I conceived of an idea for a short story yesterday afternoon, after work, so a little before three p.m. I knew nothing about it, just what a vivid image of two characters, dressed a certain way, doing something. As I typed, I figured it out as the story went on tangents with unexpected details. I reached the point of that initial image two hours later, and my brain had fogged up. I needed to clear out my cookies, so I went for a walk. When I came back, I drew the two main characters as they appeared in my head earlier. (Relax, I didn’t paint them until this morning.)
I go to bed super-early because I wake up at an ungodly hour. If I was going to have dinner and watch a show I love before passing out, I needed to quit. But I didn’t; I fulfilled the promise that flash in my mind had created, and I went to bed two hours late. I finished the art and did a pass through the story, and I feel mighty.
But I also feel really sad.
Through this discovery, I got intimate with Cora and Graham. As if getting to know a real person, their personalities and their interests revealed themselves to me. (Cora’s favorite Evil Dead movie is the first one, for the schlock. Graham was raised by his dad’s eighties cartoons.) Now that I’m done with them, I file the pictures in my art folder, the story in my writing folder, and they’re gone. This always happens to me. I fall in love with my characters. I suspect I’m not the only one.
*The story you are about to read is true. The names have been changed when I can’t remember them.*
On September 11, I try to do something alive. Mostly, I go to museums or spend time with friends. Today, I take a chance on something completely different.
Arlington, Virginia is one of D.C.’s Big Suburbs. When I used to live in Alexandria, it was a place I found myself in regularly, sometimes for the farmer’s market on Courthouse, sometimes Ray’s the Steaks or Ray’s Hell Burger, sometimes to visit people I know. The last time I came out here was because of a temp job. Otherwise, Virginia doesn’t hold a lot of interest for me.
However, after a Turkish gentleman named Isa became fixated on my resemblance to Phillip Seymour Hoffman at the Jomeh Bazar last Friday, he invited me to his coffee truck, the Ballstonian, parked every morning at 4000 Wilson Boulevard. I live about as far away from there as I can get while still being in D.C., but I’m looking for something to do, and I decide to make the schlep.
I find his truck, easily, parked near the “Jew-ish” bagel place, Call Your Mother, and it is a work of art. A seventies-era vintage car from his native Turkey, accompanied by Arabian-style low tables and stools, occupies a corner of sidewalk.
There is a Stormtrooper, but we’ll get back to him.
Isa is really excited to see me, like, really excited. He says he has been hoping I’d show up, and he serves me chai, not the American kind, but Turkish tea, like he wants to impress me. He also offers me Turkish delight, which lives up to its name.
At ten a.m., there are three people gathered around the truck, and he introduces me to them like I’m the most interesting person they’re ever going to meet. There’s Gary, who is fairly close to my age and wants to know everything about me. He thinks I’m retired. Yousef, a Kuwaiti transplant, doesn’t know what to make of me—it’s curiosity when I tell them I used to live in Qatar, then revulsion when I tell them my wife worked for the CIA. I do not speak to Caroline. She and Yousef leave shortly after my arrival, and the remaining attention is on me.
Isa unfolds a stool for himself and me, and mine is broken before I sit down. The addition of my weight deforms its legs, but Isa pounds them out and has no problem reclining on it. Gary tells us he was on an Air Force base in California when everything happened twenty-five years ago.
I tell them where I was. They poke and prod, and I tell them everything. I don’t often get to share the actual story anymore, and they really listen. The whole experience is cathartic. Gary and Isa settle down into a collective, “Whoa,” broken up by the arrival of Malcolm.
Malcolm doesn’t talk or emote, and he’s got this intensity to him that may be shyness, or it could be sociopathy. He sits on the far end of the tables and drinks his tea.
When the crazy woman shows up and talks to him, she is casually diverted away by Isa’s effusive personality. She tries to talk to Gary, who says, “Nope.” This is her first time at the Balstonian, but Isa has a lot of experience with crazy people.
Isa reminds me of Shane, in that he is best friends with everyone. We’re joined by four other people he’s excited to see: Kieron, Grant, Hugo, and Cody. Hugo is a defense contractor who leans left, and he just went to conference for the “Department of War,” where he hooked up with one of two women older than twenty-five. Cody, with his neatly trimmed beard and shampoo-commercial, curly, cinnamon locks, simply abides. Keiran is silent for the most part but is amused by everyone. His only job is to take the piss out of Grant when necessary.
Grant.
Grant is cranked up to eleven. He’s what I would call extra. Isa leans in and tells me that this is now Grant’s show. He’s also incredibly charming, and he makes sure he talks to all of us equally, especially the old guy. As a twenty-something resident of New York City, he interrogates me on what it was like to live there at the turn of the century. I explain the concept of CBGB’s, which I never thought I’d have to do, and he tells me how cool I am.
