you probably think this post is about you
Theologians, philosophers, and scholars have debated the existence of heaven, and its location, for thousands of years. There's nothing to discuss. It's in Manhattan on 9th Avenue and it's called Golden Chicken and Ribs. They have a "meat and two" unlike anything you've ever seen. If you don't believe me, go check out their website. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, you need to visit more BBQ joints. When my sister comes to visit me from New Jersey, we usually meet there for dinner. She doesn't have to come all the way down to Brooklyn, and I get a free meal. It's a good trade.
Teresa lives with her husband somewhere out near Paterson. I visit them a couple of times a year. I get off the bus at some huge mall out there and they pick me up. They're somewhere in Totowa or Little Falls or Wayne or where the fuck ever. I have this theory about North Jersey. I think some time after creating Golden Chicken and Ribs that God picked-up all the cities that would comprise northern New Jersey into his hand. You know when you pick your nose, how sometimes you get one of those boogers that's really elastic and sticky, but not wet? It won't just wipe off onto some surface, so you roll it into a ball between your finger and thumb then flick it away. That's what God did with the cities of North Jersey.
My sister had her elbows on the table in front of her. Between the fingers of her hands she held a barbecued rib to her mouth. A stream of grease mixed with sauce glistened in the light as it slid down her fore arm. After law school she married her college sweetheart and settled on the other side of the river. At a glance her life is filled with sharp business suits and neatly coiffed hair. Seeing her like this reminded me of the girl I grew-up with: the pig-tailed sister who'd double-dutch with the neighborhood girls or try to catch pigeons with me in the alley across the street from our stoop. It's funny how much location can influence a person's behavior. When I vist her in Jersey in her immaculate home and with her husband around, she carries herself in a way that's foreign to me. When she's in the city with me at Golden Chicken and Ribs, she's Reesy from the block.
Reesy was in the middle of telling me something when she noticed the grease running down her arm. She placed the meatless bone back onto the plate. She then raised her arm, cocked her head sideways, and proceeded to lick the grease from her arm. "That's too good to waste," she said and laughed. Teresa from New Jersey never would've done that. She picked up another rib from her plate and put her elbows back on the table. Before taking another bite, though, she continued.
"I'm glad you're getting some of that stuff out. How does it feel to be writing again?" She nibbled at the rib while she waited for my response.
I wasn't sure what to tell her. I just told her what she was hoping to hear. "I think it's good for me," I said.
"I've been reading the stuff you put on there, D." I hated being called D, but she was the only person left who did, so I let it slide. She hated being called Reesy, too. "It's had me scared that you've mentioned me a couple of times. I've been afraid that you'd write about something really embarrassing like the time we made out with each other."
"That was your idea!" We were maybe 10 and 12. She had talked me into it so she could know what it was like to kiss a boy before she actually had to kiss one.
"It's still embarrassing! And you haven't exactly been censoring the fucked up shit from your life." She started laughing and her voice became more boisterous and her accent more pronounced. Any trace of Teresa-from-Jersey that got off the bus was long gone by now.
You can take the girl out of the city. . .
She pointed the rib at me across the table. Her head did that side-to-side motion that only women can do, in rhythm with the syllables of the words she spoke. "Listen here, mother fucker." She laughed again and I burst-out in laughter as well. "I better not read about how kissing your sister made you molest kids and punch rabbis."
Teresa lives with her husband somewhere out near Paterson. I visit them a couple of times a year. I get off the bus at some huge mall out there and they pick me up. They're somewhere in Totowa or Little Falls or Wayne or where the fuck ever. I have this theory about North Jersey. I think some time after creating Golden Chicken and Ribs that God picked-up all the cities that would comprise northern New Jersey into his hand. You know when you pick your nose, how sometimes you get one of those boogers that's really elastic and sticky, but not wet? It won't just wipe off onto some surface, so you roll it into a ball between your finger and thumb then flick it away. That's what God did with the cities of North Jersey.
My sister had her elbows on the table in front of her. Between the fingers of her hands she held a barbecued rib to her mouth. A stream of grease mixed with sauce glistened in the light as it slid down her fore arm. After law school she married her college sweetheart and settled on the other side of the river. At a glance her life is filled with sharp business suits and neatly coiffed hair. Seeing her like this reminded me of the girl I grew-up with: the pig-tailed sister who'd double-dutch with the neighborhood girls or try to catch pigeons with me in the alley across the street from our stoop. It's funny how much location can influence a person's behavior. When I vist her in Jersey in her immaculate home and with her husband around, she carries herself in a way that's foreign to me. When she's in the city with me at Golden Chicken and Ribs, she's Reesy from the block.
Reesy was in the middle of telling me something when she noticed the grease running down her arm. She placed the meatless bone back onto the plate. She then raised her arm, cocked her head sideways, and proceeded to lick the grease from her arm. "That's too good to waste," she said and laughed. Teresa from New Jersey never would've done that. She picked up another rib from her plate and put her elbows back on the table. Before taking another bite, though, she continued.
"I'm glad you're getting some of that stuff out. How does it feel to be writing again?" She nibbled at the rib while she waited for my response.
I wasn't sure what to tell her. I just told her what she was hoping to hear. "I think it's good for me," I said.
"I've been reading the stuff you put on there, D." I hated being called D, but she was the only person left who did, so I let it slide. She hated being called Reesy, too. "It's had me scared that you've mentioned me a couple of times. I've been afraid that you'd write about something really embarrassing like the time we made out with each other."
"That was your idea!" We were maybe 10 and 12. She had talked me into it so she could know what it was like to kiss a boy before she actually had to kiss one.
"It's still embarrassing! And you haven't exactly been censoring the fucked up shit from your life." She started laughing and her voice became more boisterous and her accent more pronounced. Any trace of Teresa-from-Jersey that got off the bus was long gone by now.
You can take the girl out of the city. . .
She pointed the rib at me across the table. Her head did that side-to-side motion that only women can do, in rhythm with the syllables of the words she spoke. "Listen here, mother fucker." She laughed again and I burst-out in laughter as well. "I better not read about how kissing your sister made you molest kids and punch rabbis."