I was laying awake last night--having been unsuccessful at convincing the unborn to quit the gymnastics for five minutes so I could fall asleep--attempting to pinpoint the event or moment that ushered in the Big Expensive Bads. I kept coming back to the car; the squat, green metal money pit that it is and has always been. On my mind because it caught on fire day before yesterday en route to the only person in the world who was (WAS, operative word) willing to give us a few bucks for it, for scrap. Hard to picture an exhausted pregnant lady in muggy, ninety degree heat, pushing a burning vehicle under the expressway to die, where it will further cause her grief and money in the form of parking tickets and towing fees, and have ANY uncertainty as to the origin of her problems. It's still there. In Brooklyn. Racking up the Big Expensive Bads.
I fucking hate cars. My decision to move to NYC lo those years ago was in no small way cemented by the fact that I wouldn't have to own a car. Or insure a car. Or park a car. Or maintain a car. Or put gas in a car. Or clean a car. Or repair a car. And that promise keeps us in New York to this day, each semi-serious contemplation of a move stopped short at "...but then we'd have to have a car."
None of this, however, prevents me from have a deep and rich love for the stupid, nightmare car. And guilt about its condition. Sadness that it will be gone. Worry about what we will do if all the what if's happen that made us get the car in the first place. A hollow spot forming in my heart, the shape of a pine tree on an elastic string, labeled "Black Ice".
The only way I've been able to get through the day, and the shitstorm of truly fucking awful (and costly! Oh dear Christ yes really, really costly!) circumstances we've found ourselves in, is to become convinced our misfortune is the big cosmic downward spiral of a yin necessary to counter the stoopid untouchable level of yang that will arrive with this child. This kid is going to be such the picture of mental and physical health, see, that we must suffer an indescribable hell in order to counter the scales. For balance. It's all about the balance...
Wondering how often--in other women's 'pregnancy milestones' books--the sentence Watching naked women dance at a bar in the lower east side is the answer to the question "Where and when did you first feel the baby kicking?"
Somewhat related, I have reason to believe my son is heterosexual.
When you're noticeably pregnant, people are nice to you. Pretty much everybody. Even your grade-A NYC asshat stops being so asshatty. The mere presence of the baby-bump creates an atmosphere of benevolence and humanity which makes it so only a true psychopath would, say, steal your cab. It's ingrained to be nice to the pregnant lady, to give her respect. Even straight-up gangstas sweetly call me ma'am and hold up the doors on the train so I can squeeze inside, and give up their seat. And the usually polite get even more kind. During last week's heatwave a few bodega employees offered me a bottle of water, gratis, as I passed. The week before a security guard spied me hopping foot to foot, twelfth in line for the ladies room, and commandeered the underutilized men's room for me to have all to myself. "Take as long as you like, I'll make sure no one comes in." he said, then gave the eleven women who had been ahead of me the 'you should be ashamed of yourselves' look.
But I can't help but find some of this kindness depressing. The newfound good will coming from anyone who had been or would normally be rude or dismissive, particularly so. I want to say that I hate to be reminded how our cruelty to one another is a choice, that pregnancy brings out our real instinct toward brotherhood and decency and courtesy, but it isn't true. It's that Americans loves themselves a fetus. Goddamn do they ever. I haven't suddenly become worthy of charity, the potential human life in my body has. And he is deserving of kindness, sure he is. But I deserve it too, and so do we all.
To say, it was really nice of you mister, offering me a free water on a hot day, but pardon me while I pass it on to the homeless guy you side-stepped to hand it to me.