De Ce Monde Secret de l’ Amelie Americaine

I’m sweating puddles here in NYC, sans air-conditioning. There are two places that you rarely have the benefit of central air…one is in my own apartment, the other is at the laundry mat. It doesn’t make sense to me either. One thing I quicky learned when I moved to the city is that most older buildings require that you purchase a window unit and install it yourself. Mine is out of service. I am SOL on many levels. It is yet another item I’ve put on the house “must have” list, along with a washer, dryer, dishwasher, and no flooding, cock roaches or termites. I know, I’m such a demanding bee-yotch.

But while I sit here, losing ten pounds of water weight through my pores, I’m watching a Swedish film that I can’t follow, while I play with a broken silver necklace that I threw into my jewelry box eons ago and forgot to dispose of, despite the fact that it has a broken link. I don’t know if it is the same one he gave me when I was eighteen and he was twenty-one, but for now, it is, even if it is only real in my imagination.

What was real was my Nana playing match maker over the phone last week. Her exact words were, “When I mentioned your name, and bragged about how you just up and moved to New York and how you are now working with ___….his voice lit right up. You should write him. Here’s his address. It’s okay you’re both adults.”

Unsure how to interpret this information, I gave it a day, (yes I did google him), and called her back with my email to see if this was just another moment of communication confusion.

Why would not throw caution to the wind, risk making a total ass of myself and demand that she give me his number?

…well, Nana, has recently begun to show the effects of age. For example, at first according to her, he did recently date some girl in Switzerland, with whom a relationship did not work out and then in the next conversation he was going to Italy with his parents to see another girl. Either she was deeply confused or he was player of monumental proportions.

If he wants to, he can contact me, and contact me casually and without embarassment or obligation, for EITHER one of us. But her attitude seemed to indicate otherwise. “I’m going to get this to my boy right away,” she interjected, as I attempted to explain to her what the “underscore” meant between my first and last name in my email address. I told her to just say the word “underscore” and that he would probably know what that meant. After two attempts, she finally got the email right, and then coyly reversed herself, “Or maybe I will wait a couple of days before I call him.” As if she herself was playing the dating game.

This is the second time she has tried to put me in contact with him. I asked my cousin the first time what she thought and she said that she was probably just trying to put him in contact with other people on the same coast. I let it go at that.

But I continue to play with my broken silver necklace, and remember the eager young man who upon my arrival to Nana’s house during Christmas break several years ago, raced out of the house to go buy me this silver necklace. This quiet person, with a wide smile and few words, who seemed to want to say so much more.

I didn’t know how to interpret his gesture. And not much has changed. Except for Nana, who added, “you know he was always my favorite…he is the far better man.”

Listen to this podcast

Post a comment

Name: (required)

Email Address: (will not be published) (required)

URL:

Comments: