June 15

Tonight, or rather in the cool end-part of the day, I saw the great poet Rachel Zucker at Lafayette restaurant on Lafayette Street.   I beamed at her in my sunglasses from behind a potted palm, al fresco, and sipped my spritz from a blue striped straw, the kind of paper object that disentigrates if you are drinking slowly.  Then my friend Anne came to meet me and we ducked into the bar to discuss the past and our husbands (the great thing about Lafayette restaurant in addition to the $8 Old Fashioneds from 4-6pm is that like any good theater there are several spaces and proscenia for the acts to unfold.)  When later I emerged from the zinc bar I noticed Rachel — still there in the cool June evening with her bearded husband.   Avoiding introduction is my metier, but but I was so spritzed and oystered that I floated over to her table, interrupted her conversation and told her I loved her in different words.  You smiled at me earlier, she said, in your beautiful glasses.  Can I see them?   I pulled them out, a little embarrassed by their cheap plastic case, and told her the maker, Proof, and material, plywood, and when her husband asked my name, probably because he sensed I was trying with all my youth to pick her up, I said I’m nobody, and after a bit more chirping I walked myself out, eyes still shaded from the demonstration of the sunglasses, to the street.

June 12

I am very often waiting for the story. It is less often that the story is waiting for me.  I was rounding Gramercy Park, thinking about enclosures and cow’s parsley and how good it feels to be called for jury duty when you are rudderless and free when I came in the sight of the great poetry editor Alice Quinn.   I had to cross the street that frames the park in order to get behind her.  She was clearly, in her seersucker and short sleeve cottons, on her way somewhere.   Perhaps she sensed my desperation.  I was wearing my Klimtian design reform tunic, a heavy linen French worker’s nightgown from, I am told, the nineteenth century, and stitched in red on the placket at about where the sternum falls is the code, unbreakable to me, “DD13”.   Perhaps she knew I was out of time.  But some part of her must have wanted to meet me because, like a thought or a small dog, a long receipt flew out of her pocket and fell at my Birkenstocked feet.  I picked it up for her.   It was, perhaps — I held it for mere instants — a post office receipt, but it had her hand on it, a list perhaps of her illicit dreams or the winners of all the great future prizes, or could it be, as I think on it years later, my own name?  We were the only two on the sidewalk.  Excuse me, I offered, and she turned, exasperated, then perhaps interested in my tunic.  You dropped this, I said, offering my pleat-bloused workers arm.   Thank you, she said, recovering from startle.  Are you Alice Quinn, I never dared to ask and wouldn’t even if I had the chance again in 1,000 lifetimes.   She scurried up Park Avenue while I planted myself in the shade — like a fern, I guess — and watched until I lost her, my organs bumping around in my breast with joy.