clouding up the room.
The great thing about our busy, crazy, hectic daily lives is the fact that they provide enough distraction for us all to ignore these core issues. Instead, we keep icing the cake, adding more elaborate patterns. As we add the layers, the structure underneath first weighs down then starts to sag and perhaps for some of us, eventually, it gives way completely.
They say that when a big cookie crumbles things get awfully sweet and messy. I wonder what happens when a small cookie crumbles? Does anyone ever know?
With the beginning of school days, I lost my right to those long morning naps, that special right to going back to sleep because the credits of my dream did not roll yet. Since primary school I have been rushing from one thing to another, meeting one deadline after ten others and still not seeing the end of these endless list of accomplishments to be had. In this sense the life as we have structured it in the 21st century feels more like a computer game with endless levels to master and with perhaps no tangible reward other than seeing our name in a list of top players after we have spent the last of our nine lives.
All of this kind of thinking above naturally constitutes, and distills drop by drop from my decades old negative thinking. Like smoking, a habit one can not kick, mostly because every cell of my body is addicted to this bitter poison that seems to poison everything I throw myself into. In this sense, I sabotage most of the things I start, and the opportunities that come my way by blind luck. There comes a time in your life, whether it be your thirties, your teens, or perhaps after you're over the hill, you realize, you just can not continue living like this. Not only is it hard to wake up in the morning, it is even harder to go to bed knowing tomorrow will be yet another day of defeat.
So why do you ask, why is defeat so certain, so imminent, so here, but so intangible. It is because I give life to it. It is hard to look at anything you create objectively, whether it be a child, a painting, or an argument at the supermarket. My failure is kind of the same. I know I create it, I know it is bad for me, yet I feel attached to it with a mother's love for her first born ugly retarded child.
I wish they made a patch, a piece of gum, or perhaps a set of pills I take every day except for the last week of the month for this addiction. But there is no such quick fix.
I have always said that the degradation of one's mind is like falling off of a cliff. Although the event happens pretty fast, much distance is traveled vertically. If one happens to survive the fall, he has to get up, dust off, and somehow find his long way back up. Many people choose to remain at the bottom of the cliff; this is not a poor choice by any means. Who could argue that the top of the cliff was a good place to be in the first place? It was windy, perhaps exposed to too much sun, there was no water and plus it was lonely. There are lots of people at the bottom of the cliff and misery seems to always create company.
On the brink of my thirties, I have just been able to get a to a point where I can catch myself right before I hit my ego with a bomb, just before I step into the interview room and pull the trigger to turn myself into a human bomb, exploding on the interviewer's face with bits of my selfless effacing clouding up the room.
The great thing about our busy, crazy, hectic daily lives is the fact that they provide enough distraction for us all to ignore these core issues. Instead, we keep icing the cake, adding more elaborate patterns. As we add the layers, the structure underneath first weighs down then starts to sag and perhaps for some of us, eventually, it gives way completely.
They say that when a big cookie crumbles things get awfully sweet and messy. I wonder what happens when a small cookie crumbles? Does anyone ever know?
Shredded and shed, she a restless blur
ruptures the sheath of my years past
and becomes my reason to forget.
She, the flourescent yellow highlighter,
drawn under every line in every book,
stares on into my toddler eyes.
She, the subject of every truth and dare game,
wants me to play with her heart, and break it.
As I cunningly calculate her demise,
a bank account accumulates the sum of her first tears.
She questions on while I lie on my back
with no coherent reasons for what I have done.
Without a powerpoint presentation to save my ass,
in that meeting room where my destiny is sealed
I sit in my chair quietly waiting for the judgement to air,
yet the channels keep changing,
but the news she and I are expecting never comes on.
She, a restless twitch in my perfect reflection
with the lipstick smudged around the edges,
tells me what's right and I listen on.
Within the firm grasp of her arms
I am taken to the awkward beginning.
Her perfume is an untold story,
her scarf a sea of silk crashing in my face.
Her necklace leaves a red outline in my neck.
Soon her body wraps itself around me like a snake of love.
I give in to what has arrived at my door.
Though no one is knocking, I can hear her breathing.
Troy James Vega
May 2002
ruptures the sheath of my years past
and becomes my reason to forget.
