“The River” (Story 9)

I had found a temporary summer job assisting Edgar, a photographer in Hoboken, and living at Baba’s house in Jersey City would afford me the easiest commute.

My closest friends would be living in or just outside of Manhattan. Madsy would be taking summer classes, and Theo got an internship in the city. I wanted to be near them too.

I would stay in the room where Mama once lived, in a row house near Journal Square, just a block away from the PATH, the train that ran under the Hudson River.

I was curious about living in Mama’s childhood home and looked forward to the opportunity to imagine my mother’s past life, as it had been before I existed, even before Mama met Tato.

I repainted the walls a pale blue because I couldn’t stand the previous paint: a green that looked like the inside of the stale Andes mint candies Baba left out in a glass tray in her living room.

I covered the bed with a bright plaid comforter and hung up random items I had found in the neighborhood: a string of colorful “good luck” elephants that I had found in an Indian gift shop and a mess of colorful take-out menus that I collected from local restaurants.

Living with Baba might inspire me. Baba herself was an amateur artist, and she spent a lot of time with colored pencils, crayons, and paper. Baba liked to draw pictures of the flowers and also of Ukrainian villages, with horses and wooden fences and thatched roof houses.

All her pictures lacked perspective, which made them childlike yet brilliant, like religious icons made by artists in Medieval times.

The commute from Baba’s house was even more convenient than I had expected. I only had to walk one block to get to the PATH station, and a train was usually waiting on weekdays.

But I mistrusted convenience. At school, my relationship with Theo had been one of convenience, which meant we only had to walk a block to eachother’s dorms, on nights when we didn’t have too much to read and could watch rented films and drink cheap wine until we got drunk enough to not mind making out on the itchy, blue, university-issued couches.

I only had to ride the PATH two stops, to Newport/Pavonia, where I would transfer to the train that went to Hoboken. I loved the quiet on the morning train. Even though the PATH was packed with commuters, the only sound was the rustling of newspaper pages and the squealing of the brakes.

Everyone either sat on the smooth orange plastic seats or stood very still, holding onto the metal bars, swaying with the motion of the train.

Edgar’s studio was on Washington Street, Hoboken’s main drag. He had a large lofty space on the third floor of a brownstone building that had a Belgian waffle shop on the street level. Whenever Edgar opened the windows for fresh air, the scent of sizzling waffle batter filled the mostly empty, high-ceilinged studio and made me drunk on sugar smell.

I usually tried to make it through the day without buying lunch, to save money, but the smell always made me unbearably hungry.

Edgar was known for fashion and food photography for magazines and ad promos. My first project was assisting Edgar for an editorial photo shoot. A tall, willowy model had arrived for the shoot, and a stylist, with a trunk full of clothes, and a makeup artist, with her case of makeup, came after the model.

I thought the model was beautiful as she emerged from makeup, and she arranged herself on a prop bench in front of the white backdrop. I wondered if the model had relationship troubles, if men treated her badly, and if they had ever broken up with or cheated on her. I was tempted to ask her these things but thought better of it.

“Can you hold this light reflector up for me?” Asked Edgar. “The natural light is gorgeous.”

The light reflector shook when I held it because I was weak and hungry, but I did my best to follow Edgar’s directions. I was grateful to be working for him, and I learned a lot about light and perspective just by watching him take pictures.

The editorial jobs were most lucrative for Edgar, but he sometimes took me outside, where we would take action shots in the park. I was going to learn as I went, understanding how Edgar worked and which lenses and tools he would need. I would have to become used to his style and intuitively understand what he needed.

Some evenings, after work, I would meet Madsy in the city, and we would flirt with men we met in restaurants and bars. We liked to window-shop in quirky boutiques, trying on clothes we couldn’t afford. Other evenings, I would run along The River.

One evening, during a particularly energetic run, I noticed a young man crouched by the fence along the water. Beside him were clear plastic bags filled with empty plastic bottles that he must have collected from the recycling bins in Hoboken’s alleys.

