Long November
November 14, 2004
A year ago this weekend we were walking up 9th Street towards Race not really sure where we were headed. I can�t remember where I was coming from or where he was coming from, but somehow we decided that it was a good place to meet. As we were walking against the wind that was no blowing hard, he suddenly bent over, and if I he hadn�t stayed bent over like that for a beat too long I would have thought he had dropped something�instead he was trying to stifle the sob that was breaking through him. Finally he stood up straight again, apologized, and wiped the tears from his eyes. We kept walking like nothing had happened, and that was fine with me if that�s what he wanted.
Eventually we ended up at the Noodle House on the corner of 10th and Race, and we disinterestedly picked out something to eat. We had tea. We talked. He didn�t eat much. I offered him some of my food.
Eventually we left. The old man who had brought us our food tried to pressure us to stay, tried to interest us in something else, but he pretty quickly picked up on the somber mood.
We didn�t know where we were going, but I didn�t want to leave him alone. Not because I felt sorry for him, just because I felt for him and there was really no place I wanted to be instead. We stopped in a Chinese bakery and picked up some bean-stuffed pastries. He told me that if he ever lived in Philadelphia again he would live in Chinatown, and he�d get so fat on the cheap sweets from the bakeries that he loved. He told me that other than her, a big reason (he claims) that he was going to turn down Chicago was that there was too much good, cheap food there. He detailed every single, whopping meal he ate while in Chicago. I still remember the details of the $5 diner steak dinner. Ugh.
His mood had lightened and we decided to go to Cuba Libre for mojitos. I�d never been, and other than the very mediocre ones he�d made for us the year before, I�d never had a mojito either.
We got there and the bar was crowded. Packed. But we found one stool and like the gentleman he can sometimes be, he let me sit on the stool and paid for the first round of drinks. Delicious. Expensive. But worth it. He asked the bartender how to make them. He laughed, �Maybe next time I make them they�ll turn out a bit better.�
His face fell.
We were restless. The bar was too crowded and we wanted to get out of there, but we didn�t know where to go. I suggested a friend�s house on the Parkway. He said that it didn�t sound like a bad idea. We took the trolley to 22nd Street and headed north, first stopping by Trader Joe�s to pick up a cake, some mint, some lemons. I don�t remember what else.
We got to the Parkway. We drank, we talked. He wavered�sometimes laughing nodding that he was okay, that he was perhaps better off, then tearing and wondering what had gone wrong.
It was an odd night with an odd collection of people. We watched amusing online ads. We did quizzes. We played truth or dare. Heh. A risqu� game of truth or dare that ended up with four of us sprawled out on the queen-size bed. It was totally innocent. We were all there for comfort or to offer support.
Eventually it was time to go�to Philly Diner. It was, after all, Ramadan and being the classy people we were we decided it was okay to show up at the 1a.m. suhoor just a little bit tipsy.
And it was. It was fun. He put on a brave face for his Arab brothers. They patted him on the back. His �sisters� with whom he would be spending the night doted on him. Not too much. Just enough. My part was done. He was where he needed to be. No one said anything directly, but we all said it loud and clear. �We�re here for you. You don�t even have to ask.�
It was a long November. I hope this year will be better for you than the last.