The Untrained Librarian
Thank you, The Untrained Librarian, for including Edie Richter is Not Alone in your list of Spring 2021 new releases to look forward to!
I Wrote A Book
I don’t have any tattoos. I admire some tattoos – very few to be honest – but some. My favorites are the ones that are not thought out in advance. The ones that are sketched in a dark bar and inked that same night. I also love the roses. So many roses on so many bodies, and why not? They are beautiful and thorny. The only thing I envy about tattoos is the concealment. You order a coffee and the barista has no idea you have a snake on your hipbone. A coworker pulls up his shirtsleeve to reveal a lyric from a Taylor Swift song. The secrecy and subsequent disclosure are exciting to me.
My secret is Edie Richter is Not Alone, my debut novel coming out in March 2021. This is a story I’ve wanted to tell for many years. It is not my story. It is fiction. But ever since Edie appeared in my mind and persistently tapped me on the shoulder, I have held her close and not shared her with many people. I didn’t know if I could write a book. But it turns out, showing up every day, writing a lot of words, and then eliminating most of them, works.
Edie doesn’t have any tattoos. She probably wouldn’t see the point in trying to make something permanent out of something so temporary. But she would certainly notice them and wonder about the inspiration. She might ask someone an uncomfortable question, like how they feel about regret.
Feeling alone is something we all understand. Especially in 2020. But of course, as Edie learns, we are never alone. We have each other. And some of us have snakes on our hipbones, and faded roses on our arms. And it’s all beautiful, and we’re all going to be ok.
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[Edie Richter is Not Alone (Unnamed Press, March 2021) is available for preorder at most bookstores. If you live in the states and would like a signed copy, please order through Green Apple Books in San Francisco.]
The Man In The Water
We’re all learning lessons about resilience and gratitude and isn’t that great. Last week my 15-year-old flopped on the couch and said, “Remember when we called it sheltering in place, and now it’s just life?” I squeezed her knee and closed my eyes. Later that afternoon we drove to her high school to pick up last year’s yearbook. A school with 3,000 students and famously crowded, chaotic hallways, the stained gray building is now deserted with a red digital sign flickering, “Congratulations Class of 2020.” On the ride home, my daughter quietly turned the pages looking for friends. A pop song about a sweater was on the radio. At a stoplight, she raised the book so I could see. There she was at a school dance with her arms around two girls.
The next morning, a man swam into me in the Bay. I had been sighting every four strokes, looking for buoys and seals, but he came out of nowhere. Bam, his fist into my side. Wearing a black cap and red swim trunks, he kept swimming, as if through me. “Hey!” I yelled after him. “Hey!” Nothing. I treaded water for a while, adjusted my goggles, and glared at the man’s shiny back heading towards the beach. I fantasized about chasing him, throwing myself on top of him like a rodeo champion and demanding an apology. But of course, I just swam.
That night I called a friend in Australia whose children are playing field hockey and spending the night with friends. I told her our flights to Perth had been canceled. She sighed and said I would have had to spend two weeks quarantining in a hotel room. “By then I reckon you’d have to go home.”
Frustrating moments are piling up like dirty dishes. Some days I ignore them. Other days I look around for someone to blame. Like the man in the water. That’s why he fled. If he had started to apologize, he wouldn’t have been able to stop. I’m sorry for the President. I’m sorry for the racism. I’m sorry for the pandemic, the deaths, and the ignorance. I’m sorry you can’t go to work. I’m sorry pop stars are writing songs about cardigans. I’m sorry your children can only see their friends in old photographs. I’m sorry I swam into you. I didn’t see you.
Nuanced Nuisance
“I am not waiting another fucking half hour for you.” A woman is sitting on a step, in front of the ATM. She is wearing workout clothes, a paper mask, and holding her phone in front of her face. Her screaming is so loud I can hear her from across the street, up one floor, through a closed window. “You need to get home, feed him, and then get your fucking ass over here.”
After a brief pause she continues, “I said feed him! Then get over here!”
Feed who? A child? The dog? An elderly person? Now I am stressed. Someone needs to get fed, and someone else is in big trouble.
I am reminded of the time I screamed at my husband (then boyfriend) after waiting for him in a car in Harvard Square. That was more than 20 years ago, and I remember I waited exactly 45 minutes.
