YD6~27 Erin's Enigma: A New Year's Revelation in New York

Description: New York City’s Jewish singles scene, a mysterious force, Aetheria's guides through a labyrinth. The writer leaps job interviews to work -- Erin culminates a surprising New Year's Eve, an expiring flight ticket, propels him to a renewed beginning -- Johannesburg?

 I’m puzzling out my rendezvous with Erin, which culminated till Friday, evening trek. I could feel the open air, parks, gardens, or walking paths. Instead, I’m bushwhacking my mind’s forest, acquainting a far cry from a coffee shop, or a restaurant.

Unease gnawed at me since I hung up the phone call. Rising from behind my desktop IBM PC, confused. In stealth from being discovered, I resorted to testing on a spreadsheet. Gleaning at digits off a listing and inputting the number in a cell. However, how much attention I’m bringing, the Hydra of my reading mind, juggling through my brain’s interface, the fragile output mind’s head, flustering I’m tracing back to my divorce from Jean, flashback to an elementary school a classroom of eyes darting me as struggle through syllable to read words, and sentences. 

I walk away from the vacated secretary’s reception desk. Jerry Brecker’s office was soulless, to my concern. I am seeing Silhouette Drywall’s cascading flight of stairs through the narrow stairwell, the door to the street. Closing the doors, I step away to desert apart trains of cars and the United States Post Office’s white jeeps. I dart in diagonal to the brownstone block. By a trickle of traffic, rhymes to mind, with the city, ‘_New York University?_’ I’m passing the sculptured entrance stoop, to catch across the extreme corner for orange F disks to railings wrap to the sidewalk agape Subway stairs. I’m coming to stand on the platform with a few far-spread commuters, edging the rail tracks.

The driver’s cabin appears out of the tunnels along the tracks, to vanish at the opposite tunnel into darkness, trundling, to cinematography passing by passengers seated in the coaches. Doors on standstill - hiss - open. A few people shuffle out before I advance into the interior to a seat. Alighting at Forest Hill. I’m striding the stairs to the overhead agape, and onto the sidewalk, sweeping a gaze to find the 66th Road street post. Vigilant of scattered pedestrians as dusk lowers across distant looming towers clustered, to filter through confused jagged rooftops. A lone post pointing “102nd Street.”

Aetheria’s leading my Gemini paving an angelic path, flourishing my adventurous fancy, to dwarf by the towers. Around a wall, clearing a green island. I’m drawn to the recessed bright portal splash the center. I approach scouting the imposing gleam-washed-marble lobby, to press the wooden glass door. Crossing to the elevator, press the call “25” button to expedite - Hiss - doors, stepping into the cabin. Pressing the button, pivot facing the sliding shut doors, anticipating, the doors parted. I paced out, with a right glimpse, venturing left into a wide corridor, passing a trash chute door. To my surprise, the first door gleams a bronze “E.” With a tap on the button, I stand by. In the crack of the opening door, Erin appears. “Hi,” she says

She glances at a champagne-shaped bottle in my hand, offering me a wry smile. “Do you know what that means?” She asks, a hint of cynicism in her voice, with a dismissive laugh.

I’m baffled. ‘_I’m sure you’ll tell me._’ a wave of gentle confusion washed over me.

My irritation flickers, as Erin releases the doorknob, stepping aside, revealing a foursome of backrests huddling around the circular table. She steps scooching by the doorway to the kitchen, heading beyond, as I close the door behind. She further introduced me to a threesome white cushioned couch facing the circular coffee table, discarding the bottle off the edge. Meeting the window’s upcoming night, she turns with a shy smile. 

Erin’s trained eyes, honed by years of studying psychology, read in my baffled silence. Bemused by my ignorance. “… I want to sleep with you,” she says. dispelling confusing blunt honesty.

Erin breaks away from chatting, passing me by, and disappearing into the kitchen. Left alone, I stare at the bedside table, at the acrylic displaying Erin’s face, too young for Time Magazine’s front page. I reasoned. ‘_a harmless collage. _’ I would expect a magazine to rifle through the pages.

