Raquel D'Apice (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} theuglyvolvo) wrote,@ 2008-01-23 11:57:00 |
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I'm Gonna Rock and Roll All Night, But For Now I'll Sit Quietly in This Depressing Lobby
So let me start off by saying that I have a tendency to arrive places early.
It started at 6 and by 5:45 I had arrived and was standing at the front desk of the building, facing a guard in a blue uniform who was chewing on the end of his moustache.
“Admissions office?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “The party?”
“Ok,” he said, and pointed me toward a large room on the first floor while another uniformed man anxiously insisted that I put on a name tag reading, “Hello, my name is: 1/16/08.”
“No—she doesn’t have to wear that,” the guard with the moustache said. He pushed the second’s hand away, embarrassed. “Only for admissions office. For the party doesn’t need the sticker.”
"Ok," said the second guard, looking longingly at his endless curl of dated labels. "I guess you can just go in."
“The party,” as it has been advertised, is a reception for those involved in a Brooklyn mentoring program, and the room in which it is held has obviously been decorated on a $15 dollar budget by a person who has robbed a dollar store. The attendees at this point include myself and the very nice woman who runs the program.
“Well you’re the only one here so far,” she says encouragingly.
“I am,” I say awkwardly.
“Try and make yourself at home,” she says. “Everyone else will be here in a while.”
I pause briefly as I am given and fill out an empty “Hello. My name is” tag. In the white space I write out my name in all capital letters. (Hello. My name is RAQUEL.) I stick it on my sweater despite the fact that I am the only one there and am already aware of my own name—both the pronunciation and the spelling. Hello Raquel, my name is Raquel. I’m so glad you could make it. Please, make yourself comfortable.
I walk quietly to the “games and activities” tables in the front of the room (“Go check out our games and activities,” the woman in charge encourages, unaware, perhaps that the quickest way to clinical depression is a solo game of Jenga.) I encounter numerous games and activities, immediately teleporting me back to my paper mache-filled childhood. A barrel of monkeys, Connect Four, innumerable pieces of colorful origami paper fanned out over a plastic tablecloth.
“I remember these markers!” I suddenly exclaim to no one in particular, but the event organizer answers, because she is the only one there and does not want me to be uncomfortable. Sitting at the edge of the table is a box of Mr. Sketch Scented Watercolor markers, which I remember clearly from every art class between the ages of 5 and 13.
“The purple one is grape,” I say, and hold the marker to her nose while she politely nods. “And my favorite was the orange one because it didn’t smell like oranges, it smelled like orange tic tacs.”
She once again smiles cordially and as I take an enormous whiff of the markers, I notice that they do not smell as fabulous as they used to. The basic scent is unchanged, but the feeling of pure, unmitigated joy that I once felt at the scent of orange tic tacs has lessened somewhat.
I fill a small plate with cookies and grapes and survey the room, which is as sterile and welcoming as a hospital waiting area. The walls are white and fluorescent lit. There are 7 large folding tables, evenly spaced, surrounded by fresh-looking plastic chairs. All of the chairs are maroon except for 3, which are red, and I wonder if I sit in one of the red ones if I will later be chosen for something special. (Hint: No, I will not be.) The tables’ centerpieces are triads of white, swirl-patterned balloons tied together with purple curling ribbon and taped to a small doily. The small doily is then placed atop a larger doily and is flanked on either side of the table by two additional smaller doilies, the holes in which are not fully punched out, and which I then go about punching out with my pen, leaving a soft trail of dandruff across the dark table. I take a half-hearted bite of my cookie at the exact moment the stereo is plugged in and the smooth notes of a familiar song slide from the speakers. Within a few seconds I have identified the song as “Let’s get it on,” and within a few more seconds it has hit me that maybe this is not the most appropriate song to be playing at a young children’s mentoring program reception. Briefly, I become glad that I am the only one there. I “get it on” with the only thing there besides myself-- a small glazed pastry that does little to resist my advances. I then “get it on” with some grapes, and later with a pineapple and a glass of apple juice. It is a much longer song than people realize.
It is now past 6 o’clock. I am still the only one in the room. I find myself staring at a small sign that reads, “In appreciation for the support of the class of 1963,” which is hung on a pillar in the center of the room. I wonder what, exactly, the college has done in appreciation for the support of the class of 1963, since there does not appear to be any monitary indication of the class’s contributions aside from the sign itself. I wonder if perhaps the pillar itself is the fruit of their donation and that the word “support” is meant quite literally. I then wonder where on earth everyone else is, because I am still the only person in the reception hall. The second song has begun playing, which is a rendition of Steve Wonder’s “Isn’t she Lovely,” with sound clips of his young daughter crying and gurgling interspersed with the lyrics. Not being aware that this version existed, I happily lip sync along with the lyrics but begin glancing around anxiously to try and see the young child whose ghostly voice has suddenly begun echoing through the deserted meeting hall. I hear a whimper and a cry and stiffen, wondering why the ghost of a dead newborn has chosen to haunt the Lobby of St. Francis College.
