Trials

by Marion Dess

  "Of what?"

  "Dying."

  "Dying? What? In the Army? Please--no. We are helicopter mechanics. We're not dying."

  "Ok, good."

  About seven hours in, Toni fell asleep on my shoulder. I had already been asleep when it happened. Then I woke up and she was there. I could smell her, sweet and salty from being confined to a 3 by 3 foot space. l was careful not to disturb her on my shoulder.

  I looked out of the window into the frigid night sky that was pierced by thousands of stars. I remembered a story from somewhere a long time ago. The Great Mother covers the sky with an ancient blanket at night. It's so tattered, so primordial, it is full of holes.

  The light of Heaven shines so bright through these holes that we, humans, see as stars. We're all like a bird in a cage; cover us with a towel and we calm down. The cabin of the plane was dimly lit and no one, absolutely no one, stirred. It felt, for a few seconds, like eternity; Toni, Christine, and I, shrouded by the Great Mother, on Flight 212 over the Arctic Circle.

  Strength in the face of pain, grief: doing something that frightens you…

  It was cloudy when we landed at Narita International Airport in Tokyo. A bright sun shone through the clouds. When we flew underneath them and the plane tilted to the right and then slowly to the left, we both peered out.

  Leafy trees, grassy meadows, lush rice paddies, verdant farms, viridescent beauty.

  I looked out the window and began to tear up. Toni put her arm around me and gave me a big squeeze.

  "Why you cryin? You missin' somebody? We gonna land soon."

  I smiled my big ugly yellow smile. She squeezed my thigh a few times and we both looked out the little oval airplane window until the plane landed. Christine looked back at us, or maybe just at Toni. She didn't make eye contact with me.

  I had made it. I was in Japan. When we got off the plane, I hugged Toni long and hard and then I hugged Christine in the same way. She finally realized I wasn't a threat.

  "'I hope you guys make it safely to the Philippines and that your family is doing alright. Thank you for talking. You gals are one of a kind. I'll never forget you."

  "Ok honey. Be seeing you. Enjoy your Japan."

  My Japan.

  I walked off towards the bathroom tears streaming down my face. I couldn't control myself. I felt home, belonging to a different past no longer in existence. I was time warped into a previous life. I couldn't breathe. In the bathroom, a sign read: "Yokasau! Welcome to Japan!" I could read the hiragana and wanted to die of happiness. An older Japanese woman washing her hands glanced at me.

  "Daijabu? OK?"

  "Hai. Dama, nihan daisuki des. Hajimete desu."

  She nodded, smiled, and left the bathroom in that order. I had learned that everything had an order in Japan. Everything would be where it needed to be in Japan, including me.

  Chapter 3

  I first came to the city in the dead of February, 2015, for 48 hours with two tickets to see Hamilton at the Public Theater. I was aware of Lin Manuel's existence by way of Timur. He and I frequently belted out the soundtrack to In the Heights while smoking blunts in his yellow Volkswagen Beetle while driving around Biscayne Gardens in Miami. Despite knowing all the words, I had never even seen In the Heights, nor did I really understand what Timur was going on about when he talked about Lin, as he affectionately referred to him. Through our conversations, I came to know Lin as an artist who had descended upon our planet and bestowed great change upon musical theater.

  One night, after a long day of teaching, I came home to Timur's figure in the door frame of our tiny studio in Miami. When I threw my things down on our futon, he picked me up and squeezed me.

  "We're going to New York City, baby!" "What?"

  "I got us tickets to see Hamilton!"

  He seemed hopped up on something but was sober, even with a consistent reefer habit. I was excited and nervous about where he had gotten the money, considering I worked full time while he concentrated on his stand-up and was usually unemployed. Having never been to New York City, my thoughts shuffled between Digable Planets, The Godfather, jazz and comedy clubs, the Beats, Macy's, and 9/] 1. He grabbed a lighter and ran the flame down the brown leaf of a freshly rolled blunt. We drove around the block, windows down -- a celebratory toke.