Today it is unsafe to be outside. The air quality is poor due to wildfires and the pandemic rages on. Schools remain closed. Nonetheless, today’s top news story is the death of a famous socialite. The article mentions the deceased’s nephew who was kidnapped in the 70’s and held for ransom. The family paid after the boy’s severed ear was sent to an Italian newspaper. I touch my yellow beaded earring given to me by a friend who Kondo-ed her jewelry collection. As a child, I was scared of being kidnapped. My dad told me not to worry, that we weren’t wealthy enough to warrant a kidnapping. Still I slept with a knife under my pillow for several weeks. It occurs to me I could have cut my own ear.
The screaming woman has calmed down slightly. She is on the phone with someone else complaining about the first person. “Can you fucking believe that shit? I KNOW.”
This morning I awoke with my nightgown twisted around me like a broken corset. I rolled over and wrote the words Nuanced Nuisance on the pad of lined paper I keep next to my bed. Then the cat came over and sniffed my face. “I don’t know what it means,” I said to the cat while scraping some black gunk out of his eye corners. “I must have had a dream.”
Now I look out the window and the woman is gone. Did she get picked up, or did she storm away on foot? I hope everyone got fed. This is the time of unresolved everything.
Funny Things Don’t Happen Anymore
I thought the era of funny things was over. This is the age of fear, sorrow, and fed-up-ness. This is a pandemic.
I was walking home up the hill, just past the yard with the artichoke plant, across from the hoarder’s house. My neighborhood is pin-droppingly quiet which is why, at this particular moment, my cloth mask was hanging from my wrist and not strapped to my face. I was alone.
A black car drove past, then turned around and pulled over beside me.
The window opened and a man called out, “Is your name Denise, by any chance?” He had a bushy moustache and thick black glasses. He was smiling at me.
“No,” I said, and kept walking.
“You’re not Denise?”
I paused. I hadn’t slept well in several nights. Could my name be Denise? Had we all been renamed?
“No,” I repeated, moving my bag to my other shoulder.
The man asked if I used to live near SF State. He seemed happy and hopeful.
“Nope.”
“Really?” He stared at me and shook his head. “You are the spitting image of Denise.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I hope she’s a nice person.”
He laughed. “Oh, she’s the best,” he said reassuringly. “I haven’t seen her in twenty years though. Funny thing, because I’ve been thinking about her recently and then – I drove by you, and I swear – ” As his voice trailed off, he kept staring at me, head cocked.
I put down my bag. “Maybe that’s why you thought you saw her?” I was no longer in a rush to get home. This was my first spontaneous chitchat with a stranger in five months, and it had nothing to do with the virus.
He asked what I meant. I explained that when someone is on my mind, particularly someone I miss, I see them everywhere. For example, in every older man who smokes a cigar, for a split second I see my dad.
Moustache ran his hand across the steering wheel and looked wistful. “Denise had a great sense of humor. Really funny girl. I always wondered what happened to her.”
“I hope you find her someday,” I said, meaning it.
“Thanks. You too. I mean – ” He laughed and shook his head before driving away.
Back at home, I told my husband about the encounter. He questioned the plausibility of Moustache’s story while adding I look different from twenty years ago, which I found both rude and beside-the-point. But everyone’s sensitive right now. It’s a pandemic.
Maybe this isn’t a funny story after all. Denise is nowhere to be found, and my husband thinks I look like an old lady. Maybe it would have been funnier if I had told the man that, yes, I was Denise, and hopped in the car with him. We would have had a lot to catch up on.
Ideas For A Pandemic
We could chart our panic attacks and name new star formations. We could make cup and string telephones, or eat black olives off our fingertips. We could secretly meet in the woods and take off all our clothes.
We could slowly burn something like a brisket or a new relationship. We could throw quarters off a cliff, four at a time. We could scream, “Edith Piaf!” at the top of our lungs.
We could make clothing out of postage stamps. We could change religions.
What have you done?
What have you done?
The Opposite Of Jogging
My teenager saw it first. Pointing across the street to a handwritten cardboard sign, she was speechless. Somehow I had missed it earlier, when I was out walking. I had been staring straight ahead, listening to a podcast of a famous person interviewing another famous person.
But there it was. Three blocks away from our house in San Francisco. White Lives Matter. I told my daughter I wanted to rip it down and she said she did too. It was too high to reach.
