All around me are people who quite literally, are fighting city hall.  They need forms in triplicate.  They need proof of verification.  They have been re-routed many times over, and They. Are. Pissed.  It is taking some of these people all the strength they have to not flip out.  There is a very obvious tension in the air that makes the bullet proof glass in front of the Clerks Office seem like less of an after thought and more of a necessity.

I am here for a name change.  I am changing my name.  I am starting over, being reborn (!) taking control of my destiny, and I’m pretty sure I look like an asshole to everyone else here, because I can’t stop smiling.  When I was in high school there was a kid on my track team who had, I guess, a very low threshold for whatever it is that lets endorphins flow through your body during a workout.  So he would be in the middle of mile 1 or 2 of an intense race grinning as if he stole something.  It was sort of beautiful on one level, and entirely annoying on another.  Basically, that’s me right now.

I’ve been in buildings like this before, under different circumstances.  Evictions, orders of protection, responding to open container cases; things that, in general are not fun.  It’s a different world when you are doing paperwork to, in a sense, save your life.  It makes people angry.  I watched a woman, smallish, quiet, demure, attempt to physically push a man twice her size out of the elevator, while the doors were still closed.  When she got off she was shaking.  Her eyes were twitching.  The people around me were trying to figure out what her deal was.  There was a lot of talk of claustrophobia.  Jokes were made:

-Claustrophobic? Well then she should have taken the stairs!”

(Chuckle chuckle)

-Maybe she’s she’s scared of stairs too.

(Chuckle chuckle)

-Well, then she should stay her ass home!

(awkward silence.)

***

All I want to do is follow everyone home for a few hours.  I want to know what BBW with the floral print does after she gets off work.  I imagine she switches to sneakers on the train ride home.  There is an air of immediate comfort that emanates from her.  Like she is just twenty minutes away from running a bubble bath.  Maybe she has kids, older kids, and she cooks for them, even though they should really cook for themselves at this point, or maybe, just once, make her a meal when she comes home.  Maybe they should be more considerate.  Don’t they realize how hard she has it?  How her supervisor is inept, and she has to double check all of his work, how much she has to stand, how the lawyers look at her with contempt, even though she knows more about the courts first hand than they ever will.  Don’t her kids know that she has literally sacrificed all of her youth, her free time, for them?  To just get a few minutes on the train with the new Tracy McMillan book, to just have a glass of wine, a man to rub her shoulders and feet!  Oh lawd, to just have a man, period!  That’d be fantastic.

But no one sees her.

No one here sees her even though she is the only thing in this room with any color.  It’s like she’s begging to be seen.  But then all I think about is how my ideas of what her life is like sound oddly like a deleted scene from a Tyler Perry movie and I’m chagrined by my generic stereotype and lack of understanding.

***

I want them to know that I am being reborn.  I want them all to feel this good.  I want them to go to the Russian Bath House and sweat out the toxins of this city, the ones that must be, have to be flowing through them as soon as they walk through the metal detectors.  I want the really fat teenager (the one standing next to his dad) to lose weight.  Actually that’s not true.  I want to watch the moment where his body tipped in his mind and he felt that this was his life.  When his shoulders starting slopping down and he refused to left them back up.  When BBW’s breast became so pendolous that that became her existence and she no longer complained, or was upset at how people treated her, but instead accepted what her life was.  And then I want them to drastically transform into their highest dream.

I want everyone here to have an Oprah moment!

I imagine walking down the halls, screaming loudly at all of these broken people, Everyone gets a NEW Caaaaaaarrr!

But before I can watch that happen, I’ve been given my forms back, in triplicate, and I’m done.

I got up, started to put on a pair of boxers but then thought better of it.  I wanted her to wake up to me naked.  It wasn’t a logical thought, but I figured I would start being physically naked around her and ideally transition that into being emotionally naked too.

When I got up, I went to the kitchen, which was messy, and removed the rags that surrounded my coffee maker.  There were all manner of fabric swatches, paint brushes, and knick knacks in this studio.  Considering how much time I spent here it should have been cleaner, but I’ve never been one for neatness.  I started to brew a pot of coffee.  While I waited, I went back by the window, lit a cigarette, and propped myself up on the ladder by the foot of my bed.  I just stared at Lisa, aware of my good fortune.  Here was a woman, lithe, young, youthful, in my shabby excuse for a home.  She had stayed up late letting me paint her, reading, allowing for bad jokes and smiling.  I was very lucky.

