YD6~32 Aetheria's Mischief Breath On Yael, and the Aftermath of the Stock Market Blues

 

Yael, a Leo-Cat purring, edges toward the marquee, screaming, “bordello chic.” She recites the producer, writer, cast, and her idol, Gérard Depardieu, as the vintage cinema entrance reveals itself from the avenue’s flush buildings. We near an alcove of tall posters displaying foreign stars and upcoming attractions, behind glazed wood doors wrapping the U-shaped gap.

Yael lags as I step up to the elderly woman with a fatigued face behind the central kiosk glass. Without a cue, I request two tickets for “Manon Des Sources,” (Manon Of The Spring) the French title resonating in my mind. Yael moves toward the right deep corner’s paired sentinel doors, feline quiet. I allow her to push open the door, catching the spring-back leaf behind her. We enter the art déco obscurity of the theater, comical rows of scattered carton cutouts — heads and shoulders of the audience. My ears sensitive to the lingering sound waves of the odd acoustic absorption, while Yael finds a middle row, to a seat in the somber auditorium, tapering toward a silver screen flickering with advertisements.

As Yael and I walked out of the cinema, a thin crowd scattered into the streetlights, away from the organic shadowy darkness of Central Park. Unbeknownst to me, Aetheria was puppeteering our relationship—in this instance, I was infatuated, speechless.

Unlike half a year earlier, Yael brought up Gérard Depardieu associate to the film, “Jean de Florette.” Ignorant of Aetheria’s influence, I focused on keeping our bearings as we walked along the sidewalk, passing the edge of rising facades. Our path hooked into a deserted narrow grimy backstreet, the twilight sky peeking through the chasm between the proud, lining-up towers. I held in mind our derivative path, parallel to 5th Avenue, approaching flocculent branches bathed in the evening summer light around the blind architectural corner — ‘_Central Park._’

As we walked out of the cinema, I couldn’t imagine what Yael saw in Gérard Depardieu, the flabby and messy French actor. His lack of allure and meandering dialogue unsettled me. Along the sidewalk toward midtown, I shook my head. “That girl is full of surprises!“ Yael had a knack for blasting my head with her dissection of scenes, waxing Depardieu. Hence, my bewilderment. “Where did you dig up this cinema?“ I asked myself. “A New Yorker introduced me to French culture?“

As “Manon Des Sources” mirrored our outing to “Jean de Florette,” Gérard Depardieu was aloof in Yael’s conversation. I dared not speak, fearing I might betray my fluttering heart, haunted by the wispy figure of Manon. My mind scolded my heart, “It’s a fallacy, a mere infatuation with a fictional character.” I blamed the French filmmakers for weaving her petite form into the village square, transforming her into a siren at the fountain’s edge, captivating me, drowning the fabric of the narrative.

Unbeknownst to me, Aetheria orchestrated from Earth’s own inverted celestial zoological gardens, to intrigue. fueling Yael’s defiance words: “She’s the daughter of Jean de Florette.” Aetheria played the harp’s strings. Manon in a duet with Yael’s mind, saying. “Manon seeking justice after her father’s death, for the injustices inflicted upon her family. . .” An inadvertent temptation for me to speak out. My lips remained sealed. Together, Yael and I surrendered ourselves to the bustling neon jungle of Times Square, each lost in thoughts, descending to the subway to a midnight deserted platform heading home, to Yael’s father’s house in the suburbs.

I stepped off the early morning train, a lone figure among the commuters, and ascended the narrow, shoulder-brushing stairwell to the sliver of sky above. Anxious to locate my construction site, I emerged along the guard rails extending the imposing flank wall of the building, leaning in to a peeking sky. As I stepped onto the sidewalk, a young woman in jeans approaching sidestepped onto the asphalt, letting me pass. Surrounded by sheer ashlar and brick walls, I try grasping onto the history of defensive wall, to ghosting houses, realizing the commercial age, their windows mere reflections of the facades across the street. Grasping my whereabouts, passing a flurry of men in expensive suits, jaywalking amidst the occasional morning delivery vehicle.

I walked up Wall Street against the trickling one-way traffic, my eyes scanning through the peeking sky, towering glass and steel giants looming at the approaching T-intersection. At the curb, I joined a small group of pedestrians. All as eager to cross, without regard for the red hand signal. My anticipation grew at envisioning a futuristic Pizza Hut Express outlet. Among impatient pedestrians in front of the red hand, the light changed to the green walking man. Passing the muzzles of cars - headlights, grilles, and ram-bumpers - lined up. As I surged across Broadway, cutting the corner to the opposite sidewalk. I counted down the street numbers, passing reflective road signs posted like stern traffic officers, warning “No Stop - No Standstill.” Before a torrent of bestial cars flowed down the constricting street, overtaking me towards Battery Park. My thoughts turned to the practicalities. ‘_What about the hydraulic arm of a dumpster position? Workmen to fill with rubble and haul away?_’ as I reached the boarded-up storefront, site of a project to manage.

