Korê in New York

What happens when a kid refuses to leave the past behind? What happens when the past won't go away? Read on and don't worry about the emotional damage.

1. How I Stained My Sweater

   The sweater was lavender, a lovely orchid shade. I thought it would look great with my olive drab parachute skirt. I packed the skirt for Friday night services. There was no way I was going to climb battens in a long skirt.

   No production is ready to go a week before. This is the time when Murphy’s law sinks its teeth into things. I knew after school, I might get in a lot of study time if I was lucky. I was not lucky.

   We blew a succession of gels on batten number two. They popped like the devil’s popcorn,  and Lisle, Micah, and Javonovitch had an argument with the student producing the fake Rockette’s production and the student’s co-producing their own one act of Ray Bradbury’s Rocket Ship, which is a great short story about a man who builds a fake rocket ship ride for those too poor to travel to Mars and Venus for fun.

   “There’s an electrical problem!” thundered Javonovitch, “And it’s going to fuck up every time we use those lights. It’s going to fuck up opening night. It’s going to fuck up Saturday night, and if it just fucks up, you’re going to be fucking lucky! You could get a fucking fire up there. This needs to be fixed now. Bring up the house and the work lights. You can rehearse without lights. We’ll get the lights fixed while you rehearse down there.”

   The drama club kids were still not happy. Lighting crew did not run the stage. “Safety comes first,” Lisle replied. How did that kid get a Southern drawl or maybe it was a Texas drawl. I did not know much about Lisle except that he was a senior and did not run lighting crew. He also did not have a one act though he could have had his pick of them. According to Micah, who sometimes let things slip, Lisle was anti-social and hated drama club kids. That was not a good position for a lighting crew member, but Lisle was such a bang up programmer and such an absolutely fantastic electrician and batten monkey that he was indispensible.

   In the end the drama club students fetched the drama club advisor who was sitting in the back of the auditorium grading papers. As at Houghton drama club ran its own show most of the time. Mr. Luce stood on stage with one hand on his hip. He wore a white sweater with navy blue trim and stone colored kahkis. He could have played a leading man when he was younger. He should have favored the drama club kids, some of whom were handsome like he was. Lisle was a hulking brute who had a pastey face turned red with lots of half healed and scratched open zits. Even though he was probably eighteen all ready, he often forgot to blow his nose. I suspected he did not wear a clean shirt every day or use deoderant either.

   I knew who would win the argument. I turned away and looked for my biology book. I sat for a practice Regents on Monday. I’d come to rehearsals late that day. It was just that time of the year. I tried not to listen to the argument. Then the stage went black. I blinked. “Bihar, get your fucking harness on and your belt stocked,” Javonovitch screamed. “You and Lisle are going up number two and you’re going to fix every piece of fucking wiring. The one acts can rehearse without lighting while we get this shirt done.”

   I gathered my tools together and secured my harness. “Hey Bihar,” asked Micah. “What’s the joke?”

   “There’s no joke,” I answered.

   “Why do you have that shit eating grin on your face?”

   The grin vanished, replaced by a very sore throat. This one was going to be so hard to explain in just a few quick and hard boy words. I couldn’t do it. “You don’t want to know,” I croaked and blinked back a few tears as I quickly made for the ladder. “Brooklyn Tech is not Houghton,” I told myself as I climbed toward the batten. “Brooklyn Tech is not Houghton. Brooklyn Tech is not Hought!” Why was it so easy to forget? Why is it so hard to learn new ways?

   I crawled out on the batten. Lisle worked from the opposite end. There were many burnt wires, badly applied insulation, stuff we did not usually inspect deeply during safety checks. This went beyond a safety check. We were going to fix everything, fix it right, and fix it so it stayed flx. In my tool kit, I carried WD-40. Lisle, I noticed carried it too. Some of the boys were too macho to bring this stuff up with them and then found themselves with screws that wouldn’t undo or doors that wouldn’t open. This lubricant was necessary.

   I fixed six lights. Lisle fixed nine. Afterwards he thanked me. “How’d you learn this shit?” he asked.

   “My parents taught me,” I answered.

   “Her dad’s an engineer,” Javonovitch explained.

   “My mom fixes lamps and stuff. She’s also very handy,” I answered. When I thought about it, Kyril too could probably splice wires. Nervy Worm on the other hand would not grow up learning this stuff. She just came along too late for it.

   “I thought your mom became the new College Admissions Counselor. I’m sorry she got canned last December.”

   “You know about my mom?” I asked Lisle.

   “Four years ago, I escaped from Houghton same as you,” he answered.

   “Fuck!” was all I could reply. “Your mom got hired the year after I left.”

   “You kept up with people?”

