August 30, 2002 Wednesday I returned to the bookstore and refused to let myself feel suffocated by it. I was a bum all summer and only used the ATM once. There was no need to stress about the prospect making money doing what had been natural for nine months. I expected the ambiance to feel the same, regardless of heightened security measures.
3:13 pm
It does, with a few exceptions. Before, I was in a box, kicking around with Chris and Sergio. They would goof off and talk about little more than getting drunk, while I felt awkward and kept quiet. The spring required much of few people. Somehow, we managed to get through the rush with computers going offline, a new and unreliable financial aid system, few cashiers, and no textbook manager. The people gave life to an otherwise dead atmosphere. Now all but four faces are new. The textbook prices have risen. The titles, courses, and prices have been erased from my head. I watch slow cashiers from my post at the financial aid counter, feeling an unwarranted sort of envy. Those registers consumed my afternoons; I knew them inside out. Now, as the kids fumble with the keys and commands, I request identification and enter social security numbers.
There are now cameras and alarm tags on the books to prevent theft. Our inventory revealed such measures needed to be taken to keep the company from sinking. I am still in a box. But it is in 1984, and Big Brother is definitely watching me. Soon, the rush of customers will replace qualms of surveillance. Being there feels right. Though it is easy enough to learn, no one there was on financial aid last year. Carl appreciated my coming back to work. He also asked me if I lost any weight, because I looked thinner. Hearing that from the big, burly bookstore manager was a bit strange.
My mother and I celebrated the dawn of her truncated vacation by going into the city yesterday. She was able to obtain tickets for Hairspray. We also went to The Whitney and The Frick, two Upper East Side museums located blocks away from her office. Doesn't everyone go to the office to check their mail when they are on vacation? The museums gave me a chance to climb out of my own distorted subjective experience and sample those of others. Michal Rover's photographs were taken from video footage shot in the Middle East. They all just have background and foreground, with androgynous dark figures as subjects. They are depicted alone, crossing the border in lines, shooting at each other or playing. Frequently, it was hard to tell what they were doing. The critics panned her as being pretentious and not revealing anything with ambiguity. I picked my head, trying to discern what is sharpened through distortion. I gaped at the prints as my eyes glazed over, then scribbled reactions in a notebook, like the typical spaced-out museum goers.
The Frick is a converted mansion, with opulence seeping from every crevice. It is all marble, mirrors, and ornate rugs. Portraits in gilded frames glowed with an oily sheen under their lights. Maybe it was here I realized that I was not. I have read the self help blather about being fully present in each moment, and then my vision blurs and my mind starts to wander. This happens occasionally, the sensation of hovering over myself, and watching me watching others' masterpieces withstand the test of time. Museums are especially conducive to this, and the play was a veritable time warp.
The play was colorful and engaging. As much of a cynic as I fancy myself, I do have a soft spot for musicals. My mother knows this. Our seats were way in the back, but it did not matter much. The stage radiated with kitsch and camp, and while I will not be memorizing the soundtrack any time soon, it was a great show. A review in the New Yorker put it perfectly. During the performance, said the review, it seemed like nothing but singing and dancing mattered. The stage was far away, but felt close to me. It has been forever since I have performed in anything. When reminded of the joy it used to bring, I miss it. What isn't to miss? The play was unrealistic, like a cartoon. Still, it was convincing and well-executed by a cast having the time of their lives.
Watching other people work together scarcely satisfied my need to be a part of something. In fact, it reminded me of that void. Eventually, I will have to stuff it with something other than paychecks to be fulfilled.
