Pt. I
It came at the tail-end of what was a brief telephone exchange, purely business, purely sorting things out. The greatest of reckonings; the most unbelievable stab.
"How are you?"
Time slowed down, as if someone gave me a drug or a roofie. I was on my way out to dinner, but collapsed back into my chair instead. Handbag fell off my shoulder and onto the floor. Absolutely no control. Just total distortion of the mind and senses. Everywhere I looked I saw a funhouse mirror. Spinning vortex tunnels and resultant vertigo. Like that birthday party I had when I was a kid. Carousel Land, I think the place was called, in Howard Beach. Long gone now, I suspect, replaced by something else. I remember the spinning tunnel perfectly. Red and white stripes. It was the best part. At the entrance. So wildly, thrillingly dizzying. I stumbled and tripped, arms extended like a tightrope walker. Black velvet dress, white stockings, shiny Mary Janes. I always enjoyed dressing up for my birthday parties. I always enjoyed being caught between childhood and adulthood. That's how I grew up: dressing like a lady, never getting dirty, but always loving funfairs and amusements.
"How are you?"
Phone to my ear, I'd lost all sense of reality and all sense of my body. It would be that way until I got to the other side of this tunnel of a phone call. Totally and completely disorienting.
"Hello? Are you there? I said, 'How are you?'"
BOOM! Blasted back into the present. Sort of. Enough to identify what I was feeling... which was a deep, murky, black-as-night rage. Visceral and vomit-inducing. So many good words, angry words, perfect words got stuck in the channel that is my mouth and just wouldn't come out. (Does that ever happen to you, by the way? Kind of like when you're transferring shampoo from a big bottle into a travel-sized bottle with a little store-bought funnel, and the goop gets stuck? It's because you're pushing too much at once. The funnel gets clogged. You need to wait for things to settle).
Having always fancied myself a wordsmith, the mishmash I finally managed was very disappointing, if not completely jaded:
"What do you care?"
I fixed myself, though, before he could even breathe up a response: "What do you care? It's such an empty, hollow question. 'How are you?' What is that? Seriously. What is that?"
I feigned confidence, but my eyes filled and my lip quivered. I knew this would happen. In turn, he was perfectly controlled and ambivalent, like a doctor giving the worst news, or a disgruntled babysitter faking a state of calm in front of two nervous parents on their first night out in a really long time. The babysitter came referred, of course, and her credentials speak for themselves. ...but as soon as the door shuts behind mommy and daddy, she gets ugly.
"Oh, come on now, don't be like that," he said. "If you're going to be like that I'll--" Oh, the upward inflection of a threat. The familiar noose around my neck. What would happen if I'm "like that?" Would he hang up? Then what? And what after that?
My world would keep spinning.
I steadied myself a little. Readied myself a little.
"I mean, if I told you I was dying or something, what would you do?"
"I suppose nothing."
"Exactly. There's no point to asking me that question. You aren't part of my life anymore. You erased me from it."
He scoffed. "Angry as ever, that's how you're doing. I knew you'd be miserable there."
My rebuff? Well, I didn't go off the rails as I'd hoped (although that probably would've been better than what actually happened). Instead, I did little to explain what I actually meant by my words, because in moments like that, nothing vindicating, proper, or perfect comes out. You can only have that beautiful clarity afterwards, when you're frustrated and rewind the tape, distilling the moment, wondering what you could have done differently to get the message across.
The message was/is this: I didn't want him to know whether I was doing fine, poorly, great, terrible, wonderful. When he posed that question, after all that had happened between us, it was like an attempt at a pass; non-consensual sex. He needed it, in any form, for relief. No matter what I said, it wouldn't matter. I was an object. He was desperate for an answer. I did not want to give it to him. I wouldn't.
My world spins on a different axis.
As I reflect now on the would-be conversation that ended with an abrupt hang-up, I'm no longer cursing myself for what I could've said or done better. If I said I was fine, he'd sleep at night with peace and closure. If I said I wasn't, he'd use that to sleep at night, too. It'd just be the inverse. He'd say it wasn't his fault. I'm crazy. It would be whatever got him to sleep. Whatever gets him through.
On the other hand, I call my best friend every night before I go to sleep. Most nights, it's because I can't sleep. Dublin has cursed me with terrible insomnia.
The first thing he always says is:
"How are you?
The whole of my body relaxes. His voice is comforting, melodious.
If I look at both phone calls side by side-- the first "How are you?" and the second-- if the former is an assault, the latter is someone gently lifting my chin in the moonlight for a kiss.
The sincerity moves me. The familiar cadence of his voice is a gift. The wanting to hear. The wanting to listen.
This is how every "how are you" should be.
Pt. II
I already decide before opening the door that I don't like the massage parlor on Suffolk Street. They're making me walk up two flights of stairs in the name of physiotherapy?! Crossing them off my list. Nope. No way. No extra work--
"How are you?"
I'm on the table. There's soft music playing, muffling the voices outside. A mandolin or something. Elevator music of massage parlors. Back home, my massage therapist let me pick my own playlist. It was usually 90s pop or classic rock. He even let me skip every once in a while when I wasn't feeling the beat. Today, my massage therapist is named Paula. She is from Romania. She's not from New York.
She gasps when she feels the tension in my back. So many knots. Paula has her work cut out for her.
Paula gets to work. She is diligent, relentless in her deep-tissue attack. Back home, my massage therapist would go easy on me. I never wanted him to, but he always did. I never understood why. Until now. Paula doesn't know me like he does. Back home, my massage therapist knew me. Paula has never met me. This is a good thing. I want this to hurt. Back at home, my massage therapist would never hurt me.
I relax and enjoy getting hurt. I enjoy the air being released from the knots in my back. The soft little pop each time a knot surrenders gives me a little thrill. I am not keeping track of time. Back at home, I would always keep track of time during a massage session. That's because we were always chatting, and time always went by too fast. There's no need for me to keep track of time when there's silence.
I can feel Paula using her forearm as part of her technique. Back home, my massage therapist dug into me with his elbows.
I open my eyes and see Paula's black athletic leggings and black sneakers. She stands over me relaxed. Back home, I would open my eyes and see familiar brown khakis paired with tan oxfords. He would always take the stance of a karate grandmaster.
I shut my eyes again.
Paula lightly pats the small of my back, indicating the massage is over. Back at home, my massage therapist would always give me an extra five minutes.
As a courtesy, Paula works briefly on my hands. She turns me over. We do not make eye contact. Back home, me and my massage therapist always made eye contact.
Paula's hands are soft. She doesn't use nearly as much force with my hands as she did with my back. It is disappointing. Back at home, my massage therapist would knead my palms like dough and I would feel the calluses on his own fingers (he plays too much guitar).
Paula does not end our session with a high five. She does not text me afterwards. Why?
Paula is not my best friend.
Paula does not call me before I go to sleep.
My phone rings. It's my best friend. Back home, my best friend is my massage therapist.
His voice is comforting, melodious.
"How are you?"