God the Mother

“Excuse me.”

It's early evening, rush hour, and I'm sitting on a crowded downtown D train. I look up from my book to see a young lady standing directly over me, smiling. She has yellow hair, thick foundation on her cheeks and pink lips. She is dressed in snug office clothes and looks like a generic professional, a receptionist perhaps.

“Yes?”

“Excuse me, this is kind of a strange question, but do you believe in God the mother?"

"What?"

"I said do you believe in God the mother?"

"Oh ... I don't know..." My eyes fall to the side. I search for an answer that discourages this line of questioning from continuing but is also not terribly rude. What is my tactic here? I wait too long.

"You don't know?" She repeats my words through grinning teeth. "Well, do you believe in God?"

"Um, I guess in a way. Sure." 

"You guess? Sometimes? I mean, do you ever wonder where this all comes from?" She gestures with her hand around the train. She looks genuinely amazed but also sounds like she's reading a script. She is actually quite funny. "Do you ever wonder about the meaning of life?" 

"Do I ever wonder about the meaning of life?" I repeat, trying to mirror her enthusiasm. 

"Yeah!"

"Sure!"

"Yeah, because, I mean, what is this all about?" 

"I know, right?" 

We smile at each other for a moment. She looks like she's in on the joke and is about to burst into laughter.

"My name is Brynn. What's your name?"

"Maggie."

"Maggie, you know you can know the truth. But there's only one truth, and there's only one place you can actually find it. The bible."

"Oh yeah?" I try to sound surprised. 

"Yeah! Maggie, I lead a bible study on Thursday nights at my church where we get together and talk about all these questions. You should come. It's called the Church of God. It's on 49th Street. It's actually an office church."

"What's an office church?"

"It's just in an office building. You can't tell it's a church from the outside. Because did you know that the crosses that most churches have, the bible actually considers those idols? Did you know that? That's crazy, right?"

"Yeah," I say. "That's crazy."

"Let me give you my card." She rummages in her purse, a cheap, purple nylon thing. I realize all her clothes look very cheap. The material has the subtle sheen of a polyester blend, and her body stretches the seams and buttons unnaturally. They look like costumes, stage clothes.  

"How big is your church?" I ask.

"The church I go to or around the world?"

"Around the world."

"Around the world, we have about two million people, which is actually pretty small, which is crazy." She hands me a tiny card the size of half of a regular business card cut length wise. I clutch it in my hand without looking at it. 

"Do you always get new members by approaching random people on the subway?"

She shrugs and smiles. "Well, I do. At least I try."

"Why?"

"Why? Because of what I've seen. I just can't help telling people the truth every chance I get."

We are quiet for a second.

"Do you work around here?" she asks. 

"Oh, I work from home."

"What?"

"I'm a writer. I work from home."

"Ohhh. What stop is this? This is my stop. Nice to meet you, Maggie. Come to a meeting. Text me!"

Relieved, I lower my head to my book. But when I notice the woman next to me shoot me a sympathetic half-smile, like "You just had to deal with THAT," I suddenly feel a little defensive. That girl wasn't so bad.

I look down at the card. Both sides are covered with vague, decorative images of outer space: the white sun rising over the surface of the deep purple and blue planet, a collection of stars. Four bible passages are written in a cutesy cursive font:

Galatians 4:26 "But the Jerusalem that is above is free, and she is our Mother."

Genesis 1:26 "Then God said, 'Let Us make mankind in Our image, in Our likeness...'"

Revelation 22:17 "The Spirit and the bride say 'Come!' ... Let anyone who desires drink freely from the water of life."

I realize that Brynn's opening phrase, "God the mother," was meant to shock and intrigue, but its strangeness didn't even register to me because I was so concerned with thwarting an unwanted interaction. The card contains her phone number. I wonder what she would say if I texted her when I got off the train and asked: "What have you seen?"

Zuri

Two men sit side by side on a downtown A Express train. It's morning, and the car is crowded. The doors open at 34th Street. More people shuffle in, edging their way toward the middle of the car.

"So I said to him, 'I want a full genetic history,'" the man sitting near the window says. He has a wide, soft face. His lower lip and jawline are connected by a thin, curved strip of sculpted facial hair.

"Really?"

"Uh uh. They's no way our dogs are having babies together if I don't know exactly where his came from. No way."

His friend laughs. He wears a long necklace with a colorful flower charm made from tiny plastic beads that were melted together in a home oven. It's the kind of jewelry a little girl makes from a kit bought at a toy store. He wears black sunglasses rimmed with tiny plastic white flowers.

"And then he's talking about how because he has the male, he gets the PICK of the litter. Mmhmm. No way. Zuri's the one that's having the babies. I'm getting the pick of the litter."

"How do you know this guy anyway?"

