Saturday was a perfect mix of starting the day an hour later than we both wanted, and both of us expecting it would happen because we know about each other's little foibles after all these years. Of the classically expected unexpected construction on the 7 train. We both never bothered to check, because in Saturday was the sense that the 7 was going to take us wherever it wanted at that time, it was that acquiescing futility associated with keeping up with announcements on that line which used to be a frustration in us. Of being forced off train by everyone else who was fortunate to hear the announcement that we needed to hear, too, but didn't, on the ride that would leave you and I off a last-stop two stops too early. Of walking over that overpass to get to the free shuttle buses that we never quite able to find, and wouldn't have been able to anyway. We both knew this right when we starting walking, started venturing into that part of Queens we never venture to. In Saturday there was that I think I'm walking north, but it feels like I'm walking south feeling as our sneakers met new ground. Of letting yourself do that, letting yourself get a little lost, because Saturday, today, is so sweet you might as well indulge yourself. Of walking around those parts of Queens in the bright middle of the day, lost, that you'd never walk by yourself when the sun starts to set, when the bustle that makes you feel okay leaves with the sunshine. Of the bitter cold carried in the sunny wind at your face, into your hair, reflected by your scarf. Of trying to capture of picture of the way interlocking rusty beams support the structure above you, just before you finally find the train 'underground' that you knew was somewhere nearby, but your frozen camera freezes and says no, just remember how much you love the way this area let those beams rust, instead.
Of waiting at the subway stop, right near the tail end of the train, in the station you never get occasion to wait in, sticking your head over the tracks a bit to see the subway that isn't exactly a part of this station, wondering about what has settled into that dark area, until the train approaches pushing ahead the light that lets you see all that rust, and dust, and at least that bottle of vitamin water with its pink label. Of getting off at that stop, walking as fast as you possibly can with your hollowed stomach, to be let out into a construction area where the don't walk/walk signs are, apparently, irrelevant as the road has been blocked off to cars about fifty feet in either direction. Of not knowing whether or not the construction which had taken over the area intended that the space be only for themselves, or if they expected you to walk there, too but in Satuday was making those precautious advances anyway toward the aluminum paneling. Of walking around that huge truck that I would have needed a ladder to get into, hoping there was space for us to squeeze through around the other side, to arrive at the diner you weren't sure was open because it had its operation would have been fighting with it's own renovation. Of opening the luckily unlocked unfinished wood door to hear power drills and waiter yelling "Wherever you want!" which has been yelled to all kinds of customers for years, and years. Of course it would be wherever we want, but the front part of the diner clearly belonged to semi-permanent construction worker crowd eating fatty meals that would nourish them. Of sitting in the back and holding huge menu in my hand searching through it, and while I'm on my phone for a minute, I hear you babbling aloud about how you can't decide between chicken salad salad, or chicken and salad, not knowing you'd end up having the wrap, anyway. I'm sorry I was on the phone when you came over, Mr. waiter, you. I smelled your sweat and I know you just don't need to deal with people gentrifying your diner like that. Luckily my friend got that appropriately small cup of chicken noodle from you then, and you must understand I ignored you because I'm unpracticed when it comes gentrification. Really, I'm just a neighborhood gal myself, wishing your hood was my own.
It was in that way I sat there starting out the window eating my chicken cutlet sandwich, in your diner right under the tracks that were being worked on. I saw the way the sparks and dust flew down out the window, and the unbroken swing of the mini crane in across the front of the graffiti'd building. The noises from outside were transformed into an energetic hum by the time it hit my ears. Of the way when I asked if you actually did have the strawberry shortcake, you actually did. Of the way my friend's apple crumb came warm, melting her scoop of vanilla, as sat laughing at the ladies in front of us drinking their diner wine and giggling with the waiters, as we ate these desserts that were so much insanely better than we could have expected judging by just our sandwiches. We hope we left you a good tip.
