All I Can Say

X365, week 8

49|365
Brian, 1974
You were the only black kid in my fourth grade class, one of only a few in my whole school. One snowy day we came in from recess, shrugging off our coats and stomping out of our boots. Your whole head was glittering with tiny melting snowflakes that were nesting in your hair like jewels. All the kids surrounded you, captivated by your shimmering hair, but when I reached out to touch one of the crystals, you slapped my hand away.

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Mihail, 1974
You emigrated from Czechoslovakia and looked sort of like Alfred E. Newman, but not as cheerful. One attention-getter you were famous for in our class was flipping your eyelids up so that they were inside out. I found the raw insides of your eyelids so repulsive I couldn’t look at you after I saw you do it the first time. It was just so wrong.

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Jenny Lee, 2007
Every six weeks or so when my eyebrows start to drag my face down, I come to you to shape them. First you spread on the hot wax, yanking it off quickly (quick is best) and pressing your thumb into my throbbing skin to defuse the sting. After the wax, you tweeze, maneuvering around me from left to right and back, measuring along my nose with your eyebrow brush, sucking on a mint or a cough drop. You take your time, scrutinizing and refining your work, and I have come to think of you as an artist.

52|365
Cheryl, 1976
Your mother had teased-up hair and wore provocative, leopard print patterns on her curvy frame with high-heeled slippers. You and your sisters each had your own bedrooms, decorated in different pastel shades, with shag carpeting so long and luxurious that you actually raked it as part of your chores. I was not really your friend — more a friend of a friend — and I always felt grateful to be invited for a sleepover at your house, where we could raid your endless supply of chips, pop, candy and ice cream. One day when we were teenagers, I drove past you with my mother and she commented that you were built like a brick house, which I understood was a compliment even though it didn’t sound like it.

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Karen, 1979
I met you on the first day of high school in the cafeteria. I thought you seemed much older than me, with your clutch purse tucked neatly under your arm. You had just been fitted with braces, and you were getting used to the feeling of them, repeatedly repositioning your upper lip over the jagged brackets. It was sort of charming, the way you did this, and I found myself contracting my upper lip over imaginary braces just like you.

54|365
Julie, 1982
We were heady, off to a party at one of your sister’s friends’. It was my first visit to New York and we had already had several drinks in a bar near the apartment where we were staying. When we got to the party, I realized that I had left my purse in the cab and was beginning to unravel with what it meant to be in the city without money or ID. Then there was a buzz at the door, and miraculously it was the cabbie returning my purse, which his next fare had found on the seat and handed up to him.

55|365
Tracy, 1982
You were a major personality — large, loud, absolute. You invited us to stay in your parents’ New York apartment for a weekend away from college, and it was what I forever after thought of as archetypal Manhattan with its accents of glass, chrome, leather, fur and black-and-white tile. The story was that your parents, both actors, had played the parents in the movie Hair, although they had divorced long before the film. It’s difficult to describe — I always felt vaguely afraid of you, but at the same time, utterly protected by you.

X365, week 7

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Sharon, 1972
You and your twin sister Karen wore your blonde hair back in ponytails with bangs straight across your foreheads. Others had difficulty telling you apart, but I discerned that you had an edgier look; your sister was softer. I remember those stylish floor-length prairie dresses, complete with laced-up midriff, that your mother allowed you to wear, even though they were completely inappropriate for school. You smelled oddly of saltine crackers.

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Francis, 1978
You moved into our neighborhood, and pretty soon you were “going with” my best friend Diane. She told me all about stuffing her retainer into her back pocket before making out with you in the bushes behind her house, a situation that was unfathomable to me. She was so besotted she painted NIKE on a rock and kept it next to her bed (the first time I ever saw the swoosh was on your feet). I was ambivalent about you because you were ushering my friend into a new phase that, for my part, I was plainly not ready for.

44|365
Tacky, 1974
I couldn’t imagine why, but you noticed me. You were linked to the most popular girl in school, and you would walk with your arms around each other’s waists, your fingers entwined in belt loops. I was two years younger, but you would sometimes talk to me on the playground, telling me I had pretty eyes, and I was thrilled but frozen — too shy to keep up my end of the conversation. You had long wavy hair and a tough reputation, and when I casually mentioned your name (you were Greek) to my older sister, she thought it was hysterically funny that I actually knew someone named Tacky.

45|365
Alexis, 1976
I was almost eleven when you were born, my first niece, and until I had my own, everything I knew about babies I knew from you. I was babysitting one night when you were about two and you woke up crying, which was unusual. I rushed into your room and found you standing in your crib holding your arms out to me to pick you up. I pulled you out and you held onto me so tightly, sniffling and hiccupping into my neck as I rocked back and forth comforting you, and I had never before felt so needed.

