Barbra’s Secret Life 1 of 2

Barbra’s Secret Life 1 of 2

Meeting Barbra that afternoon was one of those bizarre events that convinced me how important it is to say "yes" to life, to be open to what presents itself and to not have expectations. I hadn't been to New York City in over twenty years, and in fact, rarely leave my off the grid cabin in Maine for any cities. I shop at a local food co-op in our small town, pick up mail at the post office, sometimes get a bowl of soup or a cup of coffee and exchange greetings with friends and neighbors then head home, happy to drive down the long dirt road through the woods and walk the path up to my quiet life.

I had just completed a book of poetry and my brother told me about a group he belongs to at the library and their monthly guest speaker series. Each member arranges an evening and so he urged me to come to New York and give a reading. First, I said no I didn't want to deal with all the hustle and bustle of New York, but then remembered my philosophy to always say "yes," unless there is a moral conflict or it's impossible. It's Life's way of giving you an unexpected gift, even though you might not realize it at the time. "Come to New York and give the reading, it will be good for you," he said more insistently. Finally, the desire to read my new poems and get away from my solitary life for awhile came over me and I said I would come. When I hung up I couldn't believe what I had agreed to do.

So, the sudden opportunity to visit my brother in New York and give a poetry reading brought me this chance to taste a piece of life I had never experienced before or since. Whether it was fate or haphazard random circumstance, I can't say. That's part of the mystery. But coming to New York and meeting Barbra that afternoon in the cafe around the corner from my brother's apartment took me into a realm of reality I am still trying to understand.

I arrived in New York on a Thursday afternoon and took the train from the airport, a subway to Times Square, then a crowded bus to Riverside Drive. I was completely dazzled and overwhelmed by the visual sensations of lights and sounds, the barrage of advertisements, horns honking, sirens screaming, department stores filled with shiny, glitzy merchandise, tall towering buildings and dozens of theaters with blinking lights. I found Eighty-Seventh Street and walked past people rushing in both directions to where my brother lived in a swanky penthouse apartment on the thirtieth floor.

The next day, while my brother had several appointments, I took the opportunity to explore the neighborhood and stopped at a little café called the Left Bank for a cup of coffee and a treat. My poetry reading wouldn't be until eight that evening, so I had the whole afternoon to myself. The café was busy with people hurrying in for coffee and a pastry. Most of the tables were taken and the place was buzzing with conversations, or people reading the newspaper, or checking out their cell phones. I sat at a table by the window and could glance at people walking by. I had my journal and was jotting down impressions, sketching, reflecting, describing people, wondering what they were thinking.

While I was writing, a young woman with long dark curly hair walked in and caught my eye. She had a green canvas bag. I was surprised when she put her bag down on the empty table next to mine and went to the counter to place an order. Standing there, she glanced at the pastries, looked back at her table and at me. I had stopped writing and kept my pen paused on the page. Our eyes met briefly, but I quickly looked away then back, just as she turned to give her order.

I guessed she was in her early thirties and wore a colorful Indian print wrap-around skirt that came an inch or so above her knees and a soft textured white peasant-like blouse that revealed her shoulders, a small lavender scarf tied loosely at her neck. When she came to her table carrying her coffee and a croissant, our eyes met again. I noticed her lively eyes, olive skin, a narrow pointed nose and high cheekbones. Her dark wild flowing hair came just below her shoulders. Large round silver dangling earrings gave her an exotic appearance that made me think she looked like a gypsy.

She took a book out of her canvas bag and placed it on the table, then put the bag on the floor next to her chair, sat down, crossed her legs and looked around the room, glancing quickly in my direction. Our eyes met before she looked away. She took a sip of her coffee and opened her book, flattening it with her hand, smoothing the page.

I remember writing in my journal how I felt with this exotic young lady sitting at the table next to me. I enjoy looking at people, but rarely am I so captivated by a person as I was with her. Every few minutes, I stopped writing and glanced over at her, watching as she read, her long fingers bringing her coffee mug to her lips, taking a sip.

I continued writing, struggling to concentrate on what I was describing and not look at her, but there was something about her presence, her contained energy that caused me to keep glancing at her. I could feel her lively spirit. There was something mysterious and hidden about her that attracted me and made me feel how beautiful and fascinating she was.