My daughter went home with the foster dog who was the size of a chipmunk. I stayed on the street, staring at the sign.
I called 311, the support line for non-emergencies.
“Hello, this is Ron.”
I spoke quickly, trying to stay ahead of my emotions. I told Ron I wanted to report a White Lives Matter sign in my neighborhood. He said it was freedom of speech and unless the owner of the house was presently threatening anyone, there’s nothing to do. I told him I felt the sign in and of itself was threatening, particularly at a time like this.
“Freedom of speech ma’am. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No. Thank you Ron.”
“Goodbye then.”
As I knelt on the ground to tie my shoe, my stomach began to hurt. My anger felt like a contraction, painful and purposeful.
In a moment of panic that would be more accurately described as a moment of spiraling insanity, I concluded that Ron hadn’t heard me correctly.
I called back.
“Hello, this is Nicole.”
“Hi Nicole, my name is Rebecca. I just spoke with Ron. Do you know Ron?”
“Yes. We work together.”
I rambled on and on, explaining that I had called before and I understood freedom of speech, but I wanted to make sure Ron knew the sign said, White Lives Matter.
“Sorry?”
“The sign. I called about a sign that someone posted on their house. And I wanted to make sure Ron didn’t think I was calling to complain about a Black Lives Matter sign. Can you tell him this?”
“Sure.”
“There are just so many crazy people out there right now. I just – .”
“I’ll tell him. Thanks.”
I was nuts of course, for calling back a helpline operator in a frantic, defensive, drive to explain myself.
Hours later, in the middle of the night, I had a nightmare where I was trapped under ice, and I woke up trembling. The moonlight streaming in through the shutters lit up a black and white photo on our bedroom wall. In the photo, I am eight months pregnant with my first child and my husband is laughing, trying to touch my belly. Something about that photo and the thought of the sign up the street made me cry.
In the morning, puffy-eyed and groggy, I rolled over and asked my husband, “What is the opposite of jogging?”
“What are you talking about?”
I was still half-asleep and wanted to know if the opposite of jogging was running or walking.
“Standing still. The opposite of moving is not moving.”
I put my arm over his bare chest and pulled him close. I had always liked the way he solved problems. Not that this was a problem that needed solving. There were much larger problems to solve, looming like demons.
Darling Dearest
Darling Dearest was very good at taking care of herself, which is how she ended up living all alone on a houseboat. She used to live in an ordinary house with her parents, until the government told everyone to Stay Where You Are. The night of the announcement, Darling Dearest packed a small bag filled with only the essentials, crawled out her window, and walked down to the dock.
Darling Dearest loved many things about her houseboat. It had wooden floors that she liked to polish until they smelled like lemon. The kitchen had the most delicious smoothie ingredients like bananas, frozen raspberries, and hemp seeds. On the counter was a magical blender that cleaned itself.
A rope ladder connected the kitchen to the upstairs room, which was filled with books, toys, and beanbags. When sat upon, each beanbag made a different sound. The red one whistled, the one with yellow polka dots sighed, and the blue one farted. Brightly colored lightbulbs were strung from one corner of the ceiling to the other. The lights responded to Darling Dearest’s moods, and, to cheer her up, turned brighter on the days she felt sad. The only time she ever felt sad, however, was when she finished a really good book or took the last bite of chocolate cake. The rest of the time, Darling Dearest was happy.
Her houseboat had a green, checkered couch that turned into a waterbed when Darling Dearest squeezed a fuzzy pom-pom attached to the side. She had a TV with many channels including one that only showed episodes of Adventure Time and Full House. The TV was voice-activated, and when Darling Dearest came back from a swim, she could call out, “Play the one where Stephanie starts kindergarten.”
Most of all, Darling Dearest loved her balcony that circled the top level of the houseboat. She liked to recline on her lounge chair with an orange popsicle and feel the sun on her belly. When she got too hot, she’d spray herself with cucumber water from her glittery spray bottle, and when that wasn’t enough, she jumped from the balcony into the cool water below. Darling Dearest read many books on her balcony, and often had dinner there while watching the sun set. She always made a wish on the first star. Sometimes it was hard to think of a wish, when she felt that she had everything she ever wanted. At those times, she’d make a wish for the world.