"A friend of a friend. He met me and Zuri at the dog park."

"Ohoohhh." The man in flowers says knowingly.

The train jolts to a stop at 14th Street, and the quiet conversations are interrupted by a song:

"Joy to the world! The homeless man is here!" A tall, handsome black man wearing baggy sweatpants and a long sleeved tee shirt makes his way through."I'd appreciate any help. Food, water." He pauses for a moment. "Toothbrush, deodorant."

Careful smiles spread across faces otherwise focused on books, Kindles or the air just above the ground. But people also keep talking.

"How old is Zuri?"

"She's eleven months."

"Just eleven months and she's already having puppies?"

"Thank you for your time," the homeless man says, collecting change here and there in a plastic grocery bag. "I appreciate the help. You know I won't be homeless forever."

The train stops at West 4th Street.

"I better not be homeless forever." The homeless man exits and exits.

"No no no! I'm waiting. I'm waiting till she's two."

"Ahh."

"Yeah I'm waiting till she's two." He pauses, considering the age. The two men sway subtly into one another, shoulder to shoulder. "That seems right, doesn't it?"

"How long do dogs live?"

"Twelve, fifteen years."

"So you taking her at less than a fourth of her life and knocking her up?" Behind his flowered shades, the man looks up doing calculations in his head. "In human years, she'd be what, 15?"

The two men laugh loudly. "Poor thing."

Homecoming

Long line at the liquor store and I'm the only white girl. The man in front of me wears clean jeans up around his waist, laced work boots, a shiny red vest and baseball cap. He's lucid, unlike many others who frequent the store. He might be my age, 28, or older--old enough to have slowed down a little but not much. He recognizes someone farther up in line, a tall man, with a shiny head. This man looks older and little less lucid, a like he might be picking up refills for a night that's already begun. On his way out the door, he stops to  slap hands.

"Hey man, how you doin?"

"Doin aight." They exchange pleasantries for a while. The man in front of me explains that he's on his way home from work.

"Hey, you know Donnell's about to be comin home soon," says the shiny headed man.

"That right?"

"Yeah, man. He got 20 years."

The first man doesn't hear at first. Then he does. He says in a quieter voice. "Yo Donnell got 20 years?"

The shiny headed man nods seriously, on his way out of the door. "And now he's comin home."

Searching for In-laws on the D Train

I'm sitting on the D train, reading a book on the way home from work. My seat is by the window, my knees just a few inches away from the pair of seats against the wall. At 155th Street, a middle-aged black man wearing black jeans, a black jacket, and black sneakers, lowers himself into the seat in front of me, with a big end-of-the-workday sigh. His jacket brushes up against my knee.

"Excuse me," he says, very politely.

"It's OK." He is a wide-set man with a kind, intelligent face. I immediately like him.

The man puts in his ear buds, fiddles with his iPod, and relaxes. After about 30 seconds, a deep voice behind me can be heard asking: "You related to Darrell?"

The man in front of me looks over my head to the source of the question. He removes one earbud and stands up halfway. "What's that?'

"You related to Darrell?" the voice repeats.

"Nahh." He shakes his head.

"Aw, all right," the voice says. "You look like my son-in-law, Darrell. I thought you mighta been related to 'em."

The man returns to his seat in front of me.

Harlem Duane Reade, Halloween Eve

“Now, that ain’t always the case, Momma. Look what happened to you and Daddy.” 

It's after eight, and most grocery stores in the area have closed. A woman wearing jogging pants and a sweatshirt, glasses, and cornrows stands still in the food aisle with her cell phone pressed to her ear. Her red basket, full of snacks, toiletries, and other household items, is at her feet. 

“I said look what happened to you and Daddy. You did good and were a good mother, and he still left. I’m just sayin’ sometimes it doesn’t matter what you do.”

Her voice is patient and animated. She carefully articulates each word.

“You remember Daddy, Momma. . . He died, Momma. . . Yeah he did, about seven years ago. . . Cancer of the brain . .  He suffered bad but not long.” 

She clears her throat and says, louder this time, “I said he suffered pretty bad but not too long. He died pretty quick. You saw him about nine days before he died . . . Yeah you did. You drove up to see him with Aunt Retta and Aunt Mel, remember? You saw him nine days before he died."

When she begins to speak again she interrupts herself, “No, you go ahead, Retta.” She is quiet as she listens and then can be heard laughing by shoppers in neighboring aisles.

“That’s right, I got three of ‘em. Two boys and a girl. . . .Trey, the oldest is in Miami, Florida, in school. My other boy is in school in Brooklyn, New York. And my daughter is working uptown with me.”

People edge around her as she talks. Seemingly unaware of their presence, she stands erect, her eyes fixed on whatever is on the lowest shelf.