She, the flourescent yellow highlighter,
drawn under every line in every book,
stares on into my toddler eyes.
She, the subject of every truth and dare game,
wants me to play with her heart, and break it.
As I cunningly calculate her demise,
a bank account accumulates the sum of her first tears.
She questions on while I lie on my back
with no coherent reasons for what I have done.
Without a powerpoint presentation to save my ass,
in that meeting room where my destiny is sealed
I sit in my chair quietly waiting for the judgement to air,
yet the channels keep changing,
but the news she and I are expecting never comes on.
She, a restless twitch in my perfect reflection
with the lipstick smudged around the edges,
tells me what's right and I listen on.
Within the firm grasp of her arms
I am taken to the awkward beginning.
Her perfume is an untold story,
her scarf a sea of silk crashing in my face.
Her necklace leaves a red outline in my neck.
Soon her body wraps itself around me like a snake of love.
I give in to what has arrived at my door.
Though no one is knocking, I can hear her breathing.
Troy James Vega
May 2002
Category :
Wherever we go, whatever we do, however we live our lives, we can always depend on one thing; our mothers. They are the rock in our lives, the source of every single cell in our body, and perhaps the starting point of every dramatic family meltdown. Our mothers manage to go to bed every night talking about something not done that day, and wake up the next morning with the previous day's list of to-dos not accomplished to a satisfactory level AND new tasks that must be accomplished before the end of the new day. Before there were post-its, we had our moms to serve as the bitter reminders of every mistake we made and every to-do we would like to avoid in our simple daily lives.
As for my mother, you just need to know her and if you are somebody in Istanbul, you probably do. She is a modern day Coco Chanel who not only is very educated and well mannered but also enjoys the joys and luxuries of life. I think my mother never really knew what poverty and hardship are. And you can not really blame a person for having a pretty privileged life. As I have always said, my family is not rich, we are just well off (depending on the every so turbulent Turkish Economy.) When I say we're not rich, what I am getting at is the fact that if we were to stop working we would not be able to sustain the same lifestyle we have today. My parents work hard and perhaps in some ways can never really be compensated for their hard work.
For the first eighteen years of my life, my parents lived their entire life within the context of the university they are so dedicated to. So no wonder I turned out to be so attention starved; even against my best efforts I can be attention seeking even when I am just standing there. It is amazing how our body language gives so many things away, and all the while we're thinking we're so sly.
My mother's discontent started with my move to the US. I guess she always imagined this to be a temporary move for education purposes only. She never intended me to stay here for more than ten years and then to top it off turn out to be gay in the end. To this day it is her firm belief that America made me gay, specifically the city of Austin.
At times painful, at times entertaining, and many times just darn right depressing I have to live with the fact that I decided to come out to my parents in September 2002. This was one of the hardest choices I made, and to this day, I still change my take on what happened. Don't get me wrong, this was a horrible, painful, horrible ordeal for the three of us. It really was the last bout of pain that played out with New York City in the fall for my backdrop.
My mother expected the world from me, and she still does. Good looking, smart, educated Turkish men are supposed to marry well and have beautiful healthy and smart kids that go to the best schools. It is this strange cycle of unreal expectations. Perhaps someone lives this happy and ideal life somewhere but I have yet to see a family in Turkey that had a less than perfect facade to it. I think all these lofty expectations result in mid-life crises, unhappy families, screwed up kids, and of course drama.
My family is not Greek, neither are we Italian nor Jewish. So you can understand my astonishment when I found out the disfunctionality common in my family exists in Italian and Jewish families as well. The same behavior of the mothers, the same crazy expectations, the full nine yards. So what is the connection between all these different cultures that aligns them so close to endless bouts of drama?
As for my mother, you just need to know her and if you are somebody in Istanbul, you probably do. She is a modern day Coco Chanel who not only is very educated and well mannered but also enjoys the joys and luxuries of life. I think my mother never really knew what poverty and hardship are. And you can not really blame a person for having a pretty privileged life. As I have always said, my family is not rich, we are just well off (depending on the every so turbulent Turkish Economy.) When I say we're not rich, what I am getting at is the fact that if we were to stop working we would not be able to sustain the same lifestyle we have today. My parents work hard and perhaps in some ways can never really be compensated for their hard work.
