Sleepwalking in Manhattan - Chapter One

 

I checked my appearance in Kiehl’s Pharmacy Store window on Third Avenue.  Average height, average weight, average looks—everything average. You see people like me everywhere—whether it’s London, Paris, Madrid, Berlin—if you take time to look.

Natalie was late. We had met yesterday for the first time. She was just another pretty girl walking down Fifth Avenue. Our eyes didn’t meet until she dropped a glove. I called after her, waving the glove to in the air. She thanked me with a shadow of a smile and resumed walking. I ran after her, and she laughed when I said I was new in the city.

I asked bluntly if she was free tonight. Perhaps to Natalie it was my illusionary arrogance, but she stopped, smiled, and looked at me from head to toe. She became prettier by the minute. She had never considered doing such a thing before, though said it might be pleasurable.

Walking away she said, ‘Eight O’clock at Pear Tree Corner. If you want to meet me you’ll find it.’

A thin breeze and a twinkle of neon helped relieve my tension as I stood outside the store. I had given up hope when a hand suddenly gripped my wrist ushering me along the street.

'Just follow me.' It was Natalie, the voice and fragrance were unmistakable.

'What’s going on? Why the dark glasses . . . The headscarf?!' I found her demeanour unsettling.

'I think I’m being followed. Just trust me.' I looked round and saw what appeared to be a caravan of Japanese sightseers coming behind armed with a million cameras. 'Japanese?!'

'No!' she responded. 'I’ll explain when we get to proper surroundings.'

As we turned the corner Natalie hailed a taxi. Soon it was speeding towards the city centre.

'Why the disguise?'

When she turned towards me some of the apprehensions about the situation disappeared, her eyes sparkled.

'What’s your name anyway?' she smiled.

'Conrad . . . ' I stuttered.

She held out her right hand and we shook hands briefly. 'Well, Conrad, it’s good to meet you. I don’t normally talk to strange men in the street, but I made an exception in your case for some strange reason. I admired your style. Hope my intuition hasn’t let me down,' she winked. 'Where are you from?'

'Back there,' I replied, nodding towards Pear Tree Corner.

'Are you for real?' she laughed, looking at my face. 'I guess you are. You’re sitting right beside me.'

The sky was darkening, streaked with scarlet clouds. She asked the taxi driver to pull over. Natalie paid our entrance fee into a small, gloomy cinema where several people were watching an old movie.

'This is my favourite film. I’ve seen it a thousand times. The Maltese Falcon with Humphrey Bogart. Try to chill out.” She took my right hand and caressed it. 'You’re too uptight.' Natalie resumed watching the screen. 'Sydney Greenstreet as "Kasper Gutman" has some great lines in this film. Anyway, if anyone should be worried it should be me,' she half-smiled.

'I thought we were on a date?'

'We are. I want to discuss a proposition. This place is as good as any.” Even in the dark I could see her soft wavy hair, full crimson lips and bask in her fragrance.

She resumed watching the screen. Now and then she would glance at me and extend a wink.

'Why me?'

'I don’t like Prima Donnas—tall, pretty boys with strong chins—always someone telling them how great they are. Anyway, you can’t tell someone’s good just by looking at their face, can you?' she said, producing a playful laugh.

Natalie returned to the film. 'This is my favourite part. Listen and watch closely. Amazing dialogue.'

I watched Natalie as she mimed in unison with the film. “Well, sir, here’s to plain speaking and clear understanding. You’re a close-mouthed man? - I like to talk - I’m a man who likes talking to a man who likes to talk.”

She turned and winked. It worked every single time. Even though I felt things could descend into a kaleidoscopic nightmare at any moment, I was, for now, mesmerised.

To be continued . . .?

Reflections: Everyone needs dreams. Some men love soft, delicate dreams, and soft delicate woman. A lady of my acquaintance loves a man she believes does not dream. Yet jealousy of his thoughts keep her awake. He is a master of deception. Her virtue—wise or unwise—lies in her performance.

A Faint Injured Air, Doctor Wobbleski, and "Sometimes Words Serve No Purpose"

Today I'm quite sick. My head feels like it's made of wood. My temperature is leaping about on the roof of a neighbour's car. I am suffering - to a degree - triple sensory impairment which is affecting my sight, hearing, and smell.