“2003 begs to differ,” I reply.
Grant is the one flashing gang signs.
He works his magic on Malcolm and finds out he cosplays. Grant even coaxes out some pictures. Malcolm’s main focus is historical costumes, and Grant keeps referring to his SS uniform. I am unable to work out whether he’s kidding or not, which becomes a genuine concern when he convinces Malcolm to show us his Stormtrooper outfit. Panicked, I ask, “What kind of Stormtrooper are we talking about here?” Hugo tells me to relax.
I hope Malcolm recognizes how awesome it is that he’s shown this group of mostly strangers his passion.
Two glasses of Turkish tea make me jittery as the afternoon approaches, and I bow out and stop first for an obscenely good sandwich at Call Your Mother. With a surprise hug, Grant tells me I was the most educational thing to happen to him, and he just backpacked through Spain.
Isa tells me the Balstonian is there every weekend, which is useful information to have.
The Twin Towers have been rubble longer than they’ve stood.
Since then, I’ve watched the world move on.
Since then, I’ve tried.
Since then, I write something every year. As time goes on, each post gets less engagement. I wonder why I keep doing it, but it’s one of the most impactful days of my life, and I still don’t understand what happened.
Since then, nobody knows what to say to me.
Since then, I’ve been denied insurance coverage for mental health because 9/11-related trauma is a preexisting condition.
Since then, I’ve been told by psychologists I’m over it, let’s talk about something else.
Since then, I’d been told by a mayor that the air was a little smoky, don’t worry about it.
Since then, I’ve been told by doctors that my lung issues were entirely related to smoking and not Ground Zero.
Since then, I was estranged from a family member for nearly a decade because of something callous they said about people like me.
Since then, I was hired by a long-defunct marketing blog to memorialize the tenth anniversary in a drawing I tried to make solemn but came out kind of icky.
Since then, I’ve listened to politician after politician brag about what they were doing that morning.
Since then, I watched a president cower in an undisclosed location then step onto a mound of death with a bullhorn and a mandate.
Since then, I’ve heard people, twenty- and thirty-years younger, tell edgy jokes about it.
Since then, I’ve laughed at some of these jokes.
Since then, I’ve made some of those jokes.
Since then, I’ve noted the amount of selfie sticks and smiling faces at the 9/11 Memorial in New York.
Since then, I learned just how long I could stay drunk and high before I had to shuffle, blinking, into the real world (two weeks).
Since then, I watched memos flutter to the ground in Brooklyn, disintegrating in my hands.
Since then, I sat through a church service where hundreds of people stood up and asked for a prayer, each one progressively more cynical and defeated, without the slightest bit of hope to be found.
Since then, I’ve wondered what happened to the ash-covered yuppie who cut his time at the payphone short so others could call their loved ones, in what may have been one of the kindest acts I recall seeing in New York that day.
Since then, I’ve hunted for anything that will give my heart the jolt I felt that day, and everything, from a mugging to spectacle movies to an unexpected divorce to riding the Cyclone, fell short.
Since then, I’ve hungered for someone to talk who gets it. Those who experienced it through pictures and video, whether from thousands of miles away or in Midtown, will never understand, and I would never diminish the fear and confusion they suffered.
Since then, I feel silly because countless others saw and lost so much more.
Since then, I never want to forget.
Since then, I never want to think about it again.
Since then, I take this day off every year and try to do something alive to keep the ghosts away.
Despite being told that my hair is part of the reason I look like Phillip Seymour Hoffman, it has to be tamed. JaJo’s Barbershop is on Barrack’s Row, about a mile from my last apartment. I’ve stuck with them because it’s the best haircut in the Southeast quadrant, and everybody knows it. JaJo’s is first-come-first-served, meaning there is a lot of competition for a chair, meaning you’d better get there when it opens at nine on Saturdays.
On haircut day, my routine is to pack up my art supplies and haul them a good five-minute walk to the barber, to the 7th Street Hill Cafe, where I have a breakfast sandwich and an iced coffee—regardless of the temperature—and draw until it’s time to go. After the cut, I used to walk to the boutique dispensary, but I don’t do that anymore, so now I just get bored and go home within an hour.
This Saturday, I emerge from the Metro and begin my coffee house journry, which takes me past the other three cafes between the station and the train. After crossing Pennsylvania Avenue, I make a decision that’s going to change the trajectory of my entire day: I decide to do something different.
Instead of walking two blocks to the 7th Street Hill Cafe, I stop at the first one I see. Instead of sitting inside in a quiet corner to monitor the comings and goings of the clientele, I deposit myself on the patio. Instead of an iced coffee, I order English breakfast tea. Instead of a breakfast sandwich, I order something I need a fork to eat. Instead of wolfing the food down and opening up my sketchbook, I savor it and edit a chapter of one of my W.I.P. novels.