When she started to stir, she immediately smiled at me.  Her cat like yawn emitted the most repulsive morning breathe, but at least for this morning, she was mine.  I crawled back next to her, and wrapped myself around her body, the heat making us stick together.

It was nice.

by Chioke Nassor (duh.)

The first time I ever did stand up I got punched in the face.

I was about 23 or 24, and I’m not exactly sure what made me decide to go on stage. I do know I really loved, and still love standup. I mean, comedy in general is one of the great loves of my life. I used to tape old episodes of SNL, and Seinfeld, comics on Comedy Central, and just transcribe their jokes. For no reason whatsoever. I never showed it to people, or tried to get laughs by reciting the material. I just wanted to be close to it. I should also say, if I’m being totally honest, me and my dad loved to watch stand up comics together. It was the one thing that sort of let us hang out and relax.

My dad used to drink, a LOT, and he was a pretty angry man, even more angry when he got diagnosed with liver damage. And he would fight with me a bunch, but if there was a tv on with a sitcom or something funny, he’d kind of stop mid rant, and just tune out. And once he started laughing, he had this beautiful belly roll of a laugh that was contagious. So I guess it’s dumb of me to say I don’t know why I was transcribing this stuff. I mean, it happened pretty close to after his death. I called it the “year of comedy” and would really only pay attention to one thing. My grades in high school after that were ok, but nothing to write home about. People said I took it really well, or atleast that’s what I think they were saying. You can sort of tell though. I could. I felt like all people in my town, in my high school, even my close friends ever saw me as was this down and dirty kid who lost his dad. So I was really excited to get out, and go to a college far away, to make up a new personality. To change myself.
I never really had fantasies of being a comic though. I always just wanted to be one of the guys in the back telling jokes with the other comics, like in Zelig. You know, stay up late, be at some diner at 4 in the morning, eating grilled cheese and fries, telling jokes, laughing. But I never cared about getting on stage.

Most of the four years I spent in college were just filled with trying to maintain a low profile. I was bookish and rarely had a girlfriend, but I did occasionally get lucky. I was seeing a woman, well, this girl really, named Tammy and she was about as into comedy as I thought you could be. She had dvd’s of all the greats, Carlin, Chris Rock, old Joan Rivers, Pryor, basically anyone you could think of. She had framed posters of Carole Burnett, when no one had any idea who that was. Atleast of the people we knew. Instantly I decided that this girl was for me. I saw her on the first day of orientation, and she had the Mork from Ork suspenders with a pair of ratty white converse, and an old steve martin t-shirt.  I just about fell in love with her right then. The first time I went to her dorm, I almost lost it. It was all I could do to contain myself, and not try to maul her right there on the floor and ask her to marry me, that’s how cool I thought she was.

She had big dreams though, wanted to be a performer, and started really soon, doing open mics on campus and eventually going into town, or Boston, rather, to do stand up there.  At first it really intimidated me.  She was already so much cooler than I thought I was, but I also had this secret feeling like, if she could do it, so could I, you know?  There’s a part of me I’m not proud of, but even when I saw her on set, I could imagine myself doing it…better.

That said, I used to love watching her work. I mean, she was terrible at first. For awhile even. She’d get really nervous and you could her teeth scratch against the microphone, which would cause this terrible feedback.  But she had a natural rhythm, and was engaging even when she wasn’t saying stuff that was funny.  I couldn’t quite articulate it then, but I guess people just liked her.

Tuesday, 9:37am. She has headphones on, still reading paper (New York Times).  Outfit similar save for color of leggings (grey) and skirt (navy).  She looks up at me.  We make tentative eye contact.

Wednesday, 9:36am. I am amazed by how punctual I’ve suddenly become at work.  Woman with paper has no paper today.  Is reading Jonathan Franzen book.  Looks bored.  She smiles at me when leaving train, in a “wow, what a coincidence” way.

Thursday, 10:15am. I over sleep.  Shit.  I am late.  What’s worse is I am late to a review meeting.  Can they fire you if you aren’t there to be fired?  I imagine yelling, but instead I get stern looks, and disapproving head shaking (worse.)