“Everybody’s doin’ real good, Momma. . . . I’m doin’ good too. It’s good to talk to you. You sound like you’re doin’ good too . . . I know it. Well, I’m working woman these days Momma, I’m a tired, working woman. That’s why I haven’t talked to you all as much as I used to, because I’m tired. . . .

“But it’s real good to talk to you, it’s real good to hear your voice. Now I’ll talk to you again real soon, OK? And Aunt Retta, if I can find something for your knees I’ll try to send it to you . . . No I don’t mean a pill, I mean something you put on the knees, something you can rub on them. I know you sometimes have trouble swallowing. . .

“OK then. I’ll talk to you soon. I love you Momma. Did you hear me? I said I love you Momma. Love you Aunt Retta.”

Then the woman's aisle is quiet. She has hung up, but moments later she is talking again, this time much faster, and in tone less didactic. 

“Trey?” she says. “Sorry about that--I was in a three-way call with Grandma and Aunt Retta. . . . I was talkin to Grandma, and she seemed to be makin some sense. You know, usually she doesn’t make sense, so when she’s makin’ sense I try to get her on the phone with Aunt Retta and Aunt Mel so they can talk like the used to.

"So how are you doin' Trey?"

Wendy's off of Rt. 84

The young woman approaches the Wendy’s restaurant counter. She has already ordered and consumed her food, and her friends sit at the sticky table behind her, fingering fries and slurping Jr. Frosties.

The observant Wendy’s employee—a good-looking young man of about 15 years, with light café-colored skin, tailored eyebrows, and mischievous eyes—recognizes that her needs are likely more complex than those of the others in line, who are merely ordering their first meal. Having already eaten, she could be standing there to criticize or complain, or to passively re-order an item that he had neglected to put on the tray the first time around.

“Are you all set?” he asks.

“I was wondering if I could get a small cup of coffee.”

His face relaxes. “Sure.” He types on the boxy register. “One-oh-eight.”

She hands him exact change. “Also, your trash can is a bit full over there.” She gestures toward the door, where cups and straws and BIGGIE fries containers poke out of the container’s mouth, causing it to resemble a bloated, messy monster in the process of munching. He can't see it from where he's standing but still smiles self-consciously. “Thanks,” he says, and then dashes back to figure out where they make the coffee. He can be heard asking around.

He returns and the young woman, “It will take a couple of minutes.”

“No problem.”

Business has slowed. The line that had, minutes ago, folded around the railings, is now nonexistent, and the young man relaxes and wait for the coffee to brew.

A pale doughy boy is working the register to his right. His soft face and neck suggest a sedentary lifestyle and a diet of fast food and packaged preservatives. The waist of his khaki pants is stretched to the max, forcing the fabric around his fly open like the cover of a book, revealing a strained zipper that falters half an inch below his pants button. As he fills beverages, he talks to the customer he is serving, in the hollow, nasal voice of an adolescent with braces, which is what he is.

“I’ve been here since four o’clock and in that first hour or so hardly anyone came in. Then and all of a sudden…” He shakes his head as his voice trails off.

“Four? I’ve been here since 11 o’clock,” first server says. "Lunch time is the worse. People are crazy.”

“Oh I know. Believe me.” The doughy server finishes with his customer and makes his way out from behind the counter.

“You leavin?” the first server asks.

“I’m doing trays,” the white server says. He picks up an errant tray from a table near the window and moves toward the plastic station in the center of the room that holds the ketchup and mustard dispensers, the plastic wear, straws, salt and pepper packets, napkins, and the rest. It is flanked by three uber-full garbage cans and one green tree-like plant that sprouts oddly from center, bringing to mind an oasis in the middle of a desert.

“You want to do me a favor?” 

“What’s that?”

“You want to take out that garbage by the door?” He grins at the girl waiting for her coffee, who is now apparently become his co-conspirator.

The white correspondent can be seen shaking his head as he gathers more trays.

“C’mon,” the first server says. “I took it out this morning.”

“I’ll tell you want. I’ll make you a deal," the doughy server says, without looking up. He is now collecting trays from the top of the garbage can in question. "I’ll take out the trash. If you do the trays.”

“Deal.” The first server shifts his weight, stands taller, and smiles.

The doughy server returns a stack of some fifteen trays and places them on a counter in the back.

“I’ll do the trays. As soon as I’m finished serving this customer,” the first server says.

“And I’ll do the trash as soon as I help my customer.” He turns to the gray-mustached man in a ball cap who has approached his register. “Welcome to Wendy’s. What can I get for you today, sir?”

A young lady returns from the back with the coffee. The server hands it to the girl who's been waiting. “Here you are, miss.” At that he turns to begin doing something to the trays.