I stepped up to the boarded-up storefront, glancing up at the dwarfed the last vestige of a brick building, squeezed between towering crystal neighbors. Three floors of dusty windows stared from the hollow darkness of mysterious condemned floors. “You’re not intimidating me!“ Formulates in mind, pausing with the key pick poised at the padlock — The challenge awaits. Then, from the corner of my eye, the sidewalk raises an onslaught of figures. By a swift glance, I see a small group of men darting me, and persevered, dull-faced gathered around me, their presence lightens my mind. ‘_workmen!_’ To my relief.

I greeted the Polish men, reeling in the chain links. The grating sound echoed the empty interior, until the end of the chain emerged from the hole in the board, the clipped padlock dangling. With a groan, the board swung back, revealing the derelict, a desolate galley. My first task lies in the distant window, shining at the far end of the hollow tunnel. My shoes crunched debris as I crossed the potholed floor-covering, to stand in the welcome light. Seeking stairs to the backstreet, sighing with relief. “I’m ready to order a container for this spot,” I thought

The small crew trailing long shadows around the harsh glare of halogen light, chipped away clang chisels, banging hammers, peeling the plaster back to reveal the raw brick walls. Through the day into the next days. To shovels scrape, push wheelbarrows, rubble tumbled out alongside the back window. “You better assure yourself there are no mistakes in the architect’s drawing!“ I cautioned myself. Catering equipment, wasn’t malleable to mold around existing walls. ‘_errors with unexpected repercussions._’ Churns in my mind, The illegal Polish helper, who smirked about his communist party affiliation. His flabby and belying any construction prowess. He helped me hold the end of the measuring tape, as I stepped unreeling the yellow tape across spaces, marking niches and corners. After ticking on the plan, and circling the perimeter, I pin the blueprint to the wall beside the entrance.

For lunch break, a man from the crew gathers a cinder block, sits in a quiet corner. The others settle on a hand-swept spot as the construction site falls silent. To avoid wasting my break, I head outside the boarded storefront into the bustling street. Strolling up Broadway, I encounter a peddler’s outstretched hand, overflowing with packets of cashews. Drawn in, I buy one and step away, cracking open the packet and savoring each nut at my pace, my wellbeing invisible amidst the throng of pedestrians.

In my roundabout consuming my lunch break, I return for the afternoon shift. In the following days. The small crew of three men strips up layers of flooring. Each layer revealing a different era of fashion. Uncovering the original floorboards, a tangible whisper of history. 

In the evenings, I’m drawn to the doorstep to watch the men transform into their everyday clothes and head home. The last man pulls the construction site board shut, threading the chain through the hole. I reach for the padlock, step up, insert the key, click the shackle open, hook it through the chain links, snap it close, I walk away.

In the morning, Yael’s quick peck on the lip catches me before I head out the kitchen door, a warm farewell after a shared coffee. I emerge onto the quiet leafy suburban streets, turn the corner to face the long stretch ahead. As the city awakens with a trickle of ghost taxis, I decline the drivers’ light honk with a shake of my head. The thought of squeezing into a carload of passengers, isn’t appealing. Dropped off at the subway station, the ghost taxis track back. I continue my walk while along the concrete sidewalk considering, after boarding  the F train, standing among my fellow commuters, I’m feeling refreshed and energized to not regret of my walk. I alight at Wall Street, ascend from the underground, the imposing commercial buildings looming before me.

A week into the project, I find myself immersed in the scruffy and dusty floor-through under construction. The plumber ripping up floorboards, after marking out cold water feeds, waste evacuation lines, and ventilation. All preparations for the precise installation of a boiler, a kitchen sink’s grease trap, a toilet, a bathroom sink, and the storeroom’s soda fountain fixtures. The high-pitched whine of a circular saw fills the air, on the revealing unusual doubled staggered floor joists. Followed by The rhythmic thuds of the carpenter’s hammer as the chiseled notches into the joists, for the network of pipes.