Erin reappears from the doorway cracks, a meticulous hostess. She bears a platter of dishes, set on the coffee table, with a steady stream of chatters. Courteous gesture, inviting me to join her on the couch. 

Acquainting, we chatted into the night. “I was raped. . .” As Erin speaks. I see her with a friend emerging from narrow rows of blurry old townhouses’ gleaming cobblestone slick underfoot to the curb at a junction to deserted dappled lampposts on Parisian night street. Left speechless, I can’t imagine the stark contrast between her experience and the gentle intimacy. Realizing psychoanalysis of her trauma, specializing in the psychology of rape victims. 

As our conversation deepened, my mind wandered to her moon in Cancer in symbiosis with her sun in Warthog. Erin’s eyes locked on mine, her resonant mind’s subtle invitation, steps from the L-shaped heel’s lounging area. Leading to a pause at the corner’s draping duvet. Her eyes drew me towards the bathroom doorway, while I was configuring the distant pair of puffed pillows. Made-up sleek bedding to an undercarriage, I imagined a spring-loaded mechanism. For the petite Erin’s pinky lifts by the foot of the double bed, and tucks away into the closet of an oak wall unit. I left the edging shelves and wardrobe doors. 

As I settled onto the plush bedding, Erin emerged from the shower to stand at the foot of the bed, gearing up a feline grace to crawl onto the duvet. She creeps over to my ankles, her palms on my chest. As straddling, her knee, walks presses me to lie back. My head sinks into the pillow, the concealed lights beneath the overhead fascia row of cupboard doors. As Erin’s eyes fixated, a melody playing behind her eyes. ‘_Yankee Doodle dandy, Mind the music and the step, and with the girls be handy. . ._’ Fixated on me, with a shy smile, knee crawls further alongside my hips to saddle thighs locked into the hollow of my waist. Mocking eyes on me, she brings her palm to her face. Licks and her hand to wring her arm to tuck her hand behind her back. My mind, curious about her technique, as I’m without sensation, I reckon her attempting to stimulate me. But her hand returns blank her face, to a lick across her palm. She tucks her hand again behind her back. Followed by her eyes after her third attempt, her shoulders twisting. She uncoils with a questionable silent gaze, locking eyes. “Aren’t you circumcised?” she exclaims.

Erin’s hand left an arousing moist and slippery sensation. Her words hung in the air. Erin returns peeking around her waist, winding up her torso in a twisting. Her eyes from the blind spot, uncoil, onto relaxing her propped arm, shy from my Jewishness. After my initiation, we dozed off, until Erin announced. “It’s time for you to go.” The hand of the clock raised like a traffic officer signaling a halt. Frustrated, the other hand points toward the edge of the bed. “Four o’clock!” I’m gathering the courage to head away, telling myself. ‘_Your feet are made for walking, walk now!_’

My heart swells, swing my legs off the bed, and step to the floor. Steal a glance back across her cocooned lie under the bedding, the window glazing to deep streets plume light pollution through fenestrated facades. I step into the bathroom doorway, dressed to gaze in the shadows past the bed, to the bottle of wine on the table. Around the corner, beyond the dining table, to the door awaits my exit.

The apartment door closed - click - I turned toward the elevator. Stealing a glance at the enigmatic trash chute door. Stepping into the cabin - hiss - to stand in a punctuated silence - hiss - clearing the marble lobby, to the stark contrast, the dreaded night awaiting beyond the wooden glass doors. I press the door, to a breath of fresh air, stepping toward dappled lampposts lights.

Once my body’s hydraulics blood circulates warmth, melting my harboring frustration toward Erin. Relishing the slumbering city’s architectural looming shadows. Zombies rising and dissipating, I descend to the orange F disk subway in awe on the platform, among men commuting to take up duty on a Saturday. The train pulled in its cinematographic windows scarce sitting travelers, my scouting Warthog’s vigilance stepping in the opening the doors.

I rose from the Subway to Woodside’s skies, the first light stifling the night away, passing the railway overpass parapet’s spalling concrete. To unlock the door, to my Polish landlady's house, to the hallway. I step the dogleg stairs, pass the dining table to the corridor to my room. Closing the door, I climb into bed, wondering myself to doze off.