After ambling back to the condiment station, glancing around half-heartedly for cream, and realizing that it is a dairy product and is probably kept cold, the girl returns to the counter. Her server has disappeared, and with the doughy white server still tending to his customer, she is forced to ask a heavily mascara'd girl with a too-long, too-thin strand of bangs swept to the side of her Wendy’s visor, who is chewing her gum with a sort of bovine open-mouthed mindlessness and is really just passing by the front counter on her way to do something else, for some cream.

In the depths of the Wendy’s food-prep operations, the girl seeking cream can see her adorable server being summoned by a clean-cut plump but neat 30-something-year old man, who is obviously a manager.

“Quick, quick. Get over here,” he says. “I mean it.”

“I was doin trays!”

“No, no. We gotta get that garbage out. Put these on.” He tosses him a pair of rubber gloves at his chest.

“But. . .” He wants to explain, and maybe he begins to explain, but he knows it is no use. His manager is stupid and wouldn’t understand, anyway, the immense pleasure and satisfaction of a deal struck between two gentlemen. The server doesn't fully understand it either. He just knows that fora few minutes he felt far better, far older, taller, more handsome, and more independent than he ever had while working at Wendy’s before. And he knows he feels much worse now. Surely the deal brought the two young men closer than they had ever been to one another, and probably closer than they will ever be again.

The server snaps on the gloves reluctantly and glares over the stove at the fat head of his fat, doughy white colleague, still taking orders at the front of the store.

rainy day x-ray

In the radiology waiting room at St. Luke’s Memorial Hospital, an older Jewish couple waits for x-rays. The wife, who wears on her squarish, masculine face a haggard expression, sits in the chair closest to the pretty, young Indian receptionist taking both of their information.

“His birthday?”

 “Four, eighteen, thirty-six.”

A young, male radiology tech with shoulder-length hair tucked behind his ears appears, picks up the clipboard, and reads the wife’s name.

 “Go ahead. I’ll finish here with your husband,” the receptionist says.

The wife follows the young man through the double doors around the corner, and the husband stands up gingerly and takes over her chair.

“You’re retired, sir?”

“What’s that?”

“Retired?” She smiles.

“Yes, retired.”

“Just checking.” After each question her eyes return to her computer screen and her fingers type impossibly fast. Outside it has been raining all morning. It rained all night, too. On the drape behind the husband’s head, a dark parabola of wetness has begun to form. “Tell me what it is you’re here for, sir.”

“I’m having some trouble with my right knee.”

“Your right knee, sir?”

“Yes.”

Typing. Raining. “What’s the problem?”

“I can straighten my left knee.” He stands up to demonstrate, though not all the way up. His back is slightly hunched. “But I can’t straighten my right knee.” His right leg is bent at about 140 or 150 degrees. “It won’t go all the way.”

The receptionist stands up so she can see what he’s doing over her desk. “Limited range of motion.”

He sits down, with effort. “Yes, limited.”

The receptionist nods and types. She hands him a form. “Please sign on lines one, two, three and four.”

From his shirt pocket he removes his glasses and with care, he unfolds them and places them on his nose.

“You know you are scheduled to have both knees examined,” she says.

He looks up from the paper. “I think it’s just the right one that I need the x-ray on.”

“The doctor usually likes to look at both to compare.”

The husband considers this a moment and then nods. “Well of that’s what the doctor thinks is best, then all right, that’s fine.”

 “But if you don’t want to have both knees x-rayed, that is of course completely up to you, as the patient. If you’d only like one knee examined, then that is absolutely possible.”

“No no, do both,” he says.

“You want both of them examined?”

“Yes, I want both of my knees examined.” He signs the last line of the paper and returns it to her. His wife has now returned and she takes her spot in the seat to his right. “You’re back so soon.”

“Yes, it’s very quick,” she says. “They are very organized.”

There is a flat screen TV hanging over her head that plays Rachael Ray. She is cooking chili with buttermilk ranch avocado dip.

“They say they’re going to do both of the knees,” he says to her.

“To compare.”

“That’s right, to compare.”

She nods and wrinkles up her nose, purses her lips, with an expression indicating prudency. “That’s better.”

The receptionist leans over her desk. “Excuse me ma’am. You may go downstairs now to see the doctor.”

“Oh I was going to wait here,” the wife says. “For my husband.”

“If you go down now the doctor might be able to see you early,” the receptionist says. “Sometimes if they have a moment, they can just”—she makes a fast, whooshing sound—“slip you in.”

“You should head down there,” the husband says. “I’ll be quick. I’ll meet you down there.”

“All right. I’ll head down there. I’ll see you down there.” She touches him on the shoulder.

“Yes, go down there. I’ll be all right.”

She leans heavily on her cane and limps to the elevator, where someone is holding the door.