I'm surrounded by a faint injured air. Have I a cold, a heavy cold, or a very heavy cold? I'll weight it later when I'm feeling better. The headlines in the morning newspaper confirm a "heavy cold" is sweeping the country. Surely that's a job for Council personnel, not a heavy cold? I considered embracing a tin of meat for comfort when Doctor Wobbleski strutted into my bedroom. Given that I was downstairs in my living room I found his behaviour outrageous.

He had brought his three-pointed, black and white beard which looked ridiculous hanging out of his trouser pocket. He spoke simple, terrible words! "You scum!" I stayed silent. Although I had the gift of the gab I was damned if I was going to give it back. I resumed listening to myself growing old. I glanced at Doctor Wobbleski. He looked like a man who worked hard all day but had nothing to show for it. His jacket was shapeless, baggy; in league with his face.

'Well, doctor,' I said, in a polite murmur, 'what do you think?' He seemed indecisive, scratched himself, ignored me, and attended to the "faint injured air"! Suddenly, I remembered why I dislike people who smell of carbolic acid.

I began to howl - as most hypochondriacs do for attention - but the doctor told me to be quiet. My anxiety for my health persisted. Meanwhile, the doctor made vague promises he would tend to me shortly. I watched as he grunted like a pig while examining the injured air.

'I'm at a loss, ' he said. 'Of course, I don't know what's going on inside . . . No, indeed . . . But you look in terrible shape . . . It has been a cold winter. I do believe you've caught a dreadful cold. I'll give you something for the cough'. The injured air looked paler than ever, and had another coughing fit. The doctor enlightened the injured air of the benefits of a refreshing trip to the seaside, or to a quiet corner of a park. He felt it would help its mood, ease its headaches. He further prescribed excitement, music, curiosity, a change in diet, and whistling.

Just as I felt all was lost, Doctor Wobbleski approached. He felt my pulse, listened to the blood racing through my body, then shook his head. I sat motionless, anxious, covered in dandruff. 'You're in a dreadful state . . . You smell like a mouldy rope, and worst, look like one . . . Do you want my advice?' he said, clearly intent in getting out of my house as quickly as possible. 'You've lost your spirit, ' he replied, looking at nothing, and thinking of nothing. 'First of all, take that cigar out of your left nostril, your glasses out of your mouth, and your false teeth out of your ears . . . Get out of bed . . . shave . . . go out into the street and kiss the first women you meet who is blessed with full, pale thighs. Get a job that doesn't involve work, and remember . . . It may be foggy, but it's not raining! Whatever the hell that means!'

After Doctor Wobbleski left, I thought that while sometimes I feel I live by myself - like a god or an animal - I can't afford to waste a minute of time looking back on my life. I felt an intense inner glow deep inside melting the icepack that had built up over thirty years. I recalled that no one really sleeps alone. Not while memory exists.

I put on an extra layer of clothing and got into a warm scented bath. I lit my cigar and dozed with Pleasure, a young lady friend, who rinsed my back with her soft hands . . . I think it was her hands? 

*     *     *

Reflections: Sometimes words serve no purpose, especially when you know the score, the person, their pleasure in complaining about all things on this earth. In such circumstances music is hard to resist. It enters your soul and you don't need to debate, argue, proffer advise you never take yourself. Sometimes silence speaks for itself and brings peace.

Of course, some people and things - once important - lose their impact on us over time. Loss of colour and ambivalence speed their demise, and our conviction towards them. Something to be celebrated, surely?

Little Brain & Big Brain, Journalists & Politicians, and "Are We Doomed to Torture Each Other?"

I profess to ignorance, stupidity, to wear a mask that sometimes slips, and to be the owner of a small brain - not a large brain - a little brain. I tend to jump to conclusions about issues happening all over our dear planet. Test me on any subject. I know human existence is stressful, just pick any subject. Any subject at all ... Tomorrow? Well, if you wish ...?

Why the silence? No doubt you're right ... I've no patience. My little brain is spluttering thinking of all the questions one can be asked. Some people appear to be blessed with a big brain; one that belonged to a pretentious charlatan and now belongs to them.

