September 17, 2011
Hudson River Waterfront
approximately West 25th Street, New York, NY 10001
THE SAME ABE, which
was wherefore predicated 12 years previous when a short, hairy, bald man
stopped me in the street & implored me to join him for tea. It seemed natural, I thought, for Abe to stop
me because I was dressed as though I’d misinterpreted my stage directions. I am reconstructing now a sense of motion, of
glancing down at the depression a droplet makes in a pool, seeing only tulle
and swinging beads. Then, once we’d
reached the macro-biotic place w/ tea on our table, Abe began crying and took
comfort in holding both my hands at once. It was dramatic. He was unmistakably a bothered dramatist. There was something he said about a woman in a
bathtub full of cold water with all the lights turned off & him crying
because she was so sensitive to the electricity. Then, a week or so later, Abe found me again. He appeared relieved as he produced several
rolls of film he'd just gotten developed, all pictures of gum on the sidewalk.
A few days before the
hurricane that never came, I called Abe & told him this story. I remembered “Abe,” & googling around, I'd
found his poster on an NYU student's blog – FEEL YOUR ALIVENESS – &
concluded this must be the same Abe. He
let the answering machine answer before picking up & began recounting for
himself the traumatized woman’s childhood memories, the textures of the gum,
the many people he says he stopped then. But he didn't remember me.
Abe raised his voice saying he would not wear a color or
make a scene, but in his nervousness, he did. He said, “What is it you’re looking for?”
& when I arrived in a disguise & then removed that disguise I kept
asking him the whole time, “Do I look familiar to you?” He repeated the lines he’d written on his
yellow legal pad in private preparation: “It was 12 years ago” & “She said
she knew me,” to anyone who looked his way. He believed me & started to sing about the
government. I said, “Do you want to wear
my wig?” & then I had to hold his head up so he wouldn’t fall over & so
the wig wouldn’t fall off & into the river.
Whether it was over before it began or is still going, I get
calls from Abe now every other week like clockwork. Whenever I wear the beads, I run into him
again. He’ll be looking lost in front of
a row of flowers at the bodega or at a rally standing still as the crowd
marches forth around him. He’s so upset
all over again when he sees me. In his
messages, he says, “Where are you? Are
you in New York? I have no idea.” He's finally feeling ready to begin workshopping his 1-man show. It’s written out on brown paper bags, he
showed me. It’s about a man whose
clients stop seeing him & he gets his hip replaced & doesn’t know who
to turn to.
