The Song About My Face
A couple of days ago, I was in my favorite bookstore, The Gotham Bookmart, where I have been browsing (a.k.a loitering) off an on for the past few weeks. The Gotham Bookmart seems to me this strange Bermuda Triangle for all things tastefully literary, but also seems the antithises of what you've come to expect in a indipendant bookstore in New York City. They still have the usual collection of clerks that are bad ass looking or just plain fixtures of the place, like other indie bookstores, but the difference is EVERYONE IS NICE AS ALL GET OUT. I was shocked the first time I came in and the good looking tattoo sleeved man at the cash register, looked up, and without an inkling of guile or sarcasm, said with a big smile, "Hi there! How's it going?" I almost looked over my shoulder to see if he was talking to somebody else, but I was the only schlep in the general vicinity of his gaze, so I smiled and said hello and went on my merry way.
On the second floor, where the bulk of their literary collection is housed, is a BIG ASS orange cat, with a head the size of a softball, and a guy, reading in the corner named, E. Until recently, I thought E. just lived there. He was ALWAYS there, lurking in the corner, giving everyone the same dazed, slightly cross-eyed look. "You need help with something?"
E. is one of those people who talks to you like he has all the time in the world--or more acuraltely, like YOU have all the time in the world. He is SLOW and METHODICAL and pauses to consider things, before he continues to mention something more. I've seen him yelled at by his boss, in a way that made me more emberassed for his boss than for him. I've seen him mocked by co-workers in ways that would make my blood boil, but he seems utterly unphased by it. When his boss came into yell at him he was in the middle of helping me find something. When his boss was done belittling him and treating him (a man probably in his 40's) like a child, E. considered his lashing as if it was just a gust of wind, blinked a few times, and then turned to help me find the book, without any further consideration.
Since I've come in there quite a few times, we've traded little bits about each other. He knows I am a musician and a songwriter, who likes poetry, first editions, and literary histories of women. I know that he lives in Chelsea, takes photographs, and writes non-fiction. Last time I was in there he said, "I was thinking about you last night and I was thinking, you have such a nice face, you should write a song about your face." I almost turned to SALT right there. It SCARED the HELL out of me. My face--the nice face--turned BEET RED. I laughed outloud.
I din't know what to say, so I started to talking REALLY FAST and telling him RATHER QUICKLY, how when I played my show in Worcester, a guy in the audience, who had literally SIX LARGE empty cups of coffee in front of him, and no teeth, stopped me at the end of my set and said, "Summer. Summer, you got to know WHAT YOU'RE DOIN' TO ME." I assured him, I didn't know what I was doing to him. He said, "Your voice is so pure. And your eyes---YOUR EYES..." He paused and clutched his chest, "They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and you must have the DEEPEST SOUL." I told him I'd tell that to my mother, which is where I got my eyes. He laughed and said, "Yes, but does she have THE SOUL? I DOUBT IT." I told E. that I pointed to the coffee cups in front of this man and said, "Rick, that's just the coffee talkn'." For the first time, I saw E. laugh. It wasn't an outloud laugh, it was a half smile, while he ran some thoughts over in his head. I saw his small eyes clicking back and forth behind his glasses. And then I made a run for the memoir section, darting the akward silence that I am sure only I felt.
Practically everyday people say things to me like, "You should write a song about (insert subject here)." Never in my life has anyone suggested that I should write about something that THEY had observed about me. I always say, "YOU write that song." But frankly, I couldn't stand a song about my face. It would make just want to hide it from the world, and never show it in this town again.
On the second floor, where the bulk of their literary collection is housed, is a BIG ASS orange cat, with a head the size of a softball, and a guy, reading in the corner named, E. Until recently, I thought E. just lived there. He was ALWAYS there, lurking in the corner, giving everyone the same dazed, slightly cross-eyed look. "You need help with something?"
E. is one of those people who talks to you like he has all the time in the world--or more acuraltely, like YOU have all the time in the world. He is SLOW and METHODICAL and pauses to consider things, before he continues to mention something more. I've seen him yelled at by his boss, in a way that made me more emberassed for his boss than for him. I've seen him mocked by co-workers in ways that would make my blood boil, but he seems utterly unphased by it. When his boss came into yell at him he was in the middle of helping me find something. When his boss was done belittling him and treating him (a man probably in his 40's) like a child, E. considered his lashing as if it was just a gust of wind, blinked a few times, and then turned to help me find the book, without any further consideration.
Since I've come in there quite a few times, we've traded little bits about each other. He knows I am a musician and a songwriter, who likes poetry, first editions, and literary histories of women. I know that he lives in Chelsea, takes photographs, and writes non-fiction. Last time I was in there he said, "I was thinking about you last night and I was thinking, you have such a nice face, you should write a song about your face." I almost turned to SALT right there. It SCARED the HELL out of me. My face--the nice face--turned BEET RED. I laughed outloud.
I din't know what to say, so I started to talking REALLY FAST and telling him RATHER QUICKLY, how when I played my show in Worcester, a guy in the audience, who had literally SIX LARGE empty cups of coffee in front of him, and no teeth, stopped me at the end of my set and said, "Summer. Summer, you got to know WHAT YOU'RE DOIN' TO ME." I assured him, I didn't know what I was doing to him. He said, "Your voice is so pure. And your eyes---YOUR EYES..." He paused and clutched his chest, "They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and you must have the DEEPEST SOUL." I told him I'd tell that to my mother, which is where I got my eyes. He laughed and said, "Yes, but does she have THE SOUL? I DOUBT IT." I told E. that I pointed to the coffee cups in front of this man and said, "Rick, that's just the coffee talkn'." For the first time, I saw E. laugh. It wasn't an outloud laugh, it was a half smile, while he ran some thoughts over in his head. I saw his small eyes clicking back and forth behind his glasses. And then I made a run for the memoir section, darting the akward silence that I am sure only I felt.
Practically everyday people say things to me like, "You should write a song about (insert subject here)." Never in my life has anyone suggested that I should write about something that THEY had observed about me. I always say, "YOU write that song." But frankly, I couldn't stand a song about my face. It would make just want to hide it from the world, and never show it in this town again.
posted by Summer Pierre at
11:32 AM
1 Comments:
Being that I am in a bookstore, the only employee RIGHT NOW...I feel like should have some great bookstore story. However, te hour is late and there are sounds coming from the back of the store that are freaking me out so I have nothing to offer in return for this WONDERFUL post but this:
The new music issue of The Believer is out! I am so excited!
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