These changes are small but invigorating.
Early September is still summer, and it does get hot in the afternoons. Mornings this month, however, have been gorgeous. JaJo’s is a shorter walk, so I hover just a little while longer, watching Eastern Market set up as early birds meander into my cafe or the one next door (incredibly, they both do great business). It’s here I see my first natural ginger. She won’t be the last
When I get to JaJo’s, I’m directed to one chair of nine, this one belonging to Michael. Within ten minutes, they’re all full, with a long line. Jajo’s is a Vietnamese business, and all barbers (but one) share that nationality. My barber, an older guy, speaks only hairdresser, which is great because I’m not one for hairdressing small talk. Michael tackles my mop with professional efficiency, following with my favorite part, the hot towel and shoulder massage. This time, however, Michael has an electronic device that is as aggressive as it is exhilarating. He even applies it to the top of my head, and I literally start to slide out of the chair. After a focused hair-dry, he exposes me to my perfect new do, which is as good as it’s going to look for the next six weeks.
My other errand of the day is the art store, but it doesn’t open until eleven. It’s currently nine thirty. My plan is to walk ten blocks to the Roost, to kill time with a slice of New York-style pizza some light doodling. However, I always go there. Things are different today. Unable to justify lunch until eleven, I end up at the 7th Street Hill Cafe anyway. This time I don’t order an iced coffee. I order a pineapple-mango smoothie. I don’t sit on my usual couch, but at a table outside, with the perfect view of the busiest traffic path in Eastern Market.
Eastern Market is a celebration of food, artistry, and secondhand merchandise. It stretches from the cafe from this morning to the cafe where I sit, branching off at key intersections. I’m able to see most shoppers come and go, and it’s hard to focus on my art. Among the crowd are four additional gingers, which seems like a lot. Maybe they’re planning something.
When it’s time for lunch, I can sit down at the Mexican-El Salvadorian place next door, or I can see what the vendors down South Carolina Avenue have to offer. My options are wide open, and the safe bet is an empanada with a lemonade. Not today. Today I’m going to try jerk-chicken tacos with pineapple-orange-ginger juice. I’ve never had jerk chicken before. I’ve never had flavor like this before. I enjoy it with a gorgeous mural over my shoulder.
Aside from JaJo’s, I like to come down here for Eastern Market, but I always cruise through it at top speed. This time I stick my head in a lot of stalls stalls, from microgreens to delicate, wooden hummingbird sculptures. There are five painters and two photographers, as well as a scarf store, two potters, endless jewelry, vintage clothing, framed stamps, vinyl albums, and candles.
I stop at a secondhand clothier and see they’re selling soccer jerseys. I loved them in my thirties, but I stopped fitting into my collection when I hit my forties. Today was the day. After stuffing that into my backpack, I think, “What the hell, I’ll get a candle.”
Down the way, after I pass another ginger, a man is selling books, all from one publisher. This doesn’t look like a book crowd. When I stop and discuss it with him, he tells me his secret: selling books at a fair that doesn’t typically go for books is a real moneymaker. I praise his cover artists, which turns into a conversation about racism in the arts. This is a very uncomfortable topic, not because I don’t know how easy white men have it, but because acknowledging that sounds like I’m bragging, which I am not. I ask him for a help picking out a novel for my friend’s kid, and he recommends a really weird one. I think they’ll like it.
Returning to my neighborhood, I take the long way home to poke my head into the cafe that recently opened up a healthy stroll from my apartment. I pick a different iced tea refresher than normal and sit at a table outside to finish a project. Someone in an apartment above my head brutally beats a rug with a broom, causing me to flee, but I had finished my refresher, so I only had to shake the rug dandruff out of my new hair.
When I arrive home and sit on my bed to remove my shoes, Oscar joins me, which he’s never done before. I’m about to watch a movie until I go to sleep, but he shows up near my head to get pets for several minutes straight. I guess someone else is having a different kind of day.
It’s been a rocky few months for me. About six weeks ago, my office caught fire, and we’ve been working from home ever since. Not walking 30-35 minutes to the Metro, then to the office, has been taking its toll on me, and I’ll go days without leaving my building. Last month, while I waited for maintenance to fix my faucet, and I didn’t leave my 434-square-foot apartment for four days. All this has left me hyperfocused on Oscar’s opinion of me, and it became clear he doesn’t like me. Shortly afterward, I looked in the mirror, and I realized I’m really, really fat. The Thursday before last, I woke up so depressed I called in sick.
I hauled myself out of bed and did things I ordinarily don’t do, like eat lunch at a restaurant. Observing Oscar for a few days without anthropomorphizing him, I realized his personality is just aloof. Living with a lap cat for twenty years spoiled me. He shows affection with proximity, and I’m going to have get used to that.
