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The old man was having fun; there was no denying it.
His
roommate, Karl, was an irrepressible, twenty-four-year-old journeyman of
the world who hailed, from East Berlin. Karl regaled the old man at
night with stories of his travels around America--dabbling with vampire
tales in Rhode Island, a romance in New Orleans, becoming lost in the
tiny town of Whitesboro, Texas, "finding himself" in New Mexico, and a
bar fight in Los Angeles.
By day,
the old man sought adventures of his own. He joined the crowds at the
top of the EMpire State Building and stayed until closing. He rode the
Circle Line to the Statue of Liberty with all the Russian tourists. He
drank single-malt whiskey at bars in Tribeca filled with beautiful young
things.
The old
man booked tickets in the bleachers at the old Yankee Stadium before it
closed forever and wondered where Anouk had sat, not so long ago.
He bought
hot dogs with "the works" and warm beer in plastic cups. He watched
families feed ducks in Central Park. He crossed a busy road and angrily
yelled, "I'm walkin' here!" at the oncoming traffic in his best
attempt at a Brooklyn accent, a secret smile owning his face for five
blocks afterward.
When the
old man grew tired, he returned to room 23 at the top of the stairs,
dragged the room's vinyl chair under the window, and watched the city
pass by. One day, the old man pulled out his camera. He carefully dusted
the lens, adjusted the settings, and even cleaned and oiled the leather
strap, using olive oil gleaned from the hostel kitchen. The next
afternoon, he leaned out ogf the window and started taking pictures of
people as they walked underneath him. It was reportage, in tis way, and
the old man seemed to recover some instinct long rusted. In time, the
photographs became his habit. He developed a collection: the tops of
people's heads, their hats, the way their arms swung opposite to their
legs as they strode or followed awkwardly on the same side, their hands
resting quietly in a lover's. cradling a cell phone, or feeling an
unseen mouth with hot dog or Krispy Kreme or fries.
Not once
did his own hands shake as he held each person in his lens.
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He looks forward to receiving the letters that Anouk writes to him. But he starts to worry when what she writes about a large black woman in a pink, velour tracksuit that is always following her. As her letters continue to arrive, he becomes more and more worried about her and starts to fear for her safety. When she declares that she is writing "from the Other Side," he decides to fly to New York and see if he can find her. She send him three marbles that when he holds them in his hand, he lives some Anouk's memories.
Arriving in New York, and finds a place to stay in a the seedier part of town at a hostel. He begins to visit the sites of New York and taking pictures of New Yorkers. He is drawn into Anouk's surreal world of stalkers and storytelling, marbles and cats, purgatory and Plato. He doesn't notice it, but the woman in the pink tracksuit has her eyes on him too. Who exactly is she?