Scribbled into my notebook this morning while riding the bus to school.
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Standing at the corner of Astoria Boulevard and 49th Street, the cars on the BQE rushing loudly in front of me, Steinway’s semi-abandoned “Industrial Business Zone” behind me. This is where I live and this is where I stand almost everyday on my route to school. The bus will drop me off at Broadway and 116th Street on the west side, the iron gates of Columbia’s entrance surrounded by vendors and well- dressed students. I’ve already seen the M60 pass by as I approached (the case of being too close to the bus stop but also around the corner from it) so when I approach the stop, I hover anxiously in the middle of the street to see if another bus is on its way from La Guardia Airport. I don’t want to have to wait too long to catch the bus because I can’t be late to my first workshop class of my first semester of my first year of graduate school. Today they are going to be critiquing one of the few and best things I’ve ever written.
I notice myself in the reflection of a parked car and spend a minute to fuss with my hair. I usually pin it back and up everyday with the same clip — a slight trendy pomp disguising otherwise unwashed and somewhat unmanageable hair. I’ve been blessed with thick wavy curls but haven’t learned much about disciplining them in 20+ years. Today, though, I’m cutting it close to class because I spent a few extra minutes wetting my hair in the mirror in an attempt to be able to leave it and wear it down. I also have eye makeup on from yesterday when I was feeling slightly lonely knowing I wouldn’t see my long distance girlfriend for two weeks. I’ve been carefully selecting my outfits each morning for my new life, ivy league classmates impressing me with their sharp looks. Today I look almost adolescent, though, if you don’t count my attempts at a hair ‘do.
Green checkered vans sneakers, a tshirt and and hoodie sweatshirt. Even when I try, I can’t always pull off dressing like an adult, and when I do, I feel like I’m in a costume. I feel like I’m drawing too much attention to myself. Sometimes I think think that if it weren’t for my trendy and almost classy black thick-framed glasses, I’d always look like a round-faced teenager.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see two men (boys?) turn the corner and walk towards the bus stop. I don’t know why but I have the explicit intention to avert their gaze. Maybe it’s because I rarely see people around my own age in my suburban-esque neighborhood and I don’t want to too directly acknowledge that I’ve noticed them.
I act distracted, playing with my hair in the reflection. I want to convince myself that I look good, worth noticing if I were them, but simultaneously make myself unavailable for any such noticing. It’s too self conscious of an act for my taste.
They pass by — a taller boy (man?) with short curls, an oversized bright red tshirt, unzipped grey hoodie, and high top sneakers. His friend (cousin?) with black plastic framed glasses, a beanie slightly folded up around his ears, baggy sweatpants, a slight smirk on his face. This is as close as it gets to “urban” in suburban astoria.
Almost inevitably, the shorter rounder one signals his friend to stop and turns around to approach me.
- Hey, how’s it going?
He has a big smile on his face and sort of teases with his eyes while he tries to act casual by leaning on the tree across from me.
- Good, thanks.
Pause, smile.
- You know, I’m just like stopping by to say I like your glasses.
- Thanks.
Out of politeness or eagerness I look him right in the eyes while he speaks to me, lingering uncomfortably after.
- Where are you from ?
- Not from around here…
- Yeah I was gonna say you look different, you know, like not from around here, but last time I said that to someone in New York, they got offended.
- No, that’s fine, I know it.
I smile. Why do I let my eyes linger on his? I want to know that I can sustain the attention even if I don’t want the attention. He fidgets with the map on the bus stop.
- Soo, where are you headed?
- School.
Does he think I’m 13? 19? 25?
- And what do you want to be?
- A writer?
- Oh yeah?
- Yeah, I guess.
- Oh well that’s good. You know I write some poetry and stuff.
- Yeah?
- Yeah.
- So what do you want to write? Like novels and shit?
- I don’t really know.
I shrug, moving my eyes to the middle of the road. I’ve exhausted my own attention. He tries to sustain the conversation even amidst long pauses.
- You know it’s not like you often meet a writer these days, just like that, you know. I hear there’s no money and all the positions are cut and stuff, so
- I’m okay with no money.
- Cool. I’m Tyler, by the way.
- Nice to meet you, Tyler.
Pause. Eyes. Road.
- So it looks like your friend is starting to get antsy, Tyler.
- Yeah, I guess you’re right. Well alright, pleasure to meet you.
- You too.
We shake hands, a big flirtatious smile on his face. They walk away. I try not to look back, turning firmly to the street to face the oncoming bus. But I can’t help but turn around just once to see them off.
Is that what I wanted?