In a blur of crews overlapping the plumber, the electrician and his assistant arrived. The whine of their router dust cloud sagging to the floor. The rhythmic clang of hammer on chisel follows as they carve channels into the brick walls for cables and conduits. Then comes the day cables uncoils at the electricians’ feet. For days as the men feed, snake through gaps in the floorboards and up the walls, frayed ends goose neck expecting fixtures. Meanwhile, in the storeroom provision, cables ends amassed up the wall, headless chicken necks, from the open front distribution box. After the plumber’s presence vanishes from sight, the electrician’s tool crates disappear. One of the crew of Greeks and Poles, every evening, pulls the board-door, threads the chain. I reach and snap the padlock close. 

As days pass, the plumber vanishes, leaving behind a network of pipes. The electrician’s tool crates disappear, their work complete. Only my small crew of Greeks and a Pole remain each evening to secure the site. The last man pulls the board-door shut, threading the chain through the hole. I reach for the padlock, snapping it closed before walking away from the boarded-up storefront into the bustling city. I descend into the subway, following the orange F train sign, heading home to Yael.

Over the weekend, Yael and I stroll the leafy street, from the house she locked behind. After a stretch, an elderly man approaches. Yael stops and chats with the distinguished-looking man before they part ways. As I’m stepping along Yael, the man vanished behind in my mind. “That’s my father!” Yael purrs. Her words click in my mind. ‘_I’m living in her father’s house?_’

The days blur together as the Pole, a self-proclaimed former communist party official, shovels sand into the rumbling mixer. He hefts a bag of cement and squelches the dust cloud with a bucket of water. He steps to the side of the drum, turns the wheel, tilting the drum and pouring the moist sand mixture into the waiting wheelbarrow. The Greeks maneuver the load, stepping back, then pushing forward, tilting the wheelbarrow to circle away. His silhouettes darken against the distant window light, lifting the handles, tipping the screed onto the floor. The other Greek worker rakes the heap smooth, while the second Pole stoops to level the screed, tamping, along the day leaves behind a glistening, wood-floated surface.

Bumping into a woman coming from the blind corner to the traffic light, . “Are you Clint Eastwood… ‘_You’re a mighty look alike.’_” stoic, ‘_Dont bothered me I have too much on my mind, for flirty remarks, though she isn’t first._’ Not in a mood for pleasantries, I spared a stern glimpse, ‘_Who are you?_’ but didn’t engage. The traffic lights toggled the green man. She vanished amid the pedestrians crossing Broadway. . ‘_Maybe she just wanted to be friendly?_’ She faded from mind. As in the shadows of the boarded up storefront, the padlock snapped to the last chain link, reeling the grating - Twock - the padlock hooked free fall. I push the board swing 

Emerging from Wall Street in the morning, my mind is set on the site where we left off. A woman from a blind corner bumps into me at the traffic light. “Are you Clint Eastwood?” chaffing me. “You’re a mighty look-alike.” Stoic, I think, ‘_Don’t bother me!_’ I don’t have time for flirty remarks. though she isn’t the first to make such comments. Not in the mood for pleasantries, I spare her a stern look. The lens turns to the green man, and she vanishes into the crowd crossing Broadway. haunted by my conscience. ‘_Maybe she just wanted to be friendly?_’ I wonder, but my behavior fades as I approach the construction site. In the shadows of the boarded-up storefront, the padlock snaps open with a familiar - twock -. I push the board aside, revealing the transformed interior.

I’m breathing with relief, as the ravaged construction site under the distant window light glints at the screed. Highlighting the crouched figure of a tiler. Day after day, nearing, embeds rows of six-inch terracotta quarry tiles into adhesive. Steadily advancing towards the boarded-up storefront. The weekend brought a welcoming adhesive hardening. Together, the men hunker down, grouting between the tiles, washing away excess, and wiping away any residue, leaving behind a gleaming expanse of terracotta.

The morning after the weekend, a lingering unease haunts me, stemming from encountering Yael’s brother’s wedding. Despite dancing with the guests at the wedding, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Yael’s brother, a teacher, didn’t approve of me. He didn’t spare a glance at the man his sister dated — I feel a stranger, without identity. But amidst this unease, a mystic lucky anticipation for Aetheria blooms, a beacon of hope in Yael.

I unshackle the grating chain from the padlock, freeing the door-board and jamb. Pushing the board back, the far distant window’s light washes a welcoming sheen down the floor-through, greeting me and the crew. Throughout the day - jingle - fills the air as figures bustle about, erecting a forest of gleaming, galvanized studs. With each new day, the silver forest waxes and wanes, growing dense before dwindling as darkness falls. In the blur of the following days, the silver forest shrinks, as drywallers whirr self-tapping screws, disappearing behind wall panels. Transforming the space from a street-front public area and a fast-food culinary rear.