One day after her swim, Darling Dearest was on her balcony enjoying a quesadilla with extra jalapenos and a cup of black coffee, when something flew out of the sky and hit her on the head. “Ouch,” she exclaimed, “What was that?” She put down her quesadilla and licked her fingers. She looked down, and there, next to her white plastic chair was a large, brown, hairy coconut. “Where did that come from?” Darling Dearest said to no one in particular. She often spoke aloud, but not because she wished for someone to answer her, but because she enjoyed hearing her voice, which was medium-pitched and singsongy. She reached down and picked up the coconut. It was heavy, like a small bag of groceries. She plopped it down on the table next to her plate.
Darling Dearest had never seen a coconut in person, but she had read about them in The Encyclopedia of Fruit.
She took a bite of quesadilla, and stared at the coconut. She took a sip of coffee and stared at the coconut. Finally, it began to roll from side to side. Darling Dearest was not scared. She knew that the best surprises often came in the form of interruptions.
The coconut began to speak. “Hello!” it said. “Nice to see you.” The voice was low-pitched and friendly sounding.
Darling Dearest adjusted her sunflower hair clip and leaned down to speak to the coconut. “Hello!”
“Would you mind letting me out of here?”
“Do you want me to cut you open?” Darling Dearest asked.
“Yes please. I’ll stay to one side.”
Darling Dearest told the coconut that she’ll just be a minute, and went to the upstairs room where she kept her machete in a leather case hanging on a wall hook.
“I’m back. Are you on the right side or the left side?”
“If you’re looking at the coconut, I’m on the left.”
Darling Dearest gave the coconut one strong whack and it split right down the middle. There, standing on the left half was a tiny man wearing a brown three-piece suit and a red necktie. He smiled and waved. “Well isn’t this a glorious view?” he said. “Would you mind helping me out so I can get a better look?”
The tiny man gracefully leapt into Darling Dearest’s open palm. He dusted himself off and small white flakes blew off his body into the warm air. He stood on his tiptoes and looked around. “It really is spectacular,” he said. “I can see why you love it here.” His voice was loud, given the size of his body. “Are you drinking coffee, Darling Dearest?” he asked, craning his head over his shoulder, staring at the table.
“How do you know my name?”
The tiny man took a deep breath and said, “I am your grandfather.”
She leaned over and stared at his miniscule bushy eyebrows and chin dimple. “Grandpa! Why are you so small and how did you get inside of a coconut?”
Her grandfather rested his hands on the tops of his thighs, took another deep breath, began speaking and did not stop until the coffee was cold and the sun had set. He told his granddaughter what happened after the government told everyone to Stay Where You Are. Many people got sick from the virus and some people died. Darling Dearest’s parents had both gotten sick, but thankfully recovered. He spoke of Darling Dearest’s grandmother, who smoked clove cigarettes and wrote rhyming poems about nature. He said their love was like a pavlova, sweet and filling without ever feeling like you’d had too much. The tiny man’s tiny eyes filled with tears when he described the moment of his wife’s death, when he held her hand and promised he would always love her.
“And that’s when the shrinking began.”
Darling Dearest wiped her tears and said quietly, “The shrinking?”
“Soon after your grandmother died, I began to shrink. Slowly at first, but then very quickly. Soon my wedding ring fit my wrist.”
Darling Dearest had read many books but never one about a shrinking disease. “Were you scared?”
“Yes.” The tiny man held his index finger up towards the sky. “Until I remembered my coconut collection.” He smiled. “Do you collect anything?”
“Shells,” she said softly, “And duck figurines.”
“Did you know that coconuts stop people from shrinking?” Darling Dearest had not read this in The Encyclopedia of Fruit.
Darling Dearest looked around at her balcony and inside to the upstairs room with the rainbow lights and the farting beanbag. She could not imagine living inside of a coconut.
“But you’re ok? You don’t have the virus?”
“I’m more than ok, Darling Dearest. Never been healthier. And you. Look at you. You have taken good care of yourself, being alone on this houseboat. I am proud of you.”
She was happy her grandfather was here. At night, he slept next to her on the couch, curled up on a bamboo coaster.
In the morning, they both noticed his feet were hanging off the coaster and his vest was tight around the middle. After a breakfast of coffee and scones, followed by a refreshing swim, Darling Dearest stared at her grandfather. Crouching down to look into his eyes, she declared, “I think you’ve grown, Grandpa.”