I’ve been a lot better since then, counting the days to the Jomeh Bazar, which I last went to in May. The Bazar is located in a plaza surrounded by art studios, some of which are open. Nearly all the vendors are Middle Eastern, which makes sense because it was founded by an Iranian protest artist.
My first stop is Turkish coffee. If you’ve never had a Turkish coffee, it is slow-brewed and served in a cup the size of a double-shot glass. After drinking one, you need to throw back a Red Bull to take the edge off. The Discworld analog, Klatchian coffee, makes you knurd, which is so sober, you need to drink in order to avoid collapsing under the weight of brutal clarity. Terry Pratchett wasn’t exaggerating.
The vendor is the Ballstonian, and man who serves me is Isa. Before I can even order, he exclaims, “You know who you look like? Phillip Seymour Hoffmann!” He turns to his daughter, who looks college age, and asks her, “Don’t you think he looks like Phillip Seymour Hoffmann?”
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know who that is.” Her body says she endures him but also adores him.
“You don’t know who that is?”
After discussing Hoffmann’s oeuvre, he sells me some baklava and sends me to a bench. I enjoy one of my favorite desserts, which is exceptional, and I especially enjoy the packet of moist towelettes his daughter had handed me.
While I’m covered in honey, wishing I had taken two towelettes, Mina, the adorable protest artist I have a massive crush on, wanders by on the way to her studio, and she recognizes me! I want to impress her, but I have no idea what to say. My heartbeat sounds like a monkey on Turkish coffee freestyling with a bongo, and there’s no way she doesn’t hear it.
Luckily, Isa swoops in, hands me my cup of liquid electricity, and says to her, “You know who he looks like? Phillip Seymour Hoffmann!”
Her eyes go wide. “He does!”
They take turns describing all of my Hoffmanesque qualities while I take a jolt from my coffee and fight back a blush. I tell them I used to get Kiefer Sutherland when I was younger. Isa laughs and says, “With two margaritas in a dark room, you know who he is? Kenneth Branagh!”
Mina says, “I’m jumbling all these faces into my artist’s mind!”
The spotlight goes away shortly after, and I pull out my sketchbook. According to Isa, Labor Day weekend is always slow, but there are still great people to see. I do rough, life-drawing sketches to solidify their appearances in my memory and get up to explore.
My next stop is Bicycle Trash, which is hosting a “Sewing Machine Petting Zoo,” where they display seven vintage sewing machines from the forties and fifties, which still work and are used in their classes. My next stop is T. Mofid Art, where I buy some unusually sized prints as presents. Following this, I stop at a vendor whose name I’ve forgotten, which reclaims thrift store clothes and dyes them with real plants. My new T-shirt, which I will fit into when I lose some weight, is indigo.
After enjoying a Persian cookie recommended by Mina, I draw some more and sit down for a tarot reading. I don’t believe in anything supernatural, but I have a rule: I will pay for a tarot reading whenever I see one. At the Renaissance Faire in Colorado, I went to two readers. One was terrible, but the other was uncanny. Uncanny enough that I’d believe she was real if I didn’t know better.
This guy is not great. Every interpretation of every card is way off. (“Have younger women been coming to you to steal some kind of information, something you’ve been guarding carefully?” “No.” “Do you have any information you’re keeping secret?” “No.” “You may not know you have this information. Watch for younger women.”) Unlike the bad reading in Colorado, he is fun to talk to, and I kind of admire the way he twists himself into pretzels trying to fit his square peg into my round hole. (“Your office caught fire? I told you! It’s the Tower card!”) He also tells me I should put a little more effort into my appearance.
The last vendor I see is Anahita Herbal Medleys, which sells medicinal syrups. I pick one that helps with immunity and focus, as well as one that inspires creativity and vivid dreams.
On my way home, I stop back at the Ballstonian because I want to try their cardamom iced tea. Isa tells me all about his coffee truck and how he set up tables on the sidewalk every day at 4000 Wilson Boulevard in Arlington. He unlocks his phone to show me a picture of his vintage Turkish truck, and the first image that comes up is my late doppelganger, Phillip. Isa thinks he would have made a great Joker. “Heath Ledger was really good. He’s dead too, but Phillip Seymour Hoffman would have been amazing.”
I make my exit, chased away by mosquitos, and return to Oscar. He yells at me for attention, but walks away when I try to pet him. After I go to sleep, he curls up next to my head. When I wake up at my usual time, he has long ago abandoned the bed because he doesn’t want me getting the wrong idea. He’s not Newcastle, but we’ve almost got each other figured out.
Act One: I try to keep myself out of internet fights, but, this morning, before work, feeling high off of finishing a chapter two months in the making, I found a post on Threads that pissed me off. Against my better judgement, I responded, using both barrels of snark.
Act Two: It was satire.
Act Three: Everyone thinks my post was satire, and the OP joked with me, and I got a ton of likes.
