7:36 a.m. - 2023-03-25
lesson 4?
Her hair was as blonde and fine as corn silk. This, given that she was from the Midwest, seems appropriate. So too were the other fair stereotypes on display, the smile suspended like a parade banner between dimples, the bright blue eyes...her sturdy milkmaid's shoulders and the kind of figure a WWII pilot might paint on the fuselage of his bomber. A pin-up to kiss for luck before taking off into the fog, a wholesome American bombshell.
I think she held a day-job as a legal clerk or some such, but she'd moved to the city to pursue acting. A childhood dream, judging from the two porcelain masks hanging on her bedroom wall; Comedy and Tragedy, adorned with pink and blue ribbons and glittery accents. One of those vestiges of adolescent décor that make their way into the apartments of 20-something women; stuffed animals, horse figurines...the occasional Depeche Mode poster. These used to strike me as odd in the context of a heated tryst, but looking back on our horny, innocent enthusiasm then, they belonged.
So why would anyone this fair and “wholesome” want anything to do with my melancholic, thin-wristed, unkempt self? No idea. It was just one of those summers, I guess.*
A friend of hers from back-home was a producer on the TV show where I worked, and she'd “set us up” on a date. This producer's boyfriend ran a bar up on Lexington Ave, and the avenue was closing to traffic that Saturday to host one of NYC's myriad summer street fairs. These were basically traveling farmer's markets w/craft booths and buskers and what not... We were to meet there.
~ ~ ~
There's something extra-oppressive about city heat; when you're trapped in a concrete crock-pot with other tetchy citizens perspiring in-kind. So after a ride uptown through the infernal piss-sauna that is the NYC subway, the blast of AC that greeted me upon entering the bar came as a tonic. The joint, as I remember, had a “Caribbean sports-bar” theme. Very white, very nineties. I also remember it as the first place I'd encountered bartop trivia games, where you competed with other tables and, via the nascent internet, other bars. A great way to spark conversation and meet new people. Of course, the same technology that enabled this would quickly render it moot. In 15 years everyone would have every trivia answer a click away in their pocket phones. These phones would come to mitigate casual, real-life conversation as well...I don't know if there's still a bar at that address, but if there is I'd wager that half the patrons are staring down at their hand-helds, while televisions blare.But hey, these were more innocent times and conversations were indeed sparked. Of course trivia wasn't the only social lubricant involved. Producer's boyfriend contributed w/a vodka-lemonade punch he'd thrown together to celebrate the street fair. He was of-a-piece with the décor, the boyfriend. With his long-ish, sun-tinted hair and a puka-shell necklace worn over an impossibly even tan. His teeth were painfully white, and his iron handshake betrayed a rowing scholarship, perhaps. He looked like an investment banker who'd taken a month off to follow The Grateful Dead...very white, very nineties. He was also, it turns out, very quick and affable. Plus the dude made a wicked lemonade punch and, seeing as we were “friends of the house”, it was free-flowing and gratis. This, doubtlessly, contributed to the events that followed...
It was mid-afternoon when we stepped back out onto Lexington Ave, and the festival was wrapping-up. The market vendors were breaking down tents and loading trailers, the buskers were counting their change...city-service guys were moving in slowly with push-brooms, racking up union overtime. She wanted to show me something and had grabbed my hand to pull me in that direction, then didn't let it go. A welcome breeze kicked-up and sunlight caught her golden hair. I suddenly felt inspired (it was strong punch...) and decided it was time to make my move.
The blocks that were cordoned-off for the fair had been designated by, and decorated with, these giant helium balloon arches strung from opposite lampposts on every corner. They were bright yellow, and glorious. “Wait here, I'll be right back”, I said, as I took off up the crowded street.
I had already shimmied to the top of the first light-post and was fumbling with my pocketknife when someone shouted from the sidewalk below, “Hey you! Get the hell down from there! What do you think you're doing?”. It was an NYPD beat-cop, one hand resting on his night-stick.
I hadn't prepared for this contingency, but for whatever reason (did I mention how great that punch was?) I didn't hesitate, “What do you mean? I'm the guy who takes the balloons down!”.
“Oh...alright then”. He walked away through the crowd.
~ ~ ~
Across Park Ave, across Madison Ave...all the way back to her building, that impossibly long strand of balloons followed us. Catching on trees and signs and awnings, every hang-up striking us as more hilarious than the last. On the doorstep of her address we let it go; a giant yellow caterpillar escaping, weightless, into the wild blue beyond.If you're a guy taking balloons down, and you say you're the guy who takes the balloons down, then you, sir, are the guy who takes the balloons down.
*It was one of those summers.
