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A Query Letter
by Emily Bonden
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Dear Ralphie: I saw you the last week I was living in Brooklyn. As I walked down Knickerbocker to the grocery store I glanced across the street and saw two spidery legs poking out the bottom of a laughingly large umbrella. Well, I can't really call it an umbrella because it wasn't for rain. It should have been speared into the sand on Brighton Beach, with a family huddled beneath it. But there, on the street, you were gripping that rainbow colored bumbershoot like a lady with a lace parasol. And you were singing, or maybe you were just talking to no one or everyone, but I remember it as singing. I instantly knew it was you because I had seen that same umbrella acting as a flag over the boxes you and others shared as a home on the littered street to my house. You turned and faced me, and I smiled as I took in your familiar electrifying hair. As usual it was capped with a snug baseball hat so that the frizz exploded from the sides and arched upward, like a plant seeking the sun. You were twirling that damn umbrella, as if you didn't have a care in the world. How could that be? I know you to have cares. I know you to have concerns. I often wondered if you recognized me. Would there be a reason? I selfishly think yes. We spoke many times, almost always on the L train. You called me beautiful more than any other man had in two years. Would you have remembered the day on the subway when we talked about your wife? I was with Joe, and he called you brother. He kept saying, "Oh, I'm sorry brother," as you gave us details of your life. I was braver when I was with Joe. It wasn't so hard to meet your eyes with him at my side. You shook hands with him in greeting—your hand nearly black and too bony, his small and clean—and I knew there would be no trouble. A deal was made to act with sincerity on this occasion. But why is sincerity something we apply, rather than something that should be inherent? Joe asked how you were doing and you said not too well. You had just left your wife. She was stepping out on you and, well, boundaries had to be drawn. I watched your stark face as you spoke. Through lips that moved quickly, for you spoke quickly and breathily through the empty spaces where teeth should have shaped the sounds, I heard you say that you had to protect yourself. Of course it wasn't easy and it wasn't want you wanted, but it had to be done. Did you see the disbelief on my face, or maybe the twinge of disgust? Could you see that I was upset at myself for being surprised that you had a wife, surprised that you would love and mourn on the streets when I couldn't even manage that in my life? Does your heart still hurt as you said it did then? Do you remember that you said it was broken? What were you thinking as you looked to Joe and I, asking him, wasn't he lucky to have a lady by his side, to have such a beautiful wife? I wonder, were you listening when we explained that we weren't a couple? But it was of no importance to you. It was an "even so" moment. Even so, you still get to spend time together. And of course you were right. Because what else is there to spend. Why didn't you ask for money that day? Were you offended that we never offered any? And when we got off the train and turned to the left, you leaned out the door and told us to turn to the right, because the exit on that end was closed. Why did you do that? I don't compare you to the others. Because you are different, you are the only one I know by name. There are many I would recognize: the couple that attempts to raise money for their daughter's funeral, flashing laminated funeral home account numbers and details of her death. Or the painted old women I often saw at the First Avenue stop who wore a beret and who on our first encounter sold me a brown and orange scarf and followed me onto the evening train and spoke to me until my stop, and who, when I went to leave the train, grabbed my face in her hands and kissed my cheek. Yes, there were other familiar faces, but you looked at me directly with your too-clear eyes, you stopped in front of me meaningfully, and many nights you took the stairs ahead of me into my neighborhood. We were closer. Do you remember the night you were angry on the train? You were storming from one car to the next, your head down, obviously distressed. You were disturbed, in the way a person is upset when they know something will never be reconciled. When someone has taken away your choice to be humiliated or your opportunity to avoid a fight; what can you feel but anger when they take that from you? You had that look, do you remember? I know it's silly of me to think it might have been a memorable moment for you, but I had never seen you upset. Instead, did the situation feel commonplace? You sold papers on the train and I'm sure some "customers" resisted you, resented you. I knew your scripted speech and anticipated the part that went, "This isn't the best job in the world, but it gets money in my pocket." But I have a complaint, Ralphie. You never gave me a paper. I gave you dollars some nights and always responded to your hellos, but you only held the dirty stack to your chest and said, "Thank you. God bless you, beautiful." Why didn't I get a paper? Is it because you thought I didn't want it? Did you think I was receiving something else in exchange for my money? Was I? But why am I angry with you? Is it because I want to know why you are alone on trains at night begging for money? It might appease my curiosity if you could tell me. I want to rest easy knowing there was a beginning and that you are only in the middle and that the end… well, and that the end could be anything. It could curl back or move away from everything you've known. Couldn't that happen, Ralphie? Isn't it strange that I was more afraid of my streets than you? Of course, I know the street was not my home. Did I have more reason, more enemies, to be afraid there? There were nights when the fear hardened in my gut; when I had to keep my feet from running. I wasn't afraid of you, but of that something undefined that might turn me over. How does fear build? Because it was building in me and I was angry, someone was manipulating what I saw and thought. But how could you know that I had become so afraid? I remember the night I left the subway station to walk the three empty, dark blocks home. At that time the cardboard boxes had been on the sidewalk for a week or so, sometimes empty, other times housing people. I heard voices coming from them that night. Choices sprang to mind. Would it have been silly to cross the street, or more senseless to stubbornly stick to the sidewalk and pass just feet away from the boxes? Is there anything to be learned in having to decide whether to avert my eyes or acknowledge someone? I chose to stay, as always. I wouldn't let myself be that afraid. That night, as I neared the makeshift dwelling, I heard your voice and saw the silhouette of your thin frame. I was glad that I hadn't crossed the street because I didn't want to offend you. Do you remember what you said? You said, "Good night and God bless you, Mami." I said, "God bless you, Ralphie." Weren't you surprised I had known your name and that I had responded? I thought you would be pleased. But you seemed indifferent to my acknowledgment. Instead you admonished me, "Don't say hello to anyone else on this street. This is not a safe place for you." I felt something strange then, as if you had stolen my relief. I had been happy to see you. I had felt protected knowing it was you on my block, and then you took that from me. Yes, I know it was unfair to make you my savior? Who was I to expect things from you? But that is what you began. Your face, even in its wildness, comforted me. Would you have ever guessed that I would still be thinking of you? Months have passed since we've seen each other. I live in another state now, but, Ralphie, you are still with me here. Am I still there with you? Please say yes, say someone is. Regards, Beautiful
Emily Bonden no longer rides the L
train, but resides in Cincinnati, Ohio, where the subway system is a
long forgotten dream. She is currently a graduate student of Spalding
University's MFA in Creative Writing program, in Louisville, KY. |