When Ingrid’s eldest son, Didier, called from his internship in Canada to say he was visiting New York for a weekend, Yael, ever accommodating, offered him a place to stay. Although I felt uneasy about it, knowing Didier’s presence would only add to my existing pressure, Yael’s kind heart couldn’t refuse. She hosted him and we explored the city.

Meanwhile, a nagging question churned in my mind. I recalled the manager at Nathan’s downstairs, warning me about union workers on my site. Ruminating in mind his concern, as upstairs at the Pizza Hut Express. The ceiling erectors had left behind their trundling scaffold, with glittering icicles of suspender rods hanging from the unfinished ceiling.

My colleague’s warning echoed in my ears: “Never allow a union worker on your site.” I had dismissed his advice, frustrated by his interference. But when his burly carpenter had asked me for a job, I agreed. The next morning, to my surprise, the soft-spoken union carpenter moved in atop a scaffolding, enshrouded behind the newly  erected storeroom walls. In a week, he had constructed a small drop ceiling grid in the storeroom, no bigger than a single bed, but it remained unfinished, the acoustic tiles not yet installed. My frustration grew. I see the perched man, slowdown strike, seeking a confrontation. Heading home, I left him to weather away in his cage on the top of the scaffolding, unsure of how to handle the situation, giving me time for refection.

I emerge from the quiet narrowness of Wall Street, a lingering unease shadowing my steps. I pause amid a few pedestrians waiting for the luminous raised red hand lens. The traffic signal toggle to the green walker. I cross from their midst past the held flow of traffic. I veer down Broadway. Dreaming my routine for the day - whoosh. . . - wheeling tires of an awakening morning of scattered cars. A bizarre spectacle of wind-whip yellow flyers across the distant concrete gray sidewalk slabs. I pinch my eyes, pacing an approach onto the bright and yellow swirl to morph a merry-go-round into yellow zombies carrying signs across my pathway. I ignore. 

“That’s my construction site they are blocking!“ I exclaim under my breath. My eyes dart to the padlock on the door, betraying my intention to enter. Two burly men detach themselves from leaning against the boarded storefront, leaving behind half a dozen others engaged in this bizarre picket line. The two watchful bouncers, outfits straining at the seams, a wide-shouldered barrier stepping up to me. Their eyes avoid mine. ‘_What are you guys up to?_’ stifle words on my lips. As their voices, rough and gruff, in unison bark: “We’re picketing. Nobody is to pass!”

‘_The picketers even took that soft-spoken union carpenter with them,_’ I breathe with relief. By Wednesday to triumphed, after Monday picketing my construction site. ‘_Striking is not worth one of theirs, at wasting more time!_’ My a pleasantry thought, before the weeks in a flurry of finishing tradesmen —.

The ceramic tiled walls, niches, the plumber’s seamless integrated the stainless-steel wash-up table. Connecting water feeds and waste pipes. Worktops, preparation tables, shelving, stifled the kitchen’s quarry tiles floor. Shopfitters arrived, assembling the customer service counter, mounting the overhead menu board. An electrician perched on A-frame ladder, with a floor-bound assistant. Their eyes amid dangling wires, fingers stripping insulation, fitting spotlight fixtures beaming the hallway’s customers stand by eating counters. cash registers under joinery dusty protective plastic in a row to the counter. The air-conditioning technician secure the vent grill above the entrance, following the glaziers. Lifting suction cupped plate-glass position into the aluminum storefront frame. Then, a guy returned on site, adjusting, ensuring the automatic doors’s smooth opening and closing.

On the eve of Pizza Hut’s grand opening, staff bustled through their training amidst the final touches. A desperate cry pierced the air. The Pepsi Cola delivery guy stood at the customer counter, agitated after tasting the foul Pepsi Cola he’d just dispensed from the fountain. I followed him in a frantic dash to the storeroom. He turns away from the mixing gas bottles, the syrup bag interconnecting with plastic tubes, saying. “The (city) water is contaminated.” He discovered a mud-contaminated waterline leading tube. The Pizza Hut manager training staff alerted. As the Pepsi Cola guy erratic. “I’m cutting it off,” he calls out. “You’ll have to serve cans.”

