Presence / Olivia Brandwein

Presence

Olivia Brandwein

Peter cranes his body over the bathroom sink to get a closer look. The sunshine through the window and the light coming down from the exposed bulb overhead highlight the deepening creases across his forehead and the long parentheses that frame his mouth. Never mind them, they only help make him more expressive. Sandy gray hairs peak out from underneath his jet-black dye, and others have decided to abandon his scalp all together. But today is Saturday. Today they won’t matter underneath his hat. He begins the careful ritual of brushing his teeth, shaving, and moisturizing so that no spot is left uncleaned and unanointed. And then it is time. First, he coats his face in white powder. These days, he orders it specially from France. The stuff from Sephora won’t cut it anymore. Then, he drags his black eyeliner into diamonds around his eyes and creates his new eyebrows. He tests them out, raising one then the other, watching his wrinkles ripple with satisfaction. Finally, a pop of color. With his red lipstick in place, he returns to his bedroom and shimmies into his black tights, black and white striped shirt, and black suspenders, careful not to disturb his masterpiece. Pierre dons his hat, no, his beret, and then he’s off. The walk to Columbus Park is pleasant and brisk. Pierre is a fast walker and, even on weekdays, he enjoys miming his frustrations behind the backs of those cretinous slow-walkers that now crowd the city. As he crosses the busy Court Street traffic, the gleaming white stone of Borough Hall comes into full view. Fuck de Blasio, he mutters to himself, almost betraying his craft and parting his lips. He doesn’t quite remember where his hatred stems from anymore, but he’s sure it is correct and finds it a heartwarming unifier of New York’s diverse population.

Pierre is not one to copy the crowd, but everyone hates de Blasio, and isn’t that something special? Pierre loves Columbus Park. He loves the way the grand government buildings block out the Starbucks and McDonald’s that now seep into every neighborhood. It’s a shame those damn glass buildings are creeping up behind them. Today the sunshine has made everyone forget the cold and people sprawl across stone steps, wooden park benches, and fencedoff greenery. Tomorrow the yuppies will swarm here for the farmer’s market, and Peter’s annoyance will be assuaged only by the delightful chèvre he’ll purchase. Something about eating his nice cheese with some fresh jam on some warm bread just makes him feel…civilized. But that will be the cherry on top. Today is the main event. Pierre assumes his position. Having secured his usual spot by the towering, tiered fountain (facing away from the bus stop and street traffic), he begins to stretch his long, nearly sixfoot, frame. He’s only a little bit shorter, and his belly a little bit rounder than when he started this ritual some ten years ago. But his skill, he now possesses much greater skill. He closes his eyes, cocks his head from side to side, rolls his shoulders, and breathes deeply. Upon opening them he sees the elderly gentleman in a patch of grass doing his T’ai chi. They’ve never spoken, but Pierre considers him a friend, a kindred spirit. The air around Pierre is filled with potential. From it he plucks objects and pantomimes pranks. He’s at a cafe sipping his cappuccino. He’s unwrapping a gift. Oh, you shouldn’t have! He’s confronting his father. You really shouldn’t have. He’s singing in the rain. What a glorious feeling, I’m happy again! “Ayyooo Frenchie, where’s your box??” Pierre brings his fists to his face and then twists them to squeeze out big, fat, phantom tears. Boohoo, prick. This kid (this kid is at least 18) wouldn’t know culture or subtlety or art