For the first eighteen years of my life, my parents lived their entire life within the context of the university they are so dedicated to. So no wonder I turned out to be so attention starved; even against my best efforts I can be attention seeking even when I am just standing there. It is amazing how our body language gives so many things away, and all the while we're thinking we're so sly.
My mother's discontent started with my move to the US. I guess she always imagined this to be a temporary move for education purposes only. She never intended me to stay here for more than ten years and then to top it off turn out to be gay in the end. To this day it is her firm belief that America made me gay, specifically the city of Austin.
At times painful, at times entertaining, and many times just darn right depressing I have to live with the fact that I decided to come out to my parents in September 2002. This was one of the hardest choices I made, and to this day, I still change my take on what happened. Don't get me wrong, this was a horrible, painful, horrible ordeal for the three of us. It really was the last bout of pain that played out with New York City in the fall for my backdrop.
My mother expected the world from me, and she still does. Good looking, smart, educated Turkish men are supposed to marry well and have beautiful healthy and smart kids that go to the best schools. It is this strange cycle of unreal expectations. Perhaps someone lives this happy and ideal life somewhere but I have yet to see a family in Turkey that had a less than perfect facade to it. I think all these lofty expectations result in mid-life crises, unhappy families, screwed up kids, and of course drama.
My family is not Greek, neither are we Italian nor Jewish. So you can understand my astonishment when I found out the disfunctionality common in my family exists in Italian and Jewish families as well. The same behavior of the mothers, the same crazy expectations, the full nine yards. So what is the connection between all these different cultures that aligns them so close to endless bouts of drama?
Category :
When you're unemployed you have a lot of time to go window shopping. It is ironic actually, just when you have all the time to find just right pair of jeans, you have no cash flow to buy it in peace. But does that really stop you? Of course not! They're hot!
Manhattan is the ultimate foraging ground; with thousands of shops each stocked up to the ceiling with anything and everything one can ever want or need. Despite all this variety and quantity, one has to search quite aggressively to find just the right shade of gray and the right cut for a pair of trousers. Forget trying to find anything in black. Black is the official color of Manhattan. Everyone that needs to feel powerful at work wears black.
By the time you haul your sorry ass to the department store only crazy yellows, strange oranges, and other selections from the Rainbrow Brite's closet are left behind. After a couple of cold winter months and tough luck at the department stores, I gave up on trying to beef up my business casual selection for work. Instead, I persuaded my employers that punk and grunge were the next power-suit.
My biggest supplier for skater boi look was of course the urban outfitters, a store I never could put anywhere within the gamut of clothing stores. It was not a thrift store but most of its items were as stressed as Wall Street brokers at the end of the year. It was definitely not where you went to don your Wall Street getups. It was not couture, but it was couture weird; it was trendy but it carried goods from 20 years ago. Some items looked old but they were not cheap; other items that looked cheap were comfortable and lasted for months on end.
Whenever I walked by an Urban Outfitters, it was "uncle" all over again. It was as if I was pulled into the store by some invisible tracking beam. The store I went to most frequently was in my neighborhood on 3rd Avenue. It was a small store that usually had limited selection but they always left me alone there so I hung around for a while. Some customers sometimes even asked me questions; I guess I looked like I belonged there. Sad that is, considering that I was 28 years old, an ex-internet specialist with two degrees from expensive schools.
One day I met the manager of the store by accident. He seemed like a nice guy; obviously gay with the fakest dye job, and a lisp that could not hide behind the curtain of manager's voice. We talked for a while. I did not mind it at all, I was already planning to spend a good hour there anyway. He was very friendly, almost too friendly. Like most other Manhattan guys he was perpetually stuck in the hunting mode and did not know how to relate to someone of same sex in a non-sexual manner. He was all flirty and it was kind of cute, in a two puppies running into each other and falling on their back kind of way. So I watched on as he clowned. After my attention span had trailed off, I told him I had to be off and I left.
