Contrast

Originally written Wednesday, December 7, 2005

Sunday morning, I tried calling Richard, but he didn’t get back to me until late in the evening, when the events of the dance weekend ended. He said he’d noticed Moshe at the dance this time but hadn’t gotten to speak with him himself. He was rather intrigued to hear about our discussion, especially, it seems, the part that took place after I’d come back from defrosting the car. He said he was extremely busy, though, so I let him go with an assurance that he’d contact me if anything else relevant came up.

I sent Patrick and Dennis out on a mission. Or to be more specific, they told me they were going gift shopping and I asked them to keep an eye out for a pianist matching Moshe’s description while they’re at the mall. In fact, there are several malls in this area, and I’ve encouraged them to search all of them for as long as they need to. I’m not fond of consumer culture, so as long as I have a couple of teenage boys who aren’t as grumpy and cynical as I am, I won’t need to do the footwork myself. Or at least not that part. Anyway, that was just this afternoon—they both had their last final exams of the term today—so I may not hear back from them right away.

Meanwhile, I decided to head into the Applewood district again. With all of the distractions and excitement around Saturday night, I’d almost forgotten about that other lead we had. Trudy wasn’t home, so I tried figuring out the coordinates based on her description of the surroundings. I followed the 62 bus route and parked near a diner on Main St. There were also a White Castle and a couple of other fast food chains, but a diner was what Trudy had mentioned, so I figured this one for a good starting point. I started down the side street that made the diner’s corner with Main St. As I looked up at the buildings, it occurred to me how pointless this trip would probably be. It would be nice if some kind of sign would suddenly appear or I’d just happen to run into someone of consequence, but I didn’t even know if I were on the right street. I don’t lack patience, but what I needed was a clue.

There were lights on in some windows. Most had shades or blinds drawn, while through a few a TV was visible in the corner of a room, or a wall full of books or artwork, or the joint of molding where the ceiling meets the wall. In one, a cat looked back down at me between the pane and the curtain. I was conscious of being a voyeur, but I felt oddly comfortable about it, as if I were invisible from my vantage point on the sidewalk. The street was uncommonly quiet for this town, and I began to think of New York. The paradox of Manhattan is that while the major avenues are as noisy as they are visually overstimulating, there are small streets and alleys that seem to exist in pockets of silence. Footfalls and the rumble of the occasional taxicab seem to sound without echo. A tap or a stomp from five, six feet beneath your ears can seem to be miles away. I’ve had homes in Manhattan since long before rent control, and it’s those pockets, those spaces of facilitated meditation, that will continue pulling me back; they’re difficult to find elsewhere. I’m drawn to contrast and contradiction.

I was jolted out of my musings by a figure in a third-floor window, and all at once I became aware that I was indeed not an invisible voyeur but a highly conspicuous spy. A light behind the figure left her (it appeared to be a woman) in silhouette and probably inhibited a clear view of me down below. As she lifted her arm up and a moment later switched off the light, I ducked my head to pretend I had not been deliberately scanning apartments. Although it would only be by great coincidence that the woman in the window would know me from anywhere, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to hide my face nonetheless.

I continued down the street to the next corner, circled around the block, and returned to the diner. I sat down in a booth by a window, ordered a cup of tea, and sat watching the street for as long as I could get away with on a $1.50 check. I didn’t see Moshe or Trudy or a trio of leather-clad, frizzy pink stoners or whoever else I thought I might be looking for. Still, as I headed home, I considered the hidden elements of productivity in the outing: I became more familiar with the area, I determined that nothing significant took place tonight, and I found a pocket of silence in my current home town. I also learned that there is yet another eatery in the area that serves next to nothing of use to me, that midnight crowds in Applewood consist primarily of college freshmen for whom a lack of a curfew is still a novelty, and that White Castle is sadly more popular than the mom ‘n’ pop equivalent.