It is 6:20. I am already stuffed, having gorged on a bagel sandwich and innumerable desserts, and people are trickling in. I recommend the cookies to various guests that I do not know. I talk with other mentors at my table. And it is not until later—around 6:40 or so, that many of the mentees begin to arrive, each of them between 8 and 16 years of age. And they are going off like firecrackers, filled with enthusiasm for a party which I only moments ago felt bad about, embarrassed that we had nothing better to give them. None of them comments on the sad centerpieces or the fact that the lighting makes everyone look about 10 years older than they actually are. No one mentions the microphone stand covered in yellow balloons that looks as though it is suffering from a painful venereal disease. The mentees are rabidly excited, happily discussing the size of the meatballs at last year’s party (SO HUGE) and what they’re getting as gifts this year (BOOKS) and what they are hoping to win at the raffle (ANYTHING). None of them notices the music, which has segued into a sort of standard “wedding DJ between ‘84-‘89” sort of theme. And it is good, I think, that they are as excited as they are. My mentee approaches me, smiling, and begins drawing on a piece of paper.
“This is supposed to look like graffiti,” she explains, furiously scribbling. “You do one color, and then another color around it. I did it in class and my teacher gave me a really good grade on mine.”
“It looks awesome,” I tell her, writing her and my name together in block letters on my own piece of paper. “And these markers are awesome,” I say once again. “Do you guys use these in school? The orange ones smell exactly like orange tic tacs.” I hold it up to her nose for her to assess and she pauses drawing for long enough to break into an enormous, ecstatic grin. "Can you smell it?" I ask hopefully, meaning, I realize, "Is the smell of it still sort of neat to you?" or "Are you young enough to still get a kick out of markers that smell exactly like tic tacs?"
“Oh man,” she says, excited, and I find myself smiling and handing her the marker, like an aging Olympian passing off a torch to a younger athlete. She glances quickly around the room, assessing with whom she can share her discovery.
“It does smell like orange tic tacs," she says calmly, her assertion the final word on the topic. "That’s crazy. It totally does.”
So let me start off by saying that I have a tendency to arrive places early.
It started at 6 and by 5:45 I had arrived and was standing at the front desk of the building, facing a guard in a blue uniform who was chewing on the end of his moustache.
“Admissions office?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “The party?”
“Ok,” he said, and pointed me toward a large room on the first floor while another uniformed man anxiously insisted that I put on a name tag reading, “Hello, my name is: 1/16/08.”
“No—she doesn’t have to wear that,” the guard with the moustache said. He pushed the second’s hand away, embarrassed. “Only for admissions office. For the party doesn’t need the sticker.”
"Ok," said the second guard, looking longingly at his endless curl of dated labels. "I guess you can just go in."
“The party,” as it has been advertised, is a reception for those involved in a Brooklyn mentoring program, and the room in which it is held has obviously been decorated on a $15 dollar budget by a person who has robbed a dollar store. The attendees at this point include myself and the very nice woman who runs the program.
“Well you’re the only one here so far,” she says encouragingly.
“I am,” I say awkwardly.
“Try and make yourself at home,” she says. “Everyone else will be here in a while.”
I pause briefly as I am given and fill out an empty “Hello. My name is” tag. In the white space I write out my name in all capital letters. (Hello. My name is RAQUEL.) I stick it on my sweater despite the fact that I am the only one there and am already aware of my own name—both the pronunciation and the spelling. Hello Raquel, my name is Raquel. I’m so glad you could make it. Please, make yourself comfortable.
I walk quietly to the “games and activities” tables in the front of the room (“Go check out our games and activities,” the woman in charge encourages, unaware, perhaps that the quickest way to clinical depression is a solo game of Jenga.) I encounter numerous games and activities, immediately teleporting me back to my paper mache-filled childhood. A barrel of monkeys, Connect Four, innumerable pieces of colorful origami paper fanned out over a plastic tablecloth.
“I remember these markers!” I suddenly exclaim to no one in particular, but the event organizer answers, because she is the only one there and does not want me to be uncomfortable. Sitting at the edge of the table is a box of Mr. Sketch Scented Watercolor markers, which I remember clearly from every art class between the ages of 5 and 13.