Thursday, 6:45pm. I try to make amends by working late, but leave 10 minutes after my boss leaves.  Will send a time stamp email from office account in 2 hours saying project “is in good shape.”  Vague but supportive.  See Newspaper Lady on train back to Brooklyn.  She is crying.  We make no eye contact but I attempt to pat her on back as she leaves train (weird).  She instead of hitting me, smiles through tears, and mumbles “thanks.”  Still never looks up at me though.  What was she crying about?  Maybe she was late for review and got fired?  Decide this may be my alternate universe doppleganger.

Friday, 9:20am. Decide to go to work early.  Tell this to roommate, but really I am at train station to see Newspaper Girl.  Will she be crying?  Happy?  Not show up?  Oddly, I am very nervous.

Friday, 9:40am. No sign of Newspaper Girl.  Am beginning to worry.

Friday, 9:50am. If I don’t leave now, I will be late.

Friday, 10:15am. No sign of Newspaper Girl.  I call in sick.  When I get back on the train, to go home, I see Newspaper Girl (eureka!).  She is wearing jeans, converse, and light army green colored jacket.  I decide that chance occurrence is some sort of sign and I should follow her until I get to the bottom of this coincidence.  Immediately, I regret this decision…

To be continued…

His waitress came up to refill his coffee. Her stockings were ripped, but seemingly intentionally. The bus boy had a mustache that made him look like a male model version of Pancho Villa. Where is your six shooter, hombre?

Michael went back to drawing in his sketchbook, hoping to look sincerely deep and interesting. Maybe people around the room were wondering who this fetching young stranger was? Who amongst us has the balls to sit here alone, working, during brunch no less! He clearly must be a genius!

When Michael looked back up from his staggered lines, and loose notes, the young woman across the room was gone. But her party was there. And her coat. Taking a cue, he got up and went to the bathroom line,  standing one person away from this Random Cute Girl he followed to the shitter. What if he was one person away from destiny? Could it be that the guy with the neck tattoo and asymmetrical hairdo had a bladder that was interfering with fate? How cruel! But then luck struck. Two bathrooms became unoccupied at the same time. Neck tattoo and Random Cute Girl both entered leaving Michael a chance to compose himself, to think of a witty bon mot, to actually salvage this day of being alone, eating alone, possibly dying alone, to instead find true love in the dirty back bathroom of some East Village Breakfast establishment. Would that make a good Meet Cute story? “Your mother and I…well, it’s a funny-”

But before he could gather his thoughts, she came out, briskly and started to skirt by him. “Don’t ladies take longer? Isn’t there some applicator or extra wiping that should have occurred to buy him more time?! Why was his mouth dry, now? Could she possibly have not washed her hands? Does anyone really wash their hands, save for hypochondriacs and germaphobes? I mean, I’m touching my own skin, skin that hasn’t touched anything else really. If anything, I should wash my hands before I use the toilet, not after. Save for when defecating.”

As this all raced through his head, he realized the moment was passing and their Meet Cute was soon to be a Didn’t Meet at All, or worse, a Missed Connection Post. “You: brown hair, eating huevos rancheros, Me: Brooding Artist sipping a Latte…” So as a move of either inspired will or pure desperation, Michael blurted out: “Hey!” much too loudly, with too much enthusiasm. Random Cute Girl turned around and nodded back, with a falsetto “Hey” without breaking stride.

Michael went into the bathroom, and stood there, hoping to approximate the time it would take him to pee.  He turned on the water for the sink but didn’t run his hands under it. Instead he took a deep breathe, and pulled his hair back past his forehead and walked back to his seat, where he quietly sat waiting for his waitress to return.

As he paid his check, he could see the Random Cute Girl making pleasant conversation with her table. She seemed to intentionally not look at him, as if her neck refused to turn in acknowledgement to his side of the room. Who could blame her! It was creepy and weird and sort of sad, really.

As he paid, he contemplated the whole death thing, and dying alone, really wallowing in self pity. But as he walked out the door, the waitress smiled at him, waved, and said, rather sincerely, “Come back soon!”

Michael thought about how poorly he tipped her, and decided, this is probably a real indication of true love and made a big show of waving back. The Random Cute Girl looked up at him, but it was too late. His heart now belonged to another!