I am an extremely shy, quiet person, and it is not in my nature to strike up a conversation with someone I don't know, especially a young woman who must be a least twenty or so years younger than me. But there I was sitting at my table, wanting to burst out of my reserved personality and invite myself to sit with her, something I knew I couldn't do.

She was reading her book with deep concentration, but every time she turned the page, she would look up to glance around the room and our eyes would meet. She would then return to her book, and I would return to my writing. In my journal I was describing this scene. When I wrote, "Her dark hair falling past her shoulder is lovely next to her olive complexion, but it's her large hazel, mysterious eyes that draw me to her. I have to meet her! I have to meet her!" It was the urgency of that last sentence that startled me. I often see a woman who I think is attractive, but this was different. Why did I write, "I have to meet her?"

I put my pen down, reading over what I had written when I heard her voice and turned. "What are you writing?"

At first I wasn't sure how to answer and so I repeated her question, "Oh, ah, what am I writing? I glanced down at my journal then back at her and somehow found the nerve to say, "I'm writing about you."

You are, she asked, her eyes widening, why?

I don't know," I answered, noticing the slight smile on her lips, the surprise in her eyes. Neither of us spoke, but, in that silence there was no awkwardness, just curiosity. I took a deep breath and somehow found the boldness to say, I think you're beautiful. I wanted to describe you in words.

Thank you," she responded and smiled. I don't think I'm beautiful, so thank you.

Again, there was a silence, but we kept our eyes on each other. She picked up her coffee mug, brought it to her lips, looking at me over the rim. I did the same thing, took a sip of my coffee, quickly closed my journal, keeping the pen in the book as a marker and looked back at her. "What are you reading?"

David Mamet," she answered, closing her book. Do you know his writing?

Yes, I've read a few of his plays and have seen several of his movies. I like his language and how he writes dialogue.

Me, too, it's called, Mamet speak. I love how crisp his dialogue is. It's like poetry, so spare.

Let's pretend we're in a Mamet play," I said, surprising myself with that bold, spontaneous idea, somehow my usual shyness evaporating.

Okay, she said, nodding, Let's pretend we're in a Mamet play.

Yes, let's," I responded, already entering the stylized, mono-syllabic, repetitive manner of his dialogue.

Yes, let's," Barbra repeated, picking up our game, a slight playful smile on her lips.

Hello," I said, looking at her from my table.

Hello.

You look sad.

I do?

Yes, sad.

Oh!" she said, widening her eyes.

Yes, sadness is not what I want for today, I said, shaking my head.

Yes, I know you don't want sadness. I know you don't.

What do you think I want for today?

You want me to invite you to sit with me but you're too shy to ask.

You're right. I do.

She smiled and gestured with her hand to the empty seat across from her, both of us enjoying imitating the flat way Mamet's character spoke. I was stunned by her invitation, but smiled back, her dark eyes inviting me, that same slight, playful smile on her lips. I picked up my journal and coffee and sat down at her table, our eyes meeting again.

I'm Sam, I said, still in the Mamet mode of speaking.

Hello, Sam

I'm Barbra

Hello Barbra

This is a new way of meeting someone, she said, like being in a Mamet play.

Yes, I guess it is, especially for me, I said taking a sip of my coffee. I never do things like this
me either. I'm a very private person, very shy. I keep to myself.

I do too, I said. But I'm surprised about you. Your face is so open. I'd think you would have a busy social life.

I don't really. I love being home, reading, talking to my boyfriend and taking walks along the river. I love going to the library, bookstores and museums. I love to read.

So you have a boyfriend?

I do, she said, touching the corner of her book.

That's nice. Are you happy with him?

I am, very. He's wonderful, she said, and then asked, are you married?

No, I'm divorced, I answered, shrugging my shoulders.

"Sorry," she said, her eyes and mouth expressing her sadness. "Has that been hard for you?"

At first, but actually I'm fine with it. We just decided not to be in each other's movie anymore, I said, repeating the explanation I often gave when people expressed their, oh, that's too bad.

That's an interesting way of thinking about it, she said, and then paused, glancing at my checkered flannel shirt you're not a New Yorker, are you?

No, I answered with a slight chuckle, how did you know?

Easy, no one in this neighborhood looks or dresses like you do," she said.



By nutbuster