“Naw, boy,” she replied with a shake of the head; “'f I was in yo' shoes, I'd be pullin' the same type a' shit. But I had to work for eh'thing I got, know what I'm sayin'. And I know it's tough. I ain't never said shit'd be easy. 'Lotta niggas never make it out—'seasy to fall back into the system.”
“The system?”
“Welfare. Peejays. That shit. It ain't right dat niggas be havin' kids just to get a bigga' welfare check, know what I'm sayin'. But dat shit happens. 's the world we live in. And I don't want my baby girl growin' up 'round all dat. I want her to grow up out the ghetto,” slowly. “I want her to get a good education,” slowly. “I want her to have every option I ain't never had.” She pauses, almost lugubriously. “And if she wants to, you know, pursue somethin' like what you're doin', and she's furreal…shit, I'll support her with eh'thing I got.”
In the few weeks that I have been out of the university, I have come to realize that the working class wishes for nothing besides leisure time, while the leisure class wishes for nothing more than a meaningful task to occupy their abundance of free time (hence the lingering effects of the Buddhism fad in places like the Upper West Side, as well as the continuing popularity of Scientology, a movement that appears to be nothing more than a specious response to the feelings of estrangement, perhaps nausea, that have become so pronounced in contemporary society). Still, it's unsettling that I find myself believing that no one is content except for the proud and those too busy enjoying the moment to seriously consider the future (and not the grand, abysmal future, either — the localized, imminent one). It's as though life isn't good enough for humanity anymore.
Still, this is not to say that I am unhappy with the situation. While it is true that I am finding it increasingly difficult to anticipate an interview with Coprolalia, I am certainly cognizant of the way in which I will look at my present situation in the future — an envy of this state of personal evolution, so to speak. And as I stare to the bloody mary before me, I begin to understand that I am no longer a part of the academic community, that I have never been a member of the intelligentsia, that I cannot be considered a member of the working class, that I will continue to be regarded with nothing more than a pejorative fascination so long as I define myself as confined to this transient state—homo manqué. There is no sympathy for me, only a vague empathy that often gets lost in overtones of jealousy and contempt. With limitless possibilities available to me, I have opted to chase a chimera.
At least I can say that I have enjoyed the time. It's just that an uneasy ambivalence is beginning to shadow me. I can't help but feel that I am neglecting a path that I am supposed to follow.
“Liquid brunch?” a familiar voice asks. The question floats through the air without a discernible focus, yet I somehow understand that it is directed at me. I cannot attach a face to the voice until I look up.
“Vinati,” awkwardly. “How have you been?”
She takes a step in my direction. “Besides working and pouring myself into bed just about every night, I'd say pretty good.” She smiles as she places a hand upon the rim of the table. “You're here by yourself?”
“I was having coffee with Professor Winchester,” I say as I once again remove my sunglasses.
“You were always such a kiss-ass,” she says to the sky. When her eyes return to the garden, she notices the absence of one coffee cup, let alone two. She removes her sunglasses to reveal a coy or alluring glance. “So where'd he go?”
“There was an incident involving a cat that really put him off,” I respond dryly. She tilts her head, which reveals an ear that is pierced in no less than eight locations. “Are you here by yourself, too?”
“I was supposed to meet a friend, but she's not here yet.” Her expression is not suppliant, but she is clearly embarrassed by the girl's absence. “Do you mind?” motioning to the vacant seat across from me.
We begin to catch up. This doesn't last that long. The little antecedent information that we have shared needs only scant revising. A paucity of words is dedicated to the last time we saw one another. An ignorant observer would presume that we shared a dance, and then somehow lost track of one another. Within a few moments we are imagining a multitude of scenarios that involve Ilkay. I guess there is no need to break ice when discussing him.
The daylight continues to rain down upon us, the tree in the garden creating only a weak cloak of shade. As the remaining fantasies in which we can place Ilkay begin to reach an asymptote, conversation becomes less caustic and more inquisitive. Commonalities begin to appear in places previously left unexamined. She is far more intelligent than I assumed. Perhaps that is one of those things we project onto beautiful people — i.e. if you're that good looking, it wouldn't be fair for you not to be a fool. We both note that a pianist in one of the units above the restaurant mimics Vince Guaraldi with brilliant accuracy. “That's 'Treat Street',” she exclaims. She looks mildly embarrassed before adding that her parents were both obsessed with Peanuts.
“Peanuts?”
“Every day my dad would read the comic strip. He really liked the television specials, too. He swears that's how he learned English.”
“Really? Are you a big fan of Guaraldi?” She nods her head enthusiastically, but says nothing as her lips are preoccupied by a straw. “The only songs I know by name are 'Linus and Lucy' and 'Young Man's Fancy',” I add.
The restaurant plays that Plain White T's song that seems too innocent to be popular. I look to see the tabby from before prowling about the yard cautiously. As she puts down her drink, Vinati looks to me, notices my eyes, and then slowly turns her attention to the cat. “Is this the guy who caused all the trouble earlier?” She smiles broadly in his direction. It's as though she has extra teeth.
“Probably,” I say without thinking. I look again. “Yeah, that's him all right.”
Eventually, the anonymous friend sends a text message. It's a cancellation, one that Vinati doesn't seem too dejected over. “She's such a fucking flake,” is added with a roll of the eyes.
The evening comes and goes.
Every teleologist will maintain that things happen for a reason. This is something of a tautology. The more militant members of this group will claim that everything happens for a reason. This is an argument that holds water only if one believes that the universe was created. Now, if one espouses this determinate, idealist view of the universe, it is typically sufficient for the belief in some transcendental sense of justice or karma or whatever you wish to call the incarnation (in the figurative sense) of an Ultimate Being, who forbade the reign of Darkness, and thought it necessary to bring about the Light (and, for the more scientifically-inclined deists, that this Being subsequently allowed for an inflaton field to expand — something like a holy spit bubble that is temporally concomitant to the Word). Perhaps it allows people to sleep a little better if they believe in a causal nexus, a Light both mysterious and conscious of every one of the particulates that dictate the passing of one moment to the next. Unfortunately, for those of us who have a hard time relating to, certainly with, this bodiless embodiment of will, wisdom, and supposed beneficence, which people call by an arbitrary name, we cannot accept such willed transcendence. We are forced to observe and attempt to explain only the adjuncts — the simple incidents without much significance when taken on their own — that serve to comprise the tapestry of experience we call existence. Being left to ponder context, we create what some call meaning.