  About a month later in January, I borrowed a puffy jacket from Bianca, rolled a few sweatshirts I had picked up at the Goodwill into my backpack. When the plane landed and the door of the fuselage opened, cold air lashed at my cheeks. We took a yellow cab to New World Hotel off Bowery in Chinatown. The walls of the hotel didn't reach the ceiling and we heard prostitutes working hard through our first night. In the morning, we went across the street to a Vietnamese restaurant, our sneakers sinking into freezing brown slush, for a huge bowl of hot steaming pho and a pot of tea. Timur and I sipped our tea and kept smiling at each other.

  Without vocalizing it, we both knew how the other could feel the city. It's energy coursed through our veins as we anticipated seeing Hamilton in a few hours. We ran back to the hotel to get a moment of rest; though we were excited to see the city, the freezing temperature had sapped our bodies of energy. After a brief twenty minutes of restlessly staring at the uncovered ceiling fixtures in our hotel room, we got up and decided to head to the Public Theater early. I slipped back on my cold, wet sneakers and had to pull hard on my pants to get them over my long-johns. Back in the frigid light, we walked hand in hand down Bowery. Timur pulled his hand out of mine to put it back in his pocket. It was too cold. He stopped at a 99 cent store and bought two much needed pairs of gloves and we continued in silence up Bowery to the Public Theater. The streets were covered in a purplish slush and we slid around on the sidewalks, our calves sore by the time we'd reached the steps of the theater. Once inside, we went to the the Will Call to get our tickets.

  "Just so you know, Lin's understudy will replace him for this show."

  "What?" said Timur, his green eyes piercing the woman through the glass divider. "I'm sorry. I don't understand."

  "Unfortunately, Lin Manuel will not be playing the role of Alexander Hamilton, but his understudy - he will be in the six o'clock show."

  Timur walked away from the glass clenching his fists.

  "Look, I'm sorry but we flew all the way from Miami to see Lin. Is there any chance we can change our tickets? We are only here until tomorrow. We've been looking forward--he especially--has been looking forward to this since Christmas."

  "I'm very sorry ma'm. I can sign you guys up for the lottery that will start in one hour. If you guys win that, then you can see the six o'clock show with Lin."

  "A lottery?"

  "Yes ma'm for ten dollar tickets."

  "We already paid $300 plus the plane tickets to be here and now we have to wait in a lottery in case we win--"

  She shook her head yes. Her pouting lips started to annoy me. At this point, Timur was pacing behind me like a lion.

  "Look, I'm sorry--! know it's not your fault but--he really has been looking forward to seeing Lin Manuel perform. He did In the Heights in theater at our university. He knows all the words and has been following him for a while now. Look, how much are tickets to the six o'clock, I'll buy one for him."

  ·Tm so sorry ma'm there are none available." "Really?"

  "That's why we are doing a lottery."

  "So you have some available but they're reserved for the lottery?" "Yes, ma'm."

  I paused and took a deep breath. The enormous lobby of the theater suddenly seemed small. I heard the screeching noise of an espresso being made and the milk foaming up. I looked around. Forty or so people had pooled in the lobby. Some took photos standing by two statues of Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr.

  "Ok. Can you give me two tickets for the lottery?" "Yes, I can."

  "ls it possible to get a refund on our tickets?" "I'm sorry. No refunds."

  She passed two Hamilton lottery tickets through the slit a
t the bottom of the glass, smiled at me with her head cocked to the side. Her earrings sparkled in the light that shone over her head.

  "Next in line."

  I pulled Timur to the side and explained the situation. "Look it's not that bad. We'll win the lottery and see Lin." He sucked his teeth and rolled his eyes at me.

  "I'm gonna go grab some cigarettes," he said turning towards the door.

  I waited in the warm bright lobby for twenty or so minutes watching the different crowds in the theater while he ran outside to get cigarettes. He bought two loosies, came back inside, and tugged on my sleeve to go outside and smoke. We rarely smoked cigarettes, but the occasion called for one. The warmth and glow of the orange flame from the lighter eased my mood as it illuminated my cupped palm. I fingered the lottery ticket in the pocket of my jacket as I took a few drags. It was too cold to sit on the steps so I stood up. At the top of the hour, the Hamilton lottery came and went and our numbers were not called. Timur, angry and defeated marched up to the ticket window.