I chuckled to myself as I walked towards the gym. This guy's scene was ultra spiritual; he was planning on becoming a monk. I don't have any problems with that except that it seemed too good to be true. Many Manhattan guys have a marketing a pitch, something that is supposed to make them special: The multiple personality guy(s), the office worker that was in the Twin Towers, the guy who's on TV, the water board office clerk from Erin Brockovich, the guy with HIV, the guy with too many muscles, the stripper that's actually the next hot shot writer, the Harley Davidson guy with long hair that actually is the writer of children's books, the list goes on... And now here's one new addition to the list, the spiritual guy; kind of made me wonder whether I had a pitch for myself, and would it be? The Turkish misfit who can never really go home? Oh that's so sad, give me lots of attention already.
It was not as if I was looking for a soul mate. I had one of those; though he always ended up miles and miles away from me most of the time. At the time my significant other was still working in Long Island and commuting to Austin Texas on the weekends. He and I got to see each other every third week or so. I tried to tell myself this was normal, and that this was enough, but at a gut level it just was not enough.
So I was not planning to date, to trick with or do anything funny with this Urban Outfitter manager. Next time I ran into him, he asked if we could have dinner together. I was a little suspicious so I turned it into a lunch. Whenever you're in doubt about a guy's intentions, don't accept to have dinner with him --that only leads to trouble. Just have a lunch.
Of course he sniffed it right away and said, "ugh, lunch that's so non-committal." I was surprised that he caught on that fast but I saw it as a good thing. It meant less work for me.
So we met for lunch the next day. After we met at the store, we walked down to Lemon Leaf --a great Thai restaurant on 3rd Avenue. He was ultra strange that day --stressed, snappy and somewhat catty. The lunch was a miserable experience. He kept nagging me about this and that, yanking my chain and calling me names. It was the kind of abuse I could only take from a very good friend I had known for a while. Naturally, all of this teasing coming from a complete stranger was completely out of place for me.
A pattern was starting to emerge for me. It was just not a good idea to have meals with people I did not know too well. It just meant that I had to spend the whole duration of the meal with the person and take the potential torture until the check has been paid.
He paid for the check and I did not even offer which is very unusual -- usually I pounce on the check because that's what you do in Turkey. It was a miserable lunch, and as far as I was concerned he could make it better by paying for it.
After lunch, he asked me if I wanted to come by his place. I had visited his apartment briefly the day before. It was kind of this extra crammed, run down place that I frankly did not care to visit one more time. So I said nah, thanks I have errands to run in the afternoon. By this time he was livid. I think he thought that by paying for lunch he bought himself some of my time at his place. Frankly I was offended. He followed this offer with offering to come to my apartment with me. This option I did not care about either because
Of course when I told him that I did not want him to come to my apartment he did not take that too well. By this time I was just ready to turn and leave no matter what. So although he was still fuming on the hot East Village sidewalk, I said bye and turned around and left.
On the way home I got a little paranoid that he might be following me, so I must have taken the most convoluted way home.
I got into the elevator, got off on fourth floor and entered apartment 4F as in Frank. I closed the door. I was home. I was safe. The episode was over. I exhaled.
Needless to say I never shopped at that Urban Outfitter again. That was a shame because it was such a fun part of my daily routine. Instead, I started roaming around inside the store by 6th Avenue and 14th. I did not make eye contact and I definitely did not talk to the staff anymore. I was becoming a Manhattanite faster than you can say "freak".
Manhattan is the ultimate foraging ground; with thousands of shops each stocked up to the ceiling with anything and everything one can ever want or need. Despite all this variety and quantity, one has to search quite aggressively to find just the right shade of gray and the right cut for a pair of trousers. Forget trying to find anything in black. Black is the official color of Manhattan. Everyone that needs to feel powerful at work wears black.
By the time you haul your sorry ass to the department store only crazy yellows, strange oranges, and other selections from the Rainbrow Brite's closet are left behind. After a couple of cold winter months and tough luck at the department stores, I gave up on trying to beef up my business casual selection for work. Instead, I persuaded my employers that punk and grunge were the next power-suit.