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Sandra, 1973
You were a friend of my parents and you would cruise to our island on your boat and tie up for the weekend. It was so exciting when we would see a boat coming into our bay, because it meant people and parties and good times, even for us kids. Your every movement seemed so purposeful, and you spoke in a near whisper, as though you were in a library at all times. I adored you and whenever I could I would sit below in your galley and just listen to your calm voice.

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Philip, 1976
You were the imaginary little brother that I took care of. I imagined that we were orphans and were living in a boarding house where our meals were provided, but otherwise we were on our own. For a couple of years I escaped into this running narrative whenever I was alone, and it was strangely soothing to imagine this world in which I was the adult.

48|365
Anne, 1995
You knocked on my door and introduced yourself, gushing that you had heard I was pregnant, too. We joked that, even though my due date was six weeks before yours, maybe our babies would be born on the same day, and it seemed like a miracle when that’s exactly what happened. It was a kind of miracle for me too when I would drag my sleep-deprived body out of bed to feed my baby at some ungodly hour. I would look down the street and see the light on in your house and know that you were doing the same thing, and sharing those wearisome middle of the night feedings with you meant so much to me.

X365, week 6

35|365
Sylvia, 1987
At my first real job in advertising I was a true novice, while you were at that junior level where you had a lot of pressure and responsibility — but without the title or much money. You worked hard and had a lot of credibility, but you had an unfulfilled artistic side — like maybe you were a poet or a sculptor at heart. You caused an uproar when you abruptly dropped out to become a bicycle messenger, and then I would see you in the elevators in all your gear, looking tanned and fit and happy.

36|365
Linda, 1987
You were in your forties, an account executive of an earlier vintage, and I (at 21) couldn’t figure out why you would still want to work in advertising. So old school, you barked out your last name when you answered your phone, and smoked menthol cigarettes at your desk. At Easter, you gave everyone these special chocolate eggs you made from scratch. I nibbled on it mindlessly through the day, and when you asked if you could have some of mine, saying that you hadn’t saved one for yourself, you were really just checking to see how much I had eaten, and couldn’t believe I had almost devoured it.

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Nicole, 1975
You moved to my town from Trinidad and had hair so blonde it was white. Occasionally, you invited me to your house for lunch on a school day, without any adults to watch over us, and you made us grilled cheese and chocolate milk all by yourself. Your mother was French and strict and worked full time, and I remember you constantly on the phone with her, telling her where you were, asking if you could stay for dinner, or to sleep over. I always felt so serious and tense when you were on the phone with your mother speaking in your combination of French and English, but her answer was usually, Non.

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Paul, 1988
You were my boss at the remote and esoteric library software company where I wrote documentation manuals. I am snoring just writing about this time of my life. But you were interesting, with your pock-marked complexion and your enormously wide-hipped wife (who you referred to as “your bride”), your affected, high-brow tendencies, and the fact that you were having a fairly well-known affair with a young guy who worked in another department. I only lasted there about a year and never learned how any of this resolved itself, but I was pretty sure there was no fairy tale ending for you and your bride (nor for your two beautiful, tow-headed boys).

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Sister Mary, 1979
You were among the dwindling band of nuns who presided over my high school, with your navy blue habits, shapeless clothing and sensible shoes. I can never forget how you tormented me early one morning when I was sitting in front of my locker with my legs extended out into the hallway, studying for a test. You were marching down the hall, tiny and bulldog-like, with your habit framing your oatmeal-colored face. You started to walk toward me and I looked up, expecting you to say something, but you didn’t — you just kicked my outstretched legs swiftly, then moved on without a word or backward glance, your hands knotted into fists at your sides.

40|365
Miss McDonald, 1979
You were my typing teacher and had the most unfortunate physical characteristics. You had eczema, or some inflammation all over your face, so that it seemed you were constantly itching, peeling and flaking. You probably couldn’t bathe regularly due to your skin issue, and you wore your long, greasy hair in a low ponytail down your back. The back of your head I remember best because you walked up and down the aisles of desks, with your hands clasped behind your back as we typed away, tickety, tickety, tickety, ding.

41|365
Lynne, 1984
On the surface, you were everyone’s best friend. You had a talent for sensing people’s hopes and fears, and that made you a natural manipulator. Nobody could ever really know you because you were in constant disguise, effortlessly adapting to the needs of the situation. It was difficult to watch you spiraling out of control because you weren’t a bad person; but you felt no obligation to the truth.