get in a normal lock.
“Go away. I’m not coming out until you leave.”
I could say I’ll leave and then not do it, but then he’d think I wasn’t a very nice person.
“I’ll leave. I’m leaving right now. I’m doing exactly what you tell me to and I always will. Goodbye.”
First thing, outside, I buy a newspaper, and there we both are! There’s one picture of him climbing up and another of me waving my arms and with my mouth open, yelling. I don’t look very attractive that way. I must make sure not to do that again.
I stop at a cappuccino shop and read the article. People protested his arrest. They got together and raised his bail and the cops let him go. I don’t come off too well. They call me a hysterical woman, claiming to be… “claiming,” they said… his girlfriend.
I walk back to my place, thinking, I love you, I love you, at every step. Thousands of steps and thousands of I love yous. I just love. I don’t care. It can be anybody. But even if I were to be in love with somebody else, I’m not going to let him get away with the way he’s been behaving. I won’t be ignored—as if I’m nobody. I may actually
be
nobody, but he shouldn’t rub it in. He shouldn’t just jump to that conclusion before he even knows who I am. Besides, after the newspaper article, I’m not nobody anymore. Though, actually, I don’t think anybody will recognize me from that picture with my mouth stretched out so far. They won’t know I’m somebody now—as of yesterday. I didn’t give them my right name and address. I was afraid to. So I’m still not somebody.
At least I know
his
name—from the newspapers. He already was somebody. The Great Buzzoni. Not a cat burglar after all. A high wire artist. I don’t know how he makes his living doing that. Especially living here in New York. Though he does have a cheep apartment. Maybe he’s
also
a cat burglar.
Next day I stake myself out near his apartment. With a purse full of diet bars. I wear a big hat. I hope men like women in big hats as much as I like men in them. Lots of front steps across from his place to sit on while I wait.
Finally here he comes, a beret instead of a hat this time. A neat quick man. No wonder I followed him.
I’ve figured out what to say. I say it. “Hello. It’s me. I saw you climbing.”
He walks right by. In fact he walks even faster. I have a hard time keeping up.
I shout after him, “I climb, too. I’d like to climb with you. Both of us climbing would be even more of a show. The Great Gabriella. And when I said, I love you, I meant I love the way you climb.”
I wonder if I can do it. I’ve always been afraid of heights. I’ll have to find a brick building to try it on. I’ll practice in an alley so nobody will see.
Now he’s slowing down. Now he turns around. He looks at me—really looks. “You can?”
We walk to the corner for coffee. I can’t believe I’m walking beside the great Buzzoni and that I picked him out on the street, from millions of people. I forgive him for telling me to go away that morning.
(For all his sharp Italian looks, his name is really George Mayer. I wonder what I should say my real name is.)
We don’t talk about climbing. And I don’t dare ask how he makes his living. He doesn’t ask me either. I suppose for the same reason. We might both be cat burglars. If he’s one, all the more reason to think I’m one. We ask each other everything but that.
(I’m glad I ordered the same things he did. It makes us more companionable.)
We’re nature lovers, though here in New York there’s not much nature to love: Cockroaches, rats, and pigeons, but it’s Spring. Some sort of sparrows are chirping in the trees.
We’re lovers of beauty, sunsets and sunrises, and here he is living in a basement. Out his window he can watch feet. I have a better view from my fifth floor walk up.
What if he needs a helper? Dare I ask?
I ask.
He sits and thinks.
“All right. I could use
“Go away. I’m not coming out until you leave.”
I could say I’ll leave and then not do it, but then he’d think I wasn’t a very nice person.
“I’ll leave. I’m leaving right now. I’m doing exactly what you tell me to and I always will. Goodbye.”
First thing, outside, I buy a newspaper, and there we both are! There’s one picture of him climbing up and another of me waving my arms and with my mouth open, yelling. I don’t look very attractive that way. I must make sure not to do that again.
I stop at a cappuccino shop and read the article. People protested his arrest. They got together and raised his bail and the cops let him go. I don’t come off too well. They call me a hysterical woman, claiming to be… “claiming,” they said… his girlfriend.
I walk back to my place, thinking, I love you, I love you, at every step. Thousands of steps and thousands of I love yous. I just love. I don’t care. It can be anybody. But even if I were to be in love with somebody else, I’m not going to let him get away with the way he’s been behaving. I won’t be ignored—as if I’m nobody. I may actually
be
nobody, but he shouldn’t rub it in. He shouldn’t just jump to that conclusion before he even knows who I am. Besides, after the newspaper article, I’m not nobody anymore. Though, actually, I don’t think anybody will recognize me from that picture with my mouth stretched out so far. They won’t know I’m somebody now—as of yesterday. I didn’t give them my right name and address. I was afraid to. So I’m still not somebody.
At least I know
his
name—from the newspapers. He already was somebody. The Great Buzzoni. Not a cat burglar after all. A high wire artist. I don’t know how he makes his living doing that. Especially living here in New York. Though he does have a cheep apartment. Maybe he’s
also
a cat burglar.
Next day I stake myself out near his apartment. With a purse full of diet bars. I wear a big hat. I hope men like women in big hats as much as I like men in them. Lots of front steps across from his place to sit on while I wait.
Finally here he comes, a beret instead of a hat this time. A neat quick man. No wonder I followed him.
I’ve figured out what to say. I say it. “Hello. It’s me. I saw you climbing.”
He walks right by. In fact he walks even faster. I have a hard time keeping up.
I shout after him, “I climb, too. I’d like to climb with you. Both of us climbing would be even more of a show. The Great Gabriella. And when I said, I love you, I meant I love the way you climb.”
I wonder if I can do it. I’ve always been afraid of heights. I’ll have to find a brick building to try it on. I’ll practice in an alley so nobody will see.
Now he’s slowing down. Now he turns around. He looks at me—really looks. “You can?”
We walk to the corner for coffee. I can’t believe I’m walking beside the great Buzzoni and that I picked him out on the street, from millions of people. I forgive him for telling me to go away that morning.
(For all his sharp Italian looks, his name is really George Mayer. I wonder what I should say my real name is.)
We don’t talk about climbing. And I don’t dare ask how he makes his living. He doesn’t ask me either. I suppose for the same reason. We might both be cat burglars. If he’s one, all the more reason to think I’m one. We ask each other everything but that.
(I’m glad I ordered the same things he did. It makes us more companionable.)
We’re nature lovers, though here in New York there’s not much nature to love: Cockroaches, rats, and pigeons, but it’s Spring. Some sort of sparrows are chirping in the trees.
We’re lovers of beauty, sunsets and sunrises, and here he is living in a basement. Out his window he can watch feet. I have a better view from my fifth floor walk up.
What if he needs a helper? Dare I ask?
I ask.
He sits and thinks.
“All right. I could use
Similar Books