Whenever I walked by an Urban Outfitters, it was "uncle" all over again. It was as if I was pulled into the store by some invisible tracking beam. The store I went to most frequently was in my neighborhood on 3rd Avenue. It was a small store that usually had limited selection but they always left me alone there so I hung around for a while. Some customers sometimes even asked me questions; I guess I looked like I belonged there. Sad that is, considering that I was 28 years old, an ex-internet specialist with two degrees from expensive schools.
One day I met the manager of the store by accident. He seemed like a nice guy; obviously gay with the fakest dye job, and a lisp that could not hide behind the curtain of manager's voice. We talked for a while. I did not mind it at all, I was already planning to spend a good hour there anyway. He was very friendly, almost too friendly. Like most other Manhattan guys he was perpetually stuck in the hunting mode and did not know how to relate to someone of same sex in a non-sexual manner. He was all flirty and it was kind of cute, in a two puppies running into each other and falling on their back kind of way. So I watched on as he clowned. After my attention span had trailed off, I told him I had to be off and I left.
I chuckled to myself as I walked towards the gym. This guy's scene was ultra spiritual; he was planning on becoming a monk. I don't have any problems with that except that it seemed too good to be true. Many Manhattan guys have a marketing a pitch, something that is supposed to make them special: The multiple personality guy(s), the office worker that was in the Twin Towers, the guy who's on TV, the water board office clerk from Erin Brockovich, the guy with HIV, the guy with too many muscles, the stripper that's actually the next hot shot writer, the Harley Davidson guy with long hair that actually is the writer of children's books, the list goes on... And now here's one new addition to the list, the spiritual guy; kind of made me wonder whether I had a pitch for myself, and would it be? The Turkish misfit who can never really go home? Oh that's so sad, give me lots of attention already.
It was not as if I was looking for a soul mate. I had one of those; though he always ended up miles and miles away from me most of the time. At the time my significant other was still working in Long Island and commuting to Austin Texas on the weekends. He and I got to see each other every third week or so. I tried to tell myself this was normal, and that this was enough, but at a gut level it just was not enough.
So I was not planning to date, to trick with or do anything funny with this Urban Outfitter manager. Next time I ran into him, he asked if we could have dinner together. I was a little suspicious so I turned it into a lunch. Whenever you're in doubt about a guy's intentions, don't accept to have dinner with him --that only leads to trouble. Just have a lunch.
Of course he sniffed it right away and said, "ugh, lunch that's so non-committal." I was surprised that he caught on that fast but I saw it as a good thing. It meant less work for me.
So we met for lunch the next day. After we met at the store, we walked down to Lemon Leaf --a great Thai restaurant on 3rd Avenue. He was ultra strange that day --stressed, snappy and somewhat catty. The lunch was a miserable experience. He kept nagging me about this and that, yanking my chain and calling me names. It was the kind of abuse I could only take from a very good friend I had known for a while. Naturally, all of this teasing coming from a complete stranger was completely out of place for me.
A pattern was starting to emerge for me. It was just not a good idea to have meals with people I did not know too well. It just meant that I had to spend the whole duration of the meal with the person and take the potential torture until the check has been paid.
He paid for the check and I did not even offer which is very unusual -- usually I pounce on the check because that's what you do in Turkey. It was a miserable lunch, and as far as I was concerned he could make it better by paying for it.
After lunch, he asked me if I wanted to come by his place. I had visited his apartment briefly the day before. It was kind of this extra crammed, run down place that I frankly did not care to visit one more time. So I said nah, thanks I have errands to run in the afternoon. By this time he was livid. I think he thought that by paying for lunch he bought himself some of my time at his place. Frankly I was offended. He followed this offer with offering to come to my apartment with me. This option I did not care about either because
- his behavior at lunch had proven him insane
- I did not want him to know where I lived
- I was afraid he might jump on me or something in my apartment.
Of course when I told him that I did not want him to come to my apartment he did not take that too well. By this time I was just ready to turn and leave no matter what. So although he was still fuming on the hot East Village sidewalk, I said bye and turned around and left.
On the way home I got a little paranoid that he might be following me, so I must have taken the most convoluted way home.
I got into the elevator, got off on fourth floor and entered apartment 4F as in Frank. I closed the door. I was home. I was safe. The episode was over. I exhaled.