As the frenetic energy of the day subsided, the only sound showed by the audio technician walking to stop an ear prick at each ceiling speaker. I’m blind to the streetlights of the fallen night. Starry spotlights illuminated the floor, the hallway now adorned with a vibrant palette of colors and framed paintings on the walls above the waiting eating shelves. By 10 PM, Nathan’s manager, in a dark suit, stood by, exchanging greetings with me. Earlier, I had surprised him downstairs, mopping the floors of his establishment. In the early hours, I mopped up the grime from the Pizza Hut Express tiles and locked the door, heading home to Yael.

The T-shirts I had bought on a cold winter walk off Broadway on 42nd Street bulked my suitcase as I packed, Yael’s gaze following my every move. The morning of my flight, Yael surprised me with a sudden, frantic insistence. “I want to come with you!” she repeated, her voice filled with urgency.

“That’s absurd!“ I thought, my mind racing a steeplechase checklist. Jump into a taxi, dash across the departure concourse to check in, rush to passport control on the other side, then navigate the endless corridors to the gate. “Why?“ I uttered, frowning at Yael.

‘_As you wish!_’ I thought as I'm grabbing my suitcase, as Yael undeterred opens the street door. The Leo-Cat follows me to the waiting yellow cab. Closing the door behind. The driver hopped out. Meeting, he lifts the trunk lid. Yael stands by as he heaves my suitcase to the trunk, pulls the lid close. After Yael, I step into the taxi. she scooch along the back seat, finding my seat on the edge. “New York International Airport,” I call out to the driver. Pulling away, with a deep breath take. Feather-light in sight of my journey, echoes the song to mind. ‘_There Goes My Everything._’: ‘_There goes my reason for leaving…_’

Over the taxi driver’s shoulder, distant, the terminal building framed to the windshield, loomed closer until, in our approaching, pulled up to a stop. I got out and moved to the rear, joining the driver as he heaved my suitcase from the trunk. In exchange for a few ten-dollar bills, with the hefty calf-suitcase, I join Yael waiting on the sidewalk. Moving on, I push open the door to the departure concourse, scanning my way across the deserted lobby, empty, ‘_after all, it’s Christmas Eve!_’ Save for a small crowd gathered in a distant corner. As we approached, the cluster, people bundled in winter coats. Yael, pauses, anxiety deep in her eyes, clinging to her solitude, as I joined the queue. At the check-in counter, my suitcase disappears onto the conveyor belt. After the ground hostess handed my passport and boarding pass, wings under my feet, Yael falls into step a pace behind as we head deeper into the concourse. 

“Aetheria’s harp music stirred Yael’s anxieties, breaks her silence, she blurts out a prophecy: ‘You’ll meet a woman.’”

“Yaely!” I smiled, her absurd words a month ago. ‘_You’re married to your work!_’ But Aetheria heard Yael’s mind. ‘_I don’t want children!_’ Impeding to a life showcase for herself. after Yael’s prolonged silence, her anxiety blurted out. “You’re going to have children!” 

“There’s nothing to worry about!“ I thought, brushing off Yael’s paranoia. “Yaely!” I uttered a cheerful, “I’m just going to visit my boys!” Believing I reassured her scheming mind — Aetheria!

With my hard drive secured in the carry-on slung over my shoulder, I lead with my boarding pass slotted in my passport. We approach two burly figures in white uniforms from the rear, their sturdy stance and widespread feet a silent presence. We contour the officers, crossed arms and bulging biceps radiating their command on the expanding gleaming floor, casting no shadows. I break away from Yael’s embracing arms, veering toward the passport control officer at a barrier of distant glass booths.

At my pace I glance over my shoulder, finding wax figures. Yael in fear on the gleaming floor, after her farewell embrace lingering on the verge of melting away. Her nail-biting and welling eyes, catch the burly officers in white uniforms’ eyeballs livening up. Each of the man withdraws rolling eyes synchronized to exchange a knowing glance. 

I’m handed my passport and boarding pass after a brief inspection. As I turn away, to round the glass booth’s gateway. I steal back glances. the burly pair of officers have lifted their gaze from Yael. She feels the darted eyes on her, seeing for herself the officers’ eyeballs on each other. ‘_Do you see what I see — should we?_’  They exchange a knowing look. One taking for granted the other skepticism in stride. Then he turns to Yael, with a head wave. ‘_You may proceed!_’ 

Yael’s feet liven up. She storms through the barrier of glass cubicles, past the passport controller’s gateway. Dives into my handful, to a clinging in an embrace. Reluctant to pull away, she spins off, tearing her arms off. I turn to face the looming archway of the body scanner, place my hard disk on the belt alongside my carry-on bag. Preoccupied by the earlier scene, before losing myself through the empty international tax-free mall extending into the corridor to my flight.