Page 52 of Status Undefined
If you’d been on the streets of Manhattan you might have seen an ungrateful son who had just left the home of his loving parents in a rage, even though they hadn’t seen him for years. And the worst part was they weren’t angry with him. Compared with Amit’s father’s response, theirs warranted an award for outstanding parenting. The old Daniel would have thought so– appreciated his parents and belittled himself and downplayed the significance of their incomprehension.
But the new Daniel couldn’t deal with it. He’d gone to the four corners of the earth to avoid it and even lost Amit because of the fear of being misunderstood. Still, he’d come here knowing that fear would be present and perhaps even justified. He’d thought that even if it happened he would still be able to see Amit, and everything would be worth it in the end. But no. He was no closer to Amit and he didn’t think it had been worth it. He’d folded at the crucial moment. He couldn’t function.
If you had been walking in Central Park and stopped taking pictures for a moment, you might have heard the sobs of a young man whose inner child was still begging to be understood. A lost child with a broken spirit who didn’t know how to close the gap between New York Daniel and Thailand Daniel. A child who talked about himself in third person because he didn’t feel like himself in his own hometown.
February 8 (Amit)
Keren read me the riot act. She couldn’t understand why I’d been in New York almost a month and not sent her a single photograph. She wasn’t satisfied by my excuse – that Central Park was pretty dark by the time I got there and my dinosaur of a phone wouldn’t do the beauty of the place at night justice. Mainly to shut her up, I agreed to go to the Brooklyn waterfront and take pictures of Manhattan’s skyscrapers lighting up the sky.
So instead of my usual walk in Central Park, I went to Brooklyn Bridge Park. It felt different – less magical. Everything was out in the open. A cool wind was blowing. Dozens of couples, bundled up in coats and huddling together to stay warm, sat on benches or took pictures against the backdrop of soaring buildings and boats on the river. It can feel lonely to be by yourself in a place like that, so I focused on my picture-taking assignment so that I could go home. It didn’t really help, and the tears started flowing as the memories surfaced, just as they had every day since I’d arrived in the city. My tears blended seamlessly with the raindrops that started to fall, but I had to stop taking photos because my phone wasn’t waterproof. I looked around and saw that umbrellas had emerged like magic. The benches emptied quickly, and I decided to sit and appreciate the beauty now that it was quiet and the view unobstructed. The rain got harder, as did my tears as I remembered how Daniel and I had stood in the over-the-top rain on Patong beach. I didn’t have an umbrella, but I didn’t leave. The rain was a friend that allowed me to be alone opposite the amazing skyline of Manhattan – even more impressive against the background of grey clouds. That was a feeling I knew couldn’t be communicated through Instagram.
A few minutes later, a stranger with an umbrella sat down beside me. I tensed a little. Why would someone with anumbrella want to sit and get their rear end wet? And why next to me when all the other benches were free? I looked at him. He was older, with a little beard and glasses. He gazed at Manhattan and pointedly did not offer to share his big umbrella.
“You’re not the first person to be moved to tears by the dazzling lights of Manhattan. But you’re the first one I’ve seen that’s dumb enough to be without an umbrella on a grey New York day.” He looked at me. I was speechless. Should I be offended?
“I know you’re not stupid,” he went on as if he’d known me for years. “You have an intelligent face, though a profoundly sad one.”
He looked me over and I wondered how long he’d been hanging around doing that before he came over and sat down.
“Sometimes our subconscious wants to make our sadness conscious, and we forget to bring an umbrella to protect us and keep the spectacularly unpleasant feelings at bay.”
I looked again and realized, in horror, who he was.
“Are you the ghost of Freud? Am I dead?” If I was, it sure didn’t seem like heaven. The mysterious man laughed out loud and I was relieved to find I was still alive.
“I’m not Freud. I’m just an old guy who likes to shoot the breeze with young guys like you.”
“But why are you out here in the rain?”
“I come here when I miss my wife. This is where we ended up on our first date – in the rain. We used to come here every year on the anniversary, to remember. She died a few years ago, but I refuse to suppress my memories of her. I choose to celebrate them and enjoy them. Even if it means coming here more than once a year, especially in the rain, because it reminds me of how I felt when I saw her for the first time.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” I didn’t know what else to say. Then a question popped into my head: “Did you have an umbrella on your first date?”
“She did. I was dumb enough to try my luck. We sat here on this very bench, and she kindly shared her umbrella with the dummy beside her.”
I laughed. He hadn’t been trying to insult me before. He’d just seen a certain similarity between us.
“Has no one told you to move on?”
“They have. Funny advice because, in most cases, that happens naturally whether we want it to or not. That’s life. But you know what else is natural? To think about her, miss her. I’m not interested in declaring war on my nature. Do you get my drift?”
“Yes. I understand. But sometimes you do have to fight.”
“Why are you fighting?”
“It’s my nature, to fight things that take up real estate in my head without permission.” I answered without overthinking it.
The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started.
“It’s tragic when we believe that suffering is natural. When you stop fighting you’ll understand that your nature is completely different. One doesn’t have to be Freud to see that in you. Next time the earth within you trembles, let the water flow, the fire burn, the wind howl. The rain has stopped, but not because someone stopped it. It stopped because it gave its all to our world. When will you give your all to your world?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He folded his umbrella and stood up.
“Thanks for the company. See you next time it rains,” he said with a smile and walked off.
February 10 (Amit)
I just wanted a quiet Shabbat meal. My mother had been insisting I go with her to shabbat meals with her – I mean our – relatives, who I didn’t know very well. They were very nice, but there were way too many children. This week Mom suggested we go to shabbat dinner at Chabad. She meant well. She thought it would do me good to meet more people from the neighborhood. Like sending a kid to summer camp and hoping he’ll make new friends. I don’t blame her for not anticipating that the evening would end the way it did.