Category :
In the last few months, I got addicted to a new delight, Nutella (chocolate-nut spread) with crunch peanut butter on toasted white Italian loaf bread. My days are not complete without eating this poor man's delicacy at some time of the day.
Today is no different. I woke up hungry from my afternoon nap and stumbled to the kitchen. I can almost hear you asking, what are you doing napping in the afternoon. When your life is completely demolished like the two towers of World Trade Center, when you've lost all hope of employment, come to the verge of losing the best relationship of your life, when you're going to the gym every like it is your job, one needs a nap in the afternoon. Sometimes I even wish that I can sleep for longer periods of time, and perhaps sleep entire days out of my way. At this point life became this hurry up and wait process leading up to the good times that lay ahead. The existence of the good times ahead was starting to seem quite questionable like the unreal stories of the three holy books.
The cool kitchen tile felt good on my feet, as the fridge hummed a familiar tune. The spike of the florescent lights above as I turned the light on somewhat woke me up. I went through the pantry looking for something to eat. Then I remembered that I had not yet had a peanut butter and Nutella sandwich.
I put the two slices of bread in the toaster that slowly blushed and turned crimson. The sweet smell of the Italian bread started to waft out of the toaster as I unscrewed the top of the peanut butter. Soon the slices popped out of the toasters like college buddies on crack. The only thing that was missing was the toasts saying "oh mi god like how's it going??"
I took a table knife from the drawer and scooped a large glob of Nutella with it to spread on the bread. I was still dazed from my sleep so it seems what followed happened in slow motion, with the deep hoarse sound effects and everything. The Nutella started to drip from the knife onto the slice of bread on the plate. It was a hot day, when the room temperature is higher Nutella gets this viscous consistency like honey. So it drizzled on quite ordinarily but then it started to scribble. No I am not losing it, it scribbled an uppercase "T", followed by a "r", "o", "y" all lowercase.
My hand still over the toast, hovered frozen in time, frozen between sanity and acceptance of full on your regular every day insanity. There it was, even Nutella was spelling my name. The only thing it did not do was to keep writing on to tell me that I should give up this whole New York "I'll make it there, I'll make it anywhere" thing.
A few second later the analytical, skeptic, rational Troy kicked in. But he too was a little baffled. Even upon close inspection, the Nutella simply spelled my name on the toast.
I called my cousin immediately for a reality check. He told me that I was going insane being cooped up in my apartment and that I needed to get out and come over to his place so that we can go to dinner like normal people.
I obediently left the toast and Nutella on the counter and got dressed and left. The rest of the evening was pretty unremarkable. I had almost forgotten about the whole incident until I came back home to find the toast and my name on it staring back at me from the dark kitchen counter.
I decided to take the weirdness of this all head on, and took several pictures of the anomaly. Strangely enough although I used two different cameras all of the images came out blurry. Either my hands were shaking or I was truly experiencing an extraordinary event.
Either way, I was obviously entering the world of the weird with day-long naps, psychic dreams, strange daily coincidences and finally Nutella readings.
Today is no different. I woke up hungry from my afternoon nap and stumbled to the kitchen. I can almost hear you asking, what are you doing napping in the afternoon. When your life is completely demolished like the two towers of World Trade Center, when you've lost all hope of employment, come to the verge of losing the best relationship of your life, when you're going to the gym every like it is your job, one needs a nap in the afternoon. Sometimes I even wish that I can sleep for longer periods of time, and perhaps sleep entire days out of my way. At this point life became this hurry up and wait process leading up to the good times that lay ahead. The existence of the good times ahead was starting to seem quite questionable like the unreal stories of the three holy books.
The cool kitchen tile felt good on my feet, as the fridge hummed a familiar tune. The spike of the florescent lights above as I turned the light on somewhat woke me up. I went through the pantry looking for something to eat. Then I remembered that I had not yet had a peanut butter and Nutella sandwich.
I put the two slices of bread in the toaster that slowly blushed and turned crimson. The sweet smell of the Italian bread started to waft out of the toaster as I unscrewed the top of the peanut butter. Soon the slices popped out of the toasters like college buddies on crack. The only thing that was missing was the toasts saying "oh mi god like how's it going??"
