I'm just a ramblin', gamblin' gypsy...

On Friday Harry didn't come to school, completely destroying my evening plans to crash a freshman party (Greg-sans-Tongue's), eat sushi, and try to introduce him to some folk music. When I found out with David Tay over calamari salad that Harry had the flu, not Senioritis, I prepared to arm myself with soup; when it turned out that his parents didn't want me over while he was sick, I was left to face two hours of boredom.

In a way I felt relieved; these days, two hours of leisure time is a rare window in my life. I headed over to St. Mark's Place to look for familiar faces (none--they're all in college) and a Russian Communist Party hat for Greg-sans-Tongue. I found the hat, and bargained it down to a reasonable price, while talking to a twenty-ish guy looking for a newsboy's cap. When he asked for my phone number, I got a bit jittery. I payed in crumpled bills and ducked into Kmart (which has gone down the tubes, by the way). My cell phone rang almost as soon as I walked in, and I took the opportunity to invite myself over to Elena's house.

I walked relatively slowly down the street, playing my harmonica to my heart's delight, savoring the maleable notes on my tongue, bending them with my lips, tapping a beat with my fingers. Around Fifth Avenue, I felt a finger on my shoulder.

He was about five-eleven, bleached blonde and toting a guitar; your average St. Mark's Place musician. I dimly recalled meeting him through Ash at Search And Destroy once, but I doubt that he remembered me.

"This may sound a little wierd," he began, and I braced myself, "but I've been walking behind you for the last two blocks, and you're pretty damn good."

I went dumb. "Uh... thank you," I said, rather awkwardly.

"Do you ever perform?"

"Uh... well, I haven't, but..."

"Would you? I'm organizing a benefit concert for politically censored musicians, and it'd be great if you could do a song or two."

"Yeah," I said, dumbfounded, recovering just enough sense to remember to play it cool; "That sounds great. I'll definately think about it."

"Great." A card; a name, a number. No band, no venue, no address. Should I have been frightened? For some reason I wasn't. Instead, I ducked into GirlProps and treated myself to a celebratory pair of earrings.

When I got to Elena's house, the first thing she did was hug me and tell me she loves me. I was touched; I did the same and then shed my coat and backpack, fallling routinely onto the sofa.

And then, suddenly, she had this look on her face, almost a smile, cheeks rounded and eyes lowered, and I wondered if she was pranking me or was deeply affected. It's the same look she gave me when she told me that Paul McCartney had died on April Fool's Day (I believed her); egotistically determined not to be tricked, I put on a mask and became mildly skeptical.

The second she started talking, however, I realized the terrible mistake I'd made. It wasn't a prank. A senior at her school had been killed in a car crash with her mother; the father was on his way to Washington to tell his son that his mother and sister had both been killed.

There's no way to describe how it feels to hold one of the people you care about most in the world in your arms while they cry; the solace of being the needed shoulder becomes worthless, replaced by a physical pain, a terrible wrenching feeling in the heart. Elena is an extremely smart person, and a very sensitive one; she has a tendancy to see an event from many angles, amplifying its impact in the process. I held her and she talked, told me everything she'd seen and heard and thought of during the day, everything she'd felt, and I ate Botan Rice Candy and tried to think of what words I could possible speak that would lessen the pain, tried to determine if I even wanted to. In the end, silence sufficed for my defecit. The thing that stuck with me most from what she said in that hour was the vision of our own insignificance, of the meaningless void of our daily niceties and the pointless nuances of our lives. "None of it matters," she said, and I cringed, recalling other times I'd heard those words.

After Elena and I walked out together, she subwayed to her ambiguous destination and I went home and greeted my Abuela and my uncle Oscar, two of the people I admire most. My Abuela made fried chicken and tomato-soaked rice, and Matt came over eventually to share it before we headed to Greg's thingy at The Knitting Factory.

Before seeing Greg, we dropped in on Harry, who was sleepy but not ill, and Harry and I thoroughly embarrassed Matt; then we hit the streets aimlessly, attacking innocent passerbys for directions. We ended up missing the concert, because it opened an hour late, but when Greg assured me that my love was enough, I felt less guilty. Matt and I left, casting backwards glances on the way, in search of a 1-9.

I never have any trouble talking to Matt, so the forty minute subway ride wasn't a problem; I ate twizzlers and we discussed life like the old buddies that we are. We arrived almost exactly on time (although only because we ran down the river walk), and I even got to meet some of Ireland's most famous musicians. I got giddy with twizzler-itis and started jiggling the line of pew-chairs in the church and tapping my feet before the music started, but once the first notes hit my ears, I was enthralled. All evening Matt had been saying adorably humble things like "V.V., you really don't have to feel obligated to come if you don't want to," and "if it's not mcuh fun for you, I'm really sorry," and I had come to expect some sort of music that makes sense only to people fluent in Gaelic, or something unintelligible to those who lack curly hair. What I found instead was enchanting, lively folk music of the sort I had listened to for years; I even knew two of the guitar-and-vocal ballads. The singer had a lovely Irish accent and dark eyes and hair like Joan Baez, and her voice made me moan internally. I felt my gypsy blood stirring.

At one point they announced that they wanted two pairs of audience members to step up and learn to dance an Irish reil. "Nobody ever does this," Matt whispered. "It's pretty embarrassing for the announcers." How could I resist? "Then let's do it!" "V.V. ..."

It was too late. I had already begun dragging the poor fellow into the aisle. And guess what? Almost everyone joined in. The small cathedral came to life with embarrassed and hesitant feet. I let myself go; I'm sure I injured several people in the process, but it felt great. My heels ached during the subway ride home, but I didn't mind. I convinced Matt to get a cup of Starbucks tea with me, and we resumed our never-ending semi-philosophical discussion of life until about eleven (he had SATs the next day). I changed out of my skirt outside my apartment door and slipped into bed as softly as if I had been dreaming the whole time. It was lovely.

On Saturday I went to the Strand with my family and Harry and walked out with a dozen or so half-priced paperbacks. My parents rolled their eyes, and Harry told me to put some back, but I brushed them off and bought them all, and I don't regret it. Afterwards, Harry and I went to see Robots, possibly the worst animated film I've ever seen. Visually, it was interesting, yes--but the characters were so completely one dimensional that we both had to laugh. I kept expecting an interesting twist that would add some depth to the characters; there was none to be found. Still, when I consider the humour of the situation, I wonder if it wasn't bad enough (and on such a high budget!) to deserve my ten dollars.

On Sunday I was put under house arrest, and fought about it with my parents; on Monday I ate expensive sushi with Harry (more details later) and on Tuesday I watched Miyazaki movies. In case you wondered.

Damn. This is a long post. Sorry.