  "Look, we didn't win the lottery. Please I am begging you. How much for a ticket to the six o'clock show with Lin Manuel in it?"

  "I'm so sorry sir, we're sold out."

  Timur's eyes started to water and his face became distorted in anguish. An older woman walked behind the girl at the ticket counter, bent down, and whispered something into her ear. Then they raised their hands and talked rapidly at each other. Timur was now pacing the lobby. They finished and both looked up at me and smiled.

  "Ok, so I talked to my manager, she said she will switch the two tickets to the six o'clock show."

  "Oh my God. Thank you!" I said.

  Timur came back to the counter and squeezed me from behind. She printed two new tickets and handed us a receipt. Timur kissed the glass in the spot where the girl and the manager's heads were positioned. His eyes now filled with peace of mind.

  "Thank you so much, you have no idea," he said to the ladies behind the glass ticket booth. Timur stuck his arm out for me to take it and we walked towards the island in the middle of the lobby to grab a hot coffee. As we stood with our coffees in our hands, Lin Manuel Miranda walked out with a few other actors, from a white door that blended into the theater wall. They swung plastic bags with white take-out boxes in them at one another playfully. Timur, who was usually in full command of his emotions, petrified in Lin's presence. I'd never seen anything like it. Paralyzed, Timur stood awestruck in the brightly lit lobby of the Public. I, on the other hand, walked right up to Lin. Timur waved his hand for me to come back but I ignored his silent plea and tapped Lin on his shoulder. He turned around.

  "Lin Manuel?"

  "Yeah!"

  "Wow. We flew up from Miami to see you. I mean, see you perform. It's a pleasure to meet you!"

  Lin was gracious and full of life. I ran over and grabbed Timur by the hand and pushed him from behind up to Lin. He was at a loss for words, and even though we were intimate, for the first time I realized Timur was actually in love with Lin. His feelings for the artist surmounted admiration.

  "We've come all the way from Miami just to see you. You 're my hero," said Timur. His face immediately betrayed him. I knew he regretted saying something so banal.

  "Aw shucks, thank you. So glad you could make it," Lin returned.

  "He was Usnavi in our university production of In The Heights," I said, poking Timur in the ribs.

  "That's wonderful! Look guys, I gotta run but so glad to meet fans. I hope you enjoy the show, thanks for coming."

  And with that, Lin Manuel walked out of the theater, skipped down the steps, and out of our view.

  In April, two months after seeing Hamilton, I took a job teaching at Otsuma University outside of Tokyo. By the end of September, my stint in Japan had finished, and Timur and I ended things. Back in the States and depressed with the way things were going, I had no idea what to do next. After our trip to New York City in the winter, we had promised each other that no matter what, we'd move to New York City together when I got back from Japan. It was a blood oath; we had run a kitchen knife across on our palms and pressed them together.

  Timur and I drove 20 hours on I-95 in a rental car to Brooklyn and found ourselves at the doorstep of an old friend off Flatbush Avenue. Akira was a 60 year old Japanese chef who kept a bush of Japanese basil in the kitchen window and shuffled his feet wherever he walked. He graciously let us stay with him our first few months in the city. In this time, we depleted every cent I had made teaching abroad, which funded us getting our own places; he took up residence in Harlem and I in Bed-Stuy.

  I learned quickly that living in New York City was less intoxicating than it was to visit it. The city is full of imperatives and conditionals. If someone told me to meet them at the corner of 23rd and 6th avenue, I would stare at them as if they spoke gibberish. Just take the 7 to the-name-of-the-stahon-you-will-forget. Get out on the east exit. I had to see where the sun is to utilize my working knowledge of cardinal directions. Walk six blocks to an avenue that soundsjust like the street you just got off at. Ring 2E. Don't press too hard. Ring again if no answer. If no answer, just buzz someone else.

  A resentment of the city and of Timur began to fester within me. I couldn't summon the energy the city had given me when we had first come to see Hamilton. The lack of trees irritated me, as well as the unswimmable waters that surround the city. I obsessed over the flaws of the city. What's the point if you can't swim in a body of water?