Terese stood at the foot of her stairwell, watching the EMT’s take away Mrs. Kucinik.  She had been standing there for 5 minutes, half in shock, and halfway relieved.  She had spent the last few months getting tea with Mrs. Kucinik, Anne to her friends, and in that time all she had learned about her 93 year old neighbor was that she wanted to die, and that she paid 82 dollars a month in rent.

Both concepts were fairly hard for Terese to wrap her mind around.

On Monday, after work, Terese had planned to swing by, to say hello, but it was cold outside and she was cranky.  Her position as an art handler wasn’t nearly as glamourous as she had made it out to be in her mind, and instead of being surrounded by gorgeous works of art, her day usually consisted of wrapping stuff, or sitting in the passenger seat of cube truck, fiddling with the radio.  The days where she got to listen to NPR were the good days.  The days where Ron won out and played the hip hop stations, were the bad days.  Monday was a bad day.

On Tuesday, after she had finished her swim class, Terese thought about stopping by, even though at 9:30 she would be home fairly late for Anne.  She decided against it and watched Gilmore Girls on dvd instead.

On Wednesday, Terese had the day off.

On Thursday, after work, she kicked herself for not stopping by Wednesday when she had all of that free time.  ”What did I even do all day?”, she wondered.  After waking up at 11:30, walking to the park, and getting a egg and cheese on a croissant, she spent an hour reading last weeks Sunday Times New York Times, and then another hour doodling while texting friends.  The next two hours were spent just walking over the Brooklyn Bridge and thinking about college.  ”Remember that class ‘A Walker in The City?’” she thought to herself.  ”Why didn’t I take that class?  That probably would have been a great class.”  She often wondered about her previous decisions, imagining more perfect worlds, but then she would stop and look at the sunset over the bridge and think, “What could they have possibly learned that would have been better than this?”

In the evening, Wednesday evening, she went to the local bar restaurant and played scrabble with Ned, her friend who she sometimes slept with, though now they were in one of their, “for the good of the friendship” phases, which ostensibly meant that one of them had a date, or the prospect of a date, and so it was better to do whatever it was that they were doing.  For the time being.  She ordered a veggie burger, and decided to get the fries, assuming the walking and soup she had for lunch would be enough to balance out the extra fat, when she remembered Anne.  ”Shoot!” she said aloud to no one.  Which sparked Ned to ask her what was wrong, and Terese, not one to draw extra attention to her errors, said it was nothing, just “an errand I forgot to do.”

On Thursday during her lunch break, she had a strange feeling crawl across her skin, like a trembling, that came from nothing in particular.  Terese stopped to think if the window was open, and looked around for whatever breeze might have come across her, but the galleries back room was sealed shut.

When she got home on Thursday night, Ned came over and they watched the next disc of Gilmore Girls, both laughing at how cheesy it was, but still enjoying it nonetheless.  Terese thought to go downstairs, but there was no good time.  She assumed Ned would leave after the last episode, but instead they started talking, having a long winding conversation about ethics and the story of the man who cyber stalked the woman, from the business pages that Sunday.  Somehow this lead to wine, which lead to kissing, and by that point, leaving to pop downstairs was no longer an option.

So when that Friday, Terese awoke late to see the EMT’s taking out Anne, from the second floor apartment in her building she was guilt ridden, and also relieved.  How could she have been so thoughtless she wondered, even though she knew Anne wouldn’t have cared so much that she didn’t stop by, and was probably just excited to not be trapped in a body that was decaying.  But still, to be an “errand” that someone forgot to do, made Terese feel slightly sick.  And when she found out that Anne had been dead for five days, it almost paralyzed her…

I live in a studio apartment in a non-borhood. Meaning, there is nothing discernible about the area where I live. If my block was suddenly abandoned or bombed out, people would have difficulty telling the difference. I also have a very tenuous relationship with my neighbors: we never really see or hear each other. And there is no excuse why they would ever stop by casually.

As far as work goes the only thing that is consistent about it is I do it a lot, but never at the same place, and often for irregular erratic hours.   Also I’m single.  As far as I can tell I have no discernible habits where people expect me to be anywhere for any real length of time.