I took a table knife from the drawer and scooped a large glob of Nutella with it to spread on the bread. I was still dazed from my sleep so it seems what followed happened in slow motion, with the deep hoarse sound effects and everything. The Nutella started to drip from the knife onto the slice of bread on the plate. It was a hot day, when the room temperature is higher Nutella gets this viscous consistency like honey. So it drizzled on quite ordinarily but then it started to scribble. No I am not losing it, it scribbled an uppercase "T", followed by a "r", "o", "y" all lowercase.
My hand still over the toast, hovered frozen in time, frozen between sanity and acceptance of full on your regular every day insanity. There it was, even Nutella was spelling my name. The only thing it did not do was to keep writing on to tell me that I should give up this whole New York "I'll make it there, I'll make it anywhere" thing.
A few second later the analytical, skeptic, rational Troy kicked in. But he too was a little baffled. Even upon close inspection, the Nutella simply spelled my name on the toast.
I called my cousin immediately for a reality check. He told me that I was going insane being cooped up in my apartment and that I needed to get out and come over to his place so that we can go to dinner like normal people.
I obediently left the toast and Nutella on the counter and got dressed and left. The rest of the evening was pretty unremarkable. I had almost forgotten about the whole incident until I came back home to find the toast and my name on it staring back at me from the dark kitchen counter.
I decided to take the weirdness of this all head on, and took several pictures of the anomaly. Strangely enough although I used two different cameras all of the images came out blurry. Either my hands were shaking or I was truly experiencing an extraordinary event.
Either way, I was obviously entering the world of the weird with day-long naps, psychic dreams, strange daily coincidences and finally Nutella readings.
It is really that late in the night
and so early in the day that
though I close my eyes
the burden of unfinished tasks
and the anticipation of new ones
put a metallic twist in my chest
under heavy winter covers.
The radiators tick to their 4 am beat
as the pipes hum with their steam.
I turn to my left side, and the comforter
swings a slow one with a sweet tune
it whispers to dirty floors listening.
In that rarely quiet corner of Manhattan
I become the crease in time today holds onto,
that split in the garden hose where time leaks
and drowns the graying lawn into a green retreat.
As a firetruck screams on past my block
I become the bookend that the tomorrow leans on,
that final hold before next week falls off the shelf
where my mother's glass ornaments wait
for their untimely end.
Troy James Vega
and so early in the day that
though I close my eyes
the burden of unfinished tasks
and the anticipation of new ones
put a metallic twist in my chest
under heavy winter covers.
The radiators tick to their 4 am beat
as the pipes hum with their steam.
I turn to my left side, and the comforter
swings a slow one with a sweet tune
it whispers to dirty floors listening.
In that rarely quiet corner of Manhattan
I become the crease in time today holds onto,
that split in the garden hose where time leaks
and drowns the graying lawn into a green retreat.
As a firetruck screams on past my block
I become the bookend that the tomorrow leans on,
that final hold before next week falls off the shelf
where my mother's glass ornaments wait
for their untimely end.
Troy James Vega
Category :
My dissaproval of you is the only thing that
stands between you and I as we sit
across each other in a Village bar.
Your eyes shift to my left and then to my right
I pretend not to notice and speak on
hoping that my paranoia is weaker
than your six dollar long island ice tea.
The bottom of the glass arrives sooner
than that dreaded end of the night.
Once I laid that glass down
I just was not in the mood to fight.
You climbed down the steps to the F train entrance
I saw you and your train pull out and get lost
into the summer stench of China Town.
Waiting on an uptown platform,
I thought I should have waved
and pointed at the service change poster
but I'm not sure you were looking back.
Troy James Vega
stands between you and I as we sit
across each other in a Village bar.
Your eyes shift to my left and then to my right
I pretend not to notice and speak on
hoping that my paranoia is weaker
than your six dollar long island ice tea.
The bottom of the glass arrives sooner
than that dreaded end of the night.
Once I laid that glass down
I just was not in the mood to fight.
You climbed down the steps to the F train entrance
I saw you and your train pull out and get lost
into the summer stench of China Town.
Waiting on an uptown platform,
I thought I should have waved
and pointed at the service change poster
but I'm not sure you were looking back.
Troy James Vega
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