Is there an excuse for the above paragraph? Well, ... Yes. The exact issues and journalistic reports are immaterial, and this personal view is not directed at authentic, serious, accomplished journalists and politicians.

This is what happened today. I listened to journalists and politicians on the television and radio, and evidently some seem to believe their thinking and utterances are of special importance. Indeed, superior and of greater significance, to that of doctors, psychologists, philosophers, painters, musicians, etc. Indeed, any other human being on this planet.

Give them any subject: the economy, health, accountability, finance, morality, the role of men and woman in society and culture, motherhood, careers, education, prosperity, advertising, mental health, infidelity, how to raise healthy children, religion, automatic washers and driers, gourmet cooking, frozen dinners, interior decorating, fashion, political and social events, flight attendants, dieting, sex, childcare, shipbuilding, pregnancy, fertility, ad infinitum. Then listen and watch as they speak and write with a "drainpipe mentality".

However, their depth of thought and insight into certain issues may be patently shallow, and subsequently their words highlight their ignorance, and unsavory ability to jump to conclusions on complex matters without access to the full facts. It's a real challenge to listen to their unenlightening, unintelligible, absurd rantings.

Of course, the full picture behind the story will emerge, and the newspaper, magazine, and television editors, and staff, can celebrate their role in presenting - not only the telling details - but the dirt dug up to dupe readers into believing it is in their interest, and is necessary to provide a full and accurate picture of the issue.

Life is difficult enough without listening to people talking and writing about other peoples lives, problems, burdens, as if they - alone - possess a unique insight. Inept journalists and politicians should leave people to confront and solve their own painful problems. As we should do ours. Are we - on this dear planet - doomed to torture each other, emotionally and psychologically, for ever?

Hopefully, daylight will arrive soon, and shine light on these motionless, standing, robotic creatures. No-one is totally innocent of anything. A lesson some journalists and politicians have still to learn.

Reflections: By appearance solitude does not deserve praise. However, gazing into empty space has its reward - sometimes you may find something of value.

Darkness in the Afternoon - Part Two

"My husband, Giorgio, is half Spanish and half cocker spaniel – only joking!" she exclaimed.

I feigned a smile. I couldn't keep my eyes of her long graceful legs.

"You must learn to chill out." She moved to the back of my chair and started to massage my shoulders. Elina’s masterly display confirmed what was absent from my life—an animated female with poor eyesight.

"Giorgio is half Spanish and half Italian on his mother’s side. He’s a painter and an author. He was educated at Oxford and practiced as a physician in Portugal. He is handsome, rich and generous.”

I was starting to despise Giorgio but I needed the case and the money. Just then my left leg decided to go to sleep. I sat back and rubbed my leg to restore circulation. Elina turned my chair round. "Here, let me do that."

As I tried to control my knees she asked. "Where did this dentist live?"

"What dentist?"

"The halibut—"

"Oh, the dentist—Above a jewellery store."

"You don’t give much away."

"I don’t have much to give—"

"You’re too modest."

When my trousers involuntarily moved, Elina's soft, freckled face flushed. "You’re line of work must be hard?"

I tried to fake manliness—a trait my mother had down to perfection. Elina had met Giorgio in Paris where he was exhibiting his work. "He found me sexy. Do you?"

"I never mix work and sex—extreme passion blinds me. I simultaneously wear contact lenses and glasses due to poor eyesight. I once dated a shrub for two weeks. On the upside it was a great kisser."

Elina became thoughtful; her perfume engulfed me like a Churchill cigar smoking a cigarette. "Love is a mystery," she mused. "One day he asked, and I said—well, you know—"

She kept caressing my knee and didn’t notice I was hyperventilating.

"What excites you?" she asked.

"Tarzan—the novels, not the movies." I began biting my elbows. "And hairstyles—French plaits—ringlets. I’m reading a book called My Life as a Hair-Piece by Bob Bouffant. The author is French and the toupee is English."

I asked if she had a photograph of Giorgio. She took a snapshot from her handbag. He was undeniably handsome. I was sure he had a wandering eye. My instinct told me if I could find his eye I would find him.

I stood up and grabbed my second-hand overcoat. "We can continue this conversation over a cup of coffee across the street."

End of Part Two

Read Part Three