All of which lead me to one deeply puzzling question: “How Long Would It Take For People to Notice I’m Dead?”

I thought at the very least it would take a week before people knew I was dead. Actually, I thought it would take a week for people to know I was missing. But rather than just speculate, I decided to get some hard data on the issue. I decided to fake my own death.

The tools:

I would need to adequately create the illusion of what a dead guys life would be like, meaning: no facebook, no text messaging, no emails, and moreover, I’d start recreating the smell of a rotting human body in my studio apartment with formaldehyde and a bunch of day old fish. I’m pretty sure my security deposit wouldn’t get returned, but for the peace of mind knowing that someone, nay, anyone loved me enough to catch on that I ceased existing, it’d be worth it.

Up next: Day one.

I had seen her before, this much I knew, but I couldn’t quite place where. She was radiating when she walked in, but her features were plain, so she might have served me coffee, or been next to me at the gym, and I probably wouldn’t have noticed her, or remembered for that matter.

I think she caught me staring, and then she came over to me and slowly stopped, looked at my black eye and said:

“Nice shiner.”

Then she grabbed her clothes out of the dryer, stuffed them into a bag and took off.

I know this is going to sound creepy, like a stalker, but I kept obsessing about that moment. She looked at me unlike anyone I’ve ever met. Almost as if she looked through me.  I had this haunting sensation, that I couldn’t shake, for days after.  On the outside, nothing really changed.  I woke up, drank my coffee, went to work at the restaurant, and then in the evenings, I’d go to this open mic place and do a set.  But somehow, I felt a little better about it all.  I mean, I kept bombing, but I had something I was looking forward to.  I sort of knew that I’d run into her again.  Instinctively.  So when it happened two weeks later at the club, I shouldn’t have been shocked.  But I was.

I was on stage, doing a bit about couples going to ikea and I saw her walk in.  My throat got really dry, and I paused a bit longer than I should have, which somehow made people laugh.  I kept telling my self to slow down, in general, to have more confidence, that my material wasn’t so bad, it was the delivery.  And when she walked into the room, everything slowed down.  I forgot I was telling jokes to get Marline back.  I forgot that I had this stupid black eye still, even though it was more faint.  I even forgot about how muscular Derek was when he punched me, and how I sort of liked it.  All I could think about was saying my punch line so perfectly it would kill.

But instead, I also forget everything that I was supposed to say.

I started sweating profusely, and somehow put the mic too close to the speaker and got that horrible feedback sound.  I felt like I was temporarily deaf, and underwater.  It was probably only a few seconds of silence, but it felt like an eternity.  I went to grab my notebook, to figure out what I was supposed to say, and it slipped out of my hands, because they were so sweaty.  I looked back up towards where she was standing in the room, and she sort of smiled at me, maybe out of embarrassment.  And that made me mad.  Who the hell was this lady to ruin my set?  I put the mic back in it’s stand, and just stood there before screaming out: “meatballs!” suddenly remembering the punchline to a joke I hadn’t set up.

The few people in the crowd laughed, albeit a little nervously, but it was enough for me.  I got of the stage, and started to go back to my table before I realized I should have walked over to her.  But when I turned to face where she was standing…she was gone.

I’d been doing standup, for about a month at this point, but mainly at open mics, which are are usually small and sparsely filled rooms with other comics who don’t give a shit about you. If they laugh it’s begrudgingly, in between staring at their notes. All in all it’s a pretty demoralizing experience. I’d been up about 4 or 5 times, depending on if you count the set where I got bumped halfway through by a “bigger” comedian who wanted to test out material. And in those four times, I’d gotten exactly 7 laughs. To say it was humiliating is the understatement of the year. But for some reason I kept coming back. I really loved how it felt. Holding the mic in my hand, being blinded by the stage lights, the echo of my voice…it was really comforting. But most of all, every one of those seven big laughs was like a burst of oxygen. I felt like I could live my whole life on nothing but those laughs.

Well, that and pussy.