I’m in a habit of calling Erin on Fridays after work when rising from the subway to Times Square, the changing seasons blow an ocean-cold spell channeled by the towers, filtering through my clothes, chilling me to the bones, while I’m anxious to call Erin. I step up to a Broadway telephone booth. Shivering, I lift the handset and dial. Erin answers. As she talks, I’m eager for her to tell me where to meet. But she seems comfortable inside her studio, lounging on her couch, chatting. While I’m preoccupied, to hand up at finding my long strides thawing my body, for some warmth. I rush, repeating, “Can’t you tell me that later?” I’m begging for a subtle break short of her extended conversation.

With the first snow swells banking streets - swoosh - traffic, I’m walking and feeling graceful in a long plaid overcoat. I got over my frustration, unable to balance two hundred dollars as a value for a coat. When Erin led me into a men’s store, feeling the crunch of intimidated people, comfortable in discreet casual clothes. Erin passes a hand brushing coats hanging from racks, as I believe to walk out, with a few words. ‘_Yes! But let me think it over._’ But Erin’s hand unhooks the hanger with a glint in her eyes. “Try this one,” Erin exclaims. She melts my heart. I couldn’t say no, passing the storekeeper behind the cash register, to walking out of the downtown store.

After the first blizzard, with every stride, I feel good with the warmth along my thighs, wearing my long woolen overcoat, arriving at the office to greet, the secretary, the accountant, and my estimator colleague. By ten o’clock instead of passing by the doorway light, and exchanging “Hi. Hi…” Jerry steps up to me behind the IBM PC monitor. He drops off a blueprint, saying. “Count the different apartments.” Turns away to disappear.

By midmorning, I ride the metro and walk the streets. The morning traffic appeased, skies in the brushwood’s deserted street. I arrive in thought, bugged to live with, unlocking the door to my yellow taxi landlady’s house. 

In the stealth of gathering the courage to face up to the future, I ascend the dogleg stairs to enter the dining room, ashamed of losing my job. My invisible handicap surged from my childhood classrooms, crushing milieus. I head toward the narrow corridor’s end door to my room. A figure burst out the crack of the adjacent door - Aaaa-How? - Yelp. spinning around to the door, my landlady stark naked - Slam - disappearing crepey skin to her room.

Scouring the classifieds, dialing numbers, and heading off for appointments. I arrived at a strange plundered rococo mansion. a young man ushered me through tombs to a middle-aged man rising from a large executive desk, excusing himself. I’m standing by, as he enters an adjacent room, to wooden doors’ glazed panels reflecting a labyrinthine — men kneeling on prayer rugs. I stand brave with quiet respect. But my torso organs wring out every solace drop of beauty, flourishing emotional force. I willed myself to project an air of courage. 

The middle-aged man returned with a mumble of apology morphs leading out of my wait. Returning to his seat behind the desk, for an interview exchange. In an exchange of greetings, I’m turning away. My mind turns hollow and gray, Aetheria’s influence wiping my tracks clean, leaving no path back from returning there.

The old brick warehouse looms around me, red oxide steel-pressed doorframes like fallen dominos leaning against each other in rows of short and long stocks. Swimming with the logistics of dispatch paper sheets at hand, my mind grappled with the complex juggling a myriad of doorframes of numbers. While David stands behind the glass partition. Dressed in a dark suit, and white shirt, wearing a yamulka, and fringes, he fielded calls with practiced ease. “Chris, can I help you?” He enquires warm and friendly, answering the phone — a mix of clients’ orders and meeting builders arriving in person. Reminded about Duro Industries, behind a monitor, input data for the manufactured doorframes automated invoicing out.

I was a few days on the job, then David signaled me, hanging up the phone. I skirted around the glass partition. “Jerry said you’re not an estimator!” David declared. As the dismissal hangs heavy, trailing me. Prospecting for another job — Aetheria spreads glitter along my path, walking out the pressed metal door frame distributor’s office, past the young woman behind a clerk’s desk. Voiceless, Aetheria expresses — through the young woman’s gaze held quiet intensity. This longing echoed in my mind, the future to find, by her silent image etched to mind, my heart sweeping her off her feet dancing her away into the street singing.