“The purple one is grape,” I say, and hold the marker to her nose while she politely nods. “And my favorite was the orange one because it didn’t smell like oranges, it smelled like orange tic tacs.”
She once again smiles cordially and as I take an enormous whiff of the markers, I notice that they do not smell as fabulous as they used to. The basic scent is unchanged, but the feeling of pure, unmitigated joy that I once felt at the scent of orange tic tacs has lessened somewhat.
I fill a small plate with cookies and grapes and survey the room, which is as sterile and welcoming as a hospital waiting area. The walls are white and fluorescent lit. There are 7 large folding tables, evenly spaced, surrounded by fresh-looking plastic chairs. All of the chairs are maroon except for 3, which are red, and I wonder if I sit in one of the red ones if I will later be chosen for something special. (Hint: No, I will not be.) The tables’ centerpieces are triads of white, swirl-patterned balloons tied together with purple curling ribbon and taped to a small doily. The small doily is then placed atop a larger doily and is flanked on either side of the table by two additional smaller doilies, the holes in which are not fully punched out, and which I then go about punching out with my pen, leaving a soft trail of dandruff across the dark table. I take a half-hearted bite of my cookie at the exact moment the stereo is plugged in and the smooth notes of a familiar song slide from the speakers. Within a few seconds I have identified the song as “Let’s get it on,” and within a few more seconds it has hit me that maybe this is not the most appropriate song to be playing at a young children’s mentoring program reception. Briefly, I become glad that I am the only one there. I “get it on” with the only thing there besides myself-- a small glazed pastry that does little to resist my advances. I then “get it on” with some grapes, and later with a pineapple and a glass of apple juice. It is a much longer song than people realize.
It is now past 6 o’clock. I am still the only one in the room. I find myself staring at a small sign that reads, “In appreciation for the support of the class of 1963,” which is hung on a pillar in the center of the room. I wonder what, exactly, the college has done in appreciation for the support of the class of 1963, since there does not appear to be any monitary indication of the class’s contributions aside from the sign itself. I wonder if perhaps the pillar itself is the fruit of their donation and that the word “support” is meant quite literally. I then wonder where on earth everyone else is, because I am still the only person in the reception hall. The second song has begun playing, which is a rendition of Steve Wonder’s “Isn’t she Lovely,” with sound clips of his young daughter crying and gurgling interspersed with the lyrics. Not being aware that this version existed, I happily lip sync along with the lyrics but begin glancing around anxiously to try and see the young child whose ghostly voice has suddenly begun echoing through the deserted meeting hall. I hear a whimper and a cry and stiffen, wondering why the ghost of a dead newborn has chosen to haunt the Lobby of St. Francis College.
It is 6:20. I am already stuffed, having gorged on a bagel sandwich and innumerable desserts, and people are trickling in. I recommend the cookies to various guests that I do not know. I talk with other mentors at my table. And it is not until later—around 6:40 or so, that many of the mentees begin to arrive, each of them between 8 and 16 years of age. And they are going off like firecrackers, filled with enthusiasm for a party which I only moments ago felt bad about, embarrassed that we had nothing better to give them. None of them comments on the sad centerpieces or the fact that the lighting makes everyone look about 10 years older than they actually are. No one mentions the microphone stand covered in yellow balloons that looks as though it is suffering from a painful venereal disease. The mentees are rabidly excited, happily discussing the size of the meatballs at last year’s party (SO HUGE) and what they’re getting as gifts this year (BOOKS) and what they are hoping to win at the raffle (ANYTHING). None of them notices the music, which has segued into a sort of standard “wedding DJ between ‘84-‘89” sort of theme. And it is good, I think, that they are as excited as they are. My mentee approaches me, smiling, and begins drawing on a piece of paper.
“This is supposed to look like graffiti,” she explains, furiously scribbling. “You do one color, and then another color around it. I did it in class and my teacher gave me a really good grade on mine.”
“It looks awesome,” I tell her, writing her and my name together in block letters on my own piece of paper. “And these markers are awesome,” I say once again. “Do you guys use these in school? The orange ones smell exactly like orange tic tacs.” I hold it up to her nose for her to assess and she pauses drawing for long enough to break into an enormous, ecstatic grin. "Can you smell it?" I ask hopefully, meaning, I realize, "Is the smell of it still sort of neat to you?" or "Are you young enough to still get a kick out of markers that smell exactly like tic tacs?"
“Oh man,” she says, excited, and I find myself smiling and handing her the marker, like an aging Olympian passing off a torch to a younger athlete. She glances quickly around the room, assessing with whom she can share her discovery.
“It does smell like orange tic tacs," she says calmly, her assertion the final word on the topic. "That’s crazy. It totally does.”