But for the most part, I really loved the idea that I was a comic. I mean, I was a really shitty comic, don’t get me wrong, but at the very least I had something I that was mine. I’d spent the last year practically in a coma. After I moved out of my parent’s house, I just would wake up and go to my shitty projectionist job, or my shitty cater-waiter job, or my shitty office equipment moving job. The projectionist job wasn’t so bad, or wouldn’t have been but the theatre was only gay porn. The first day I thought it was SO funny, but after about a week of seeing dudes jack off in the afternoon, it really started to take it’s toll on me. It was really hard to not to think about how retarded I must look when wacking off, to the point that I took a temporary hiatus. It didn’t last for more than two days, but it was a rough two days.

So all in all, having a new goal was nice. I was no longer the shitty projectionist-cum schemiel, but I was a COMIC, in capital letters. I knew my life was destined for big things and I knew that this break, having Debbie’s uncle let me get on stage at a real club and do a full set was the first ticket to my real life.

What I didn’t realize is how badly it was going to go…

“Her name is Margaret.”

Needless to say, it stopped me dead in my tracks.

•••

I’ve never been the kind of person who takes lots of risks.  I had a pretty safe job, doing the grunt actuary work at a large bank.  In college I was an Econ. major.  Even in high school, I just kept quiet and did what people expected of me.  So I was probably more surprised than anyone when I caught myself flipping out at work.  Back in the old days, I probably would have just been looked at as crazy, but now, there are all sorts of pyschological terms for what happened.  Depending on your point of view, I was either venting, or suffering from work induced stress. But in reality, I just hated my job.  I hated getting up in the morning with that cold feeling of dread at the pit of my stomach.  I hated riding the train to midtown and being herded like cattle.  I hated counting down the minutes of my precious lunch break.  And I hated leaving, knowing full well I’d be back the next day.

About three weeks ago, I stopped going to work.  Well, I should say, I stopped working.  I would show up, but at odd hours, whenever I could get out of bed.  2pm, 3:45.  Once I even showed up at 5:59.  It was an obvious cause for concern, but at the same time, I was equally as productive, which made it harder to discipline my actions.  At first.  But by the last day of the week, after I pulled that 5:59 business, I was called in for a review by my manager, and his supervisor, and a representative from HR.  They had me go into this long conference room that overlooked the park.  And in my younger days I would have probably been excited about all of the pomp and circumstance over little ol’ me.  Instead I felt numb, and was angry that my time was being wasted.  I’d been at this company for over 6 years, and I’m pretty sure no one knew my last name.  It was a wonder anyone even knew my first.

The HR rep offered me some water.  I accepted.  They spent the next twenty minutes saying how valued as was as “part of the team” and how “my work was really stellar” but for the majority of the time they were talking I just sort of nodded out.  From what I was able to glean, they basically just wanted me to cut the shit.  And be a regular pion again.  And they were so nice about it, it was really easy to agree.  I told them I had been having some problems at home (which I wasn’t) and said I appreciated them taking time to really treat me like a person and give me the benefit of the doubt (which again was bullshit).  And then I wrapped it up saying that I wouldn’t disappoint them.  If I was Japanese I probably would have bowed too.

So in short, the meeting went well.  A friend of mine once said, people don’t mind if you are a jerk, as long as you are consistent.  For example, if the same guy at the coffee shop I go to is rude to everyone, it’s fine, I just take it at face value.  But the one time I saw him be nice to some other random customer, I lost it.  Well, not actually.  I didn’t really have the balls to “lose it” on him.  But I was peeved, nonetheless.  With my behavior at work, it was the same thing.  If I was always rude, it would have probably been tolerated.  But to change, that’s what gets people.

As I was leaving the meeting, I started to have this hollow feeling in my stomach.  Like I had completely sold out.  And as I was riding the elevator with my manager and the head of HR, my blood started boiling.  One of them noticed I had broken out into a sweat and said:

“Some weather we’re having!”

And I screamed out: “No!” right as I hit the emergency button.  I was tired of being taken for granted, and for doing the easy thing.  I stayed in that elevator yelling at those two men for 45 minutes.  Spittle was coming out of my mouth I was so furious.  And I never felt more alive.

Of course I was fired, but it was worth it.

I guess what I’m saying is, is that when I saw that woman, who looked so calm, I knew I needed to…well to do something to get what she had.  I knew she had answers for me.  And when that cloddish overgrown bell boy smiled at me after he said her name…well I was pretty sure I would do whatever it took to get more information out of him.  Even if I had to beat it out of him…