During the weekends with Erin, she handed a sliver of paper with a phone number. “They’re in dire need for an accountant.” She insisted, on her concern for my well-being. I couldn't bring myself to refuse, touched by her unexpected empathy. 

During the week, I called the temple. I headed every Wednesday to a cramped office behind a cluttered desk over an accountant ledger. A world away from the temple, offices shrouded in secrecy – Madonna niches and drawn curtains, I’m installing Peachtree Accounting Software for a construction company. A careless word must have slipped past my lips offices I approached by Madonna's niches and drawn curtains amid the New York mafia townhouses. I'd promptly returned my week’s earned hundred dollars to the temple, as I’m not worth an accountant function.

The month’s end loomed like a storm cloud, reminding me of my expiring flight ticket and rid of my anxiety. I dialed Sabena’s booking office. A woman answers. “I have a ticket that expires?” 

I suggested to the booking office woman. ‘_What must I do?_’ 

Loom like a storm cloud as I deduce the days, in fear. A clock ticked down, drumbeating my rising anxiety to a seventy-two-hour to book my flight. The booking clerk again. She requests my ticket details, confirming my departure date and time for the flight to Johannesburg with layovers. Relief washes over me, tinged with a bittersweet pang. 

The festive season freckles and fringes storefronts with tinsel and blinking lights, to an upcoming leap — over the festive season. Scooch out for at least three weeks, from business relying on me, to catch my flight with a mixture of anticipation. A few days after the weekend, on Wednesday of the old year evening, I’m drawn to a solitary sidewalk booth payphone - clang - lifting the handset - click, click - slot, a few coins align the busy streets. pressing Erin’s number onto the keypad. Erin voices, “Hello?” 

As I say, “Hi.” Expecting Erin’s usual instructions, she surprises me. “Why don’t you come over?” 

Her gaze held a secret before I even greeted her, at the opening door: ‘_I have a surprise!_’ 

She turns away from the huddled backrest around the dining table, returning to the worktop, to unpack groceries sprawl. I pause. Watching her in office clothes. Calm and chatting, her nimble fingers chop vegetables. I came to lean against the doorjamb. Nimble fingers gathering pieces and bits, decorating cheese toasts on a dish. She paces and rolls back, facing me. Her gaze, sharp. “Why are you calling me Teddy Bear?” 

Her words rile me. ‘_I don’t know._’ I’m telling in silence. Shrug, scrambling for words, ridiculed by the comparison of a fluffy teddy bear. Erin didn’t wait for my explanation, not forthcoming, while I ruminated. ‘_How can I explain this? You are. . . well, you’re cute in a cuddly plumpish, without offending her?_’

In my head, I’m apologizing.‘_Hey Erin, I’m so sorry. That nickname slipped out. OK, I’ll call you Erin._’ 

Erin paces up, shoulder rolls, to continue where she left off, over the cluttered worktop. Hands scoop the worktop clean, to an offside trash bin, wipes her hands lifting the dish, her Cancer’s soft eyes leading, me to straighten with back steps. She exits the kitchen, turning toward the coffee table where I trail her placing the dish. Erin turns to me, inviting me to sit on the couch, with telling eyes. “_’Afterward, I want to enjoy myself tonight. I have a surprise for you_’ — Let’s go down to town.” 

While chatting and nibbling over a snack, she rises from the couch her eyes flickered towards the door. Ushers me in discretion to step out of the apartment - click - locking the door behind. In a flurry of movement, she spins toward the trash chute door. Dumps a trash bag, to beeline for the elevator door.

 We exited the elevator into the lobby and crossed the threshold through the glazed wooden doors. Outside a garden patch lay nestled beside a stark concrete structure — the entrance to the garage. Erin, bounding with happiness, chats with the caretaker on our way to her white Fiat Uno --. 