   “Are you fucking kidding? I have younger siblings at Houghton so I’d hear from my parents. No, I just wanted to get as far away from that shit pit as possible. They don’t really teach there, not in the middle school, and maybe some in the high school. It’s a playground for spoiled brats. I’m no political, but it’s no surprise the place fell.”

   “Bihar, why are you fucking crying?” Javonovitch asked. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I could barely hear myself sob. “It’s something I remember,” I stammered. Chin put her arm around me. “She’ll be OK. It’s emotional when your mom gets fired for no good reason,” she told the boys.

   We crouched in the shadows as Micah called out “Safety check!” The auditorium went black and the lights came up.

   Gathered around the piano in the orchestra pit, a drama club girl with long black hair played a tune that had become familiar last fall, and a boy with beautiful features began to sing. Here is the song. It is the opening song to Life After Paradise.

   Cast Adrift

   Sitting on the beach at low tied
   Waiting for the sea
   To pour over these tired sands
   To lift and carry me
   I know not where I’m going
   Except along for the ride
   I’ll be ebbing and flowing
   And moving with the tide
   
   CHORUS Cast adrift
   After four years love and loss
   Like a scrap of wood upon the sea
   Aimlessly I toss
   I’ll keep my head above the water
   Keep my hope and more
   Until the day I find my place
   Upon a distant shore
   Cast adrift.
   
   Goodbye to all the girls I knew
   Goodbye late nights and song.
   Four years went by too quickly.
   They only last so long.
   Now the good times have come and gone
   And now I’m all alone
   I need to find the precious strength
   To make it on my own.
   
   CHORUS Cast adrift
   I will keep my muse with me
   I will cherish my small voice
   And not let it drown at sea
   I have things to say and I have passion
   I have words to write
   The world’s not heard the last of me,
   I’ll not give up the fight
   Though cast adrift.
   
   New York City waits for me.
   Let the waters bring me there.
   I’ll find the fortune I deserve.
   And maybe a heart that cares.
   Though the ocean may be blue and cold.
   Inside me there is fire.
   I still no my life’s ahead of me,
   And I’m burning with desire.
   
   CHORUS Cast adrift
   Some day I’ll reach the shore.
   Life doesn’t end at twnety-two.
   I know that there is more.
   I will keep my head held high
   Keep a smile upon my face.
   The future is bright as the sun,
   And I’m ready for the race
   Even though right now,
   I’m cast adrift.

   Words and music by Rachielle Maple, September, 2009
   

   “Is Bihard still fucking crying?” asked Javonovitch. Chin wiped the tears from her own eyes. “It’s a very emotional song,” she informed the boys. “It’s an incredible song,” I gulped.

   Rehearsal was more or less over, so I staggered to the subway. Only when I got on the train did I realize that I had not changed into my skirt. I found the Meir’s midtown apartment. Like my family, the Meir’s were wealthy. They had a three bedroom with the spare room turned into a kind of dormitory for the two refugees from Kentucky. They were both girls. One wore a tight skirt and the other a broomstick skirt that looked like a hand me down. I wore olive kahkis, my orchid sweater and…

   “Kore, what happened to your sweater?” asked Ms. Meir as I entered an apartment that smelled of roast chicken and some sort of stew.

   “I don’t know,” I replied.

   “You have a big stain on it!”

   I glanced down at the orchid colored cotton knit and saw a huge nearly black stain. “That’s WD-40,” I said. “We had an electrical inspection on the battens and you have a lot of screws and bolts that won’t move without WD-40. It’s a great lubricant.”

   “You came straight from school?” asked Ms. Meir. “Do they really work you that hard for just a play?”

   “It’s not just a play,” I countered. “Would you guys like free tickets to the May 23rd matinee.”

   “Is it suitible for…children.”

   “Yes,” I replied. “Thought it might make them want to get into the theater.” I smiled. In the bathroom I got a really good look at the stain on my sweater. “Don’t lord it over those poor kids from Kentucky,” I told myself, though I was wondering how I could keep from crossing the line between explaining and lording. I was proud of who I was and what I did.

   In the end, the kids from Kentucky monopolised the table. The girl in the tight skirt who was sixteen lamented the loss of her drivers’ license. and having to sell her car. The driving age in New York City is eighteen. The other girl, who was only twelve, talked about her favorite country music star. I said I’d try to burn a CD for her. I told the girls about the study center and summer prep camp.

   “Are there boys at the camp?” asked Ms. Meir.

   “Of course. It’s co-ed,” I replied. The girls from Kentucky giggled. Livi winced. Mr. Meir steered the conversation toward the week’s Torah portion which was about kashrus. I thought about blood and tongue loaf and said nothing. Because it was Shabbos, I could not leave any written messages, but I did leave my business card. As I was going, Ms. Meir took me aside and said: “Next time  you visit for Shabbos, please wear proper clothing.”

   I felt like slapping her face. Some grownups are utter and total assholes.

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