His fingers were pushing tiny, rolled-up pieces of paper into each bottle and then throwing the bottles into The River, one by one. He was balanced so carefully that he could have been a bottle-launching expert. He barely even rocked as he reached for the next bottle from the bag.

In Hoboken, good-looking young men frequently caught my eye. But this man was extraordinarily handsome, in a tangible way. He had something I could access. I was so drawn to his concentration and fervent dedication to his task that it took me a few minutes to realize he was doing something I hated: littering.

Throwing bottles into The River in broad daylight? Why wasn’t anyone trying to stop him?

Feeling angry and bold, I approached him. First, I pretended that I was just admiring the view of the skyline. I could hardly avoid being filled with love and awe every time the line of buildings caught my eye. But then I moved closer to him and opened my mouth.

“Why are you throwing those bottles in The River?” I asked. “The water is dirty enough as it is.”

“I’m sending messages,” he said, without looking at me.

“You do realize that you can send messages in at least ten other ways, right?” I asked. “Without having to litter.”

I grabbed one of the plastic bags and started to walk away.

“I’m stranded,” he said. “No one here will listen. But someone over there might find my note.”

He pointed to the opposite shore, and the water was glimmering. I had to shield my eyes to see where he was pointing: nowhere in particular, just over there, at the island of Manhattan.

“Are you lost?” I asked, pulling money from my pocket. “I can show you how to cross The River. Here’s two dollars. Just stop. Please stop throwing these bottles into the water.”

The young man neglected to respond and continued to stuff message after message into the bottles. They would float, crash back into the Hoboken pier, and then drift away.

I grabbed his shoulder and shook him, demanding a response or a reply. He simply handed me one of the messages.

“Leave me alone,” he said.

“You’re a jerk,” I said.

His handwriting was so illegible that I couldn’t read the message. I crumpled the piece of paper in my hand and stomped away.

Where were the cops when you needed them? Every day, the world seemed to be slowly collapsing before my eyes. Landscapes were decaying, buildings were becoming uglier, and no one seemed to care. No one wanted to do what little they could to improve their surroundings, to keep them from deteriorating any further.

Did he think himself so small that he couldn’t matter or make a difference? Did he think launching bottles into The River would save him but not be enough to matter in the greater scheme of things?

I couldn’t stand men who were constantly seeking salvation but ultimately believed they were nothing, that they were not actually worthy of it.

Walking along The River to find a police officer, I was so angry that I kicked a soda can and looked away when a jogger tried to smile at me and make eye contact. I was so frustrated that I wanted to cry. The litterer had filled me with hatred, confusion, and desire, all at the same time.

I reached in my pocket, hoping to find a tissue, but all I had was the young man’s message, which I had shoved into the pocket of my running shorts. It would be too rough to use as a tissue.

I hated the sight of it so much I tossed it, without thinking. It fell over the railing, and the breeze caught it. The crumpled paper flew into the water.

Fuck, I said, out loud.

I leaned over the railing and watched the ball of paper bob up and down in the water. I smacked my forehead with my palm and hated myself. The piece of paper started to float toward the city, away from me. Could I swim to retrieve it?

“Hey!” Shouted the young man. “You can’t send my messages. Why did you do that?”

“It’s your fault,” I said. “Do you think there’s a way I could fish it out?”

“What’s the point? Do you see all the trash?” He asked. “Come here, toss one with purpose. These soda bottles make pretty good boats.”

And what was on the other side of The River? What, there, would save him?

I stopped again, transfixed by the view. On a sunny day, the light glinted off the buildings like they were a stack of vintage jewelry at a flea market.

I wanted to communicate something but didn’t know what. I wished for a canvas and a beat-up easel so I could paint the skyline the way some artists did.

I sometimes thought about bringing these things but was always too self-conscious to do it. I didn’t want anyone peeking over my shoulder to judge my interpretation of the view across The River.

Surely, another person would notice something I couldn’t see.

(Photo by Ryan Vaarsi)