A memory surfaced from half a year ago, Erin, radiating happiness. Her words emanated from the scene she painted while on her way to work. As she repeated the incident, passing, the man’s kind eyes crinkled at the corners as he said, “You look mighty happy?” Erin beamed. “I am!” 

Driving her car out of the garage, we pass the caretaker, whisking me off. We arrived downtown, circling blocks, until she found a spot. With both hands, like a truck driver wrenching the steering wheel back and forth. “Why don’t you help me?” Erin exclaims. 

‘_I mean you are driving!_’ While from the passenger seat, I’m helping pull the steering wheel as we pull back and forth. She turns off the ignition, and we step out of the little car to head further down the street. 

We walked out of a side street, amidst a bowtie throng of people, to a prime spot, at Seventh Avenue intersecting Broadway towering above us. The lights of One Times Square blazed into the night sky. Standing alongside Erin, on New Year’s Eve until a million voices counted down. However uncomfortable I am in the crowds, I join in with Erin’s chorus for a fresh start, shouting. “Ten, Nine. . . Two, One — 1986! Happy New Year.” Watching yesteryear’s Apple ball falling along the tower’s edge to the ground. The first minutes of 1987 expanded before me, empty, and envisioned a joyous celebration filled with confetti. We turned away lost in the dispersing crowd, in the continuation of yesteryear, sweeping my departure into a vortex destined by my booked flights sinking to mind my boys waiting at the other end for my arrival.

My suitcase packed, with all my belongings, a lingering look at the empty room, I step past the dining table to the window. As the taxi pulls up underneath, I wish goodbye to my landlady, to descend the stairs, into the street. The waiting taxi driver loads my suitcase. I step away with a grip pulling the door I step inside, meeting the driver settle in his seat requesting. “Where to?” 

“Idlewild Airport.” 

The winter wet houses behind street trunks empress to slip behind. As I’m riding, I reschedule my departure time, to the moment. Assuring myself, I ask the driver. “Will we make it in time.?”

The taxi driver’s assuming laugh, echoes in my mind. “Sure. There’s plenty of time!”

We hit the highway, New York’s New Year, a forest of dark bare concrete towers rotating behind us. While I’m riding, amid a peaceful trickle of traffic leading outbound, through wayside suburbs, dry tears to my eyes, eager to meet my boys.

The alphabet’s giant letter arose on gantries, terminals rose, “New York International Airport.” Then on posts, to a wide circle pulling up in the yellow taxi breach the departure terminal glaze, with glimpses, as I scrambled out of the taxi. The trunk lid to the air, in an exchange with the driver. I hefted shoulders loaded across the curb, to drag at arm’s length my calf-bloated suitcase toward myself, reflecting. My game stops, as I’m stepping by the - hiss - of doors to a blur of activity, onto swathe through a flurry of passengers, to line up. Advancing until I’m wrestling my suitcase, carried by the weight up a level beside the attendant check-in counter. Swing back my hand luggage’s shoulder strap, I straighten up the young woman attendant. 

I’m gazing at the face with a head cap and sky-uniformed jacket. While her nimble fingers tag my suitcase, the young woman slips my boarding pass into my passport to the skies. I turn away, heading towards a flow of passengers to line up, apprehensive over my visa, which expired by a quarter of my stay. To my relief, the controller blind to my entry stamp, returns my documents waving me through.

Without mishaps, my tension drains, surge walking alone amid and at the pace of far scattered figures through the endless corridor. The gate opened a metal maw beckoning by Airline uniform, to a brief eye dart on my boarding pass. In a slowing stream of passengers, along the boarding ramp. I’m crossing the threshold, to melt, passing the air hostess’ guiding hand ushering me. by a mind gripping a friendly smile through the aisle. scooching past passengers’ hands-up stuff bins, while I’m counting down my seat number. I lift my hands, stuff my bag to the bin - Clack - close lowering myself beside the porthole, relieved of the responsibility for myself. The terminal rotates behind, to taxiing. Buildings distancing to disappear, until I’m pressed in the depth of my seat, to a joyful lift-off shedding the dark suburbs, losing the cubism mingling organic landscape, abandoning myself with the coastline to the deep blues.