  At 144 Stuyvesant, where I moved out on my own from Timur, I drank lots of water out of the faucet, to my roommate's horror. I would lie in my room, broke, wrapped in my coat on top of a pile of clothes in mid-November staring at the Hamilton playbills. Only nine months earlier had Timur and I graced the streets of Chinatown together, unaware that the sun had set on us.

  I spent most of that lonely winter people-watching at 42nd street and peering at the katana in the Met. I did walking meditations on the Brooklyn Bridge to Manhattan as if the end of it was taking the red pill and somehow and some way I'd come into a different world, a different person.

  Two dollar slices, browsing the Strand, an occasional lonely reservation at Ivan Ramen, and membership at Brooklyn Boulders kept me preoccupied in my ounce of free time when I wasn't working or worrying about working. The romance ofNew York waned immediately and abruptly ended when got myself a nice third-degree sprained ankle. Penniless, overworked, and underweight, my spirit was gone. Two months on crutches, taking the MTA was too much of a hassle. The stairs and not being offered a seat on the subway destroyed my morale. I slept on the floor of my classroom, unable to make the two hour journey back home. I was ready to leave or die, so I called up my boss in Japan and got my job back. After signing the contract, I got a call from Timur.

  We hadn't spoken for over a year. My heart raced. I told him I was due back to Japan even though my ankle was royally fucked. My life had shrivelled to nothing in New York. He sounded preoccupied on the other line and broke down crying. His new girlfriend was pregnant. He married her at City Hall. I hung up the phone feeling betrayed, though I knew we were finished long ago. My Central Asian students kept me fed during my convalescence. Plov, samsa, and manti warmed my soul. Working three teaching jobs for $24,000 per year; the magic of New York had long dissipated, I had been defeated by simultaneous dissolution ofreality and expectations. I left for Japan relieved.

  For a Floridian, winter in the City was a real novel treat. I'd sit in the kitchen on the window sill and watch the snow fly around in all directions, holding Winnie Cooper, my roommate's long haired chihuahua, in my arms. I'd take pictures of the tree outside, equally as dilapidated as our building and my spirit. I'd wish I had somewhere to be. I knew Brooklyn was hoarding countless activities of enlightenment, self-discovery, or sabotage. Fear of missing out often gripped my chest but being so mentally and physically exhausted all the time, I never worried about actually leaving my room. I'd smoke a bowl because I never learned to ro
ll; that had been Timur's talent. I would set my bowl down on the box of my typewriter, light a stick of incense that burned for exactly 20 minutes, take a deep breath, and laid myself onto my Japanese futon, hoping that when I woke up, the sky of winter would be blue. My bones ached. Why anyone would ever want to live in a place with a real winter by choice baffled me. Then the bedbugs came.

  Being from the Sunshine State, my preoccupation was with comparisons. My conception of time and seasons was all turned around in the northeast. When the first "hot" day of "summer" would come, I'd hop on the F and go to Coney Island. The sight of the sea sent my heart racing and I felt it's gravity tug on my soul. I needed the Atlantic, and its infinite spread across the horizon comforted me. I'd walk up to Nathan's and order a chili cheese dog with chili cheese fries, a large beer, not caring that I just spent the last of my paycheck on crap. I'd note the countdown clock of the Nathan's International Hotdog Eating Contest and walk to the beach where I imagined falling into the sand. I daydreamed of falling on my knees and putting my forehead on the sand, kissing the beach. I imagined rubbing my body all over with sand, putting it in my mouth--yes--put sand in my mouth--hearing it crunch between my teeth. Instead, I slipped my shoes off and sat closest to the shore, not in loneliness, but in solitude to eat.

  The taste made my heart wrench in pain. I missed my father, who was too far away to see. Growing up, he and I used to watch the hotdog eating contest every fourth of July in Florida while he'd grill outside. I imagined one day we'd actually go to Coney Island, which looked like a real wholesome kinda place, though I don't like carnival rides.

  I sipped on my cold beer and teared up, missing Florida, cursing the City, cursing myself and Timur, cursing that I had to pull my jacket out because there was a cold breeze left over from winter that ran like a common thread through spring and now "summer." It was June and I had to wear a light jacket on the beach. I shook my head, my vision blurred with salty tears. I picked up other people's trash along the way to the throw my garbage out.