He smiled. “I also noticed this, Darling Dearest, but I didn’t want to say anything until after our swim. Indeed, I have grown nearly one inch since I arrived yesterday. I think it is because I am no longer sad.”
The next several days were filled with storytelling and smoothie making. And all the while, Darling Dearest’s grandfather kept growing.
“I don’t think I need to live in a coconut anymore Darling Dearest,” her grandfather announced one afternoon, after an episode of Adventure Time.
“You wouldn’t fit in one, Grandpa!” They both laughed.
Darling Dearest had also noticed something changing within herself. She had really enjoyed living on her own for quite some time, but her grandfather’s arrival had made her realize there was nothing quite like the company of someone you love.
“Grandpa?” Darling Dearest said, placing her hand on his. “Would you like to stay here with me?”
“I would like that very much,” he replied.
Darling Dearest sighed with happiness. And then the two of them played backgammon. They didn’t even notice when the first star appeared.
Through The Wall
If I sink down low enough in the bath and close my eyes, it’s a room of my own. My mother used to bathe every night and I wonder if it was because, with the exception of Bridge Night, my dad was home all the time. My feet are often sore these days from pacing around the neighborhood, crossing the street when anyone approaches. I don’t know what day we’re on of Sheltering In Place. I’m not counting. I don’t remember anything anymore. I like scooping up bubbles with my toes.
It is warm outside, but I’m going in the bath anyway. Thai food has been ordered and I have forty minutes. I make myself a vodka with lime, close the bathroom door behind me, and crack open the window.
I step into the hot water. My drink rests on the windowsill, amidst the collection of rubber duckies passed down from my French cousin, and several My Little Ponies I once found on the street. In the bath I like to style the ponies’ hair. Tiny purple and pink fishtails.
We live off a public stairwell which is normally empty. But these quarantined days, San Franciscans are seeking less populated pockets of the city to roam, and our stairwell seems to be one of them. Fitness junkies are using it as a gym, and children are sliding down banisters. Pedestrians think they’re alone when, in fact, mere meters away, a naked middle-aged woman is massaging her feet and talking to ducks.
Tonight, a family walks by speaking a language that must be Portuguese because at first it sounds like Spanish, and then French, but is neither. The mother sounds frustrated, and a boy is whining. Soon I hear, “Alaska, come on. Come here Alaska.” I can picture this husky and its friendly blond owner, because we once met at the local dog park. I think she has twin preschoolers.
I start humming the song “Through The Wall” by an 80’s a cappella group called The Bobs. I hear you in the morning shower. How can you sing that song at that hour?
I hear a plane overhead and then footsteps on the stairs. A man’s voice says, “It is feeling powerless that is the hardest. I still want to drink but my pattern is that it won’t end well.” I think that he must be on the phone because I don’t hear a response. I take a sip of vodka and sink lower into the water. “Trust me, you can get through this. I’ve been sober for two years now.” I return my glass to the windowsill and look down at my legs. Stray hairs stand at attention on my kneecaps. On my thigh is a new purple vein in the shape of a tiny bass clef.
The hardest part is not knowing when anything is going to end.
Let’s Meet In A Dream
My daughter offered an explanation. “Maybe because our days are so alike right now, our imaginations are on overdrive.”
We are sheltering-in-place during a pandemic. Days run into one another, separated only by disco ball rope swings and cafés filled with handsome flight attendants and chocolate chip wallpaper.
Baz Lehrman is hopping from bed to bed, wreaking havoc in the form of vivid hallucinations. Two nights ago, I was on a double-decker bus that turned into a cupcake float. People were singing about a cat conference (the song was called “Kitty Con”). And then I woke up, pulled on the same pair of jeans, did some work, and made yet another banana bread.
My friend, I don’t want to do a distance walk with you. Instead, let’s meet in a dream. Tonight, I choose an island with rocky cliffs and a crowded restaurant that smells like French onion soup. You will bring your dog and I will bring a friendly python wearing a tiny rainbow hat. You will say something so hilarious that all the other patrons fly over to our table and sprinkle actual snow on our heads. When I reach up to touch my hair, I will cheerfully discover that I can painlessly pluck an idea from my scalp, as one might pluck a dandelion. I will hand you one of my ideas and then you will pluck one of your own and offer it to me. Our eyes will sparkle with mischief as we hold onto each other’s thoughts.
See you soon.