The Jealous Listener

By a Lovesick Musician in Scholarly Garb

Love me, Song!

Reach your fragrant armés long

past she who would entwine her eyes, her lips, her tongue

in the soul to me you’ve sung.

Sing your spice to me instead!

Our souls will meet and there they’ll wed:

The air itself will flee for fear

Of making our rare good less dear,

and, fleeing from our spinning whole,

expel that lifeless rossignol.

Then our transmigrated souls

will leave these false, most nether poles

for that to which aromas rise

far above dissembled skies,

Composing still our scentful strain,

Defying all who would contain

the essence of our sweet refrain

and keep my tears from having rain.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Library

[WARNING: The opening to this post involves a meta-commentary on my blogging efforts. Please skip if meta- is not your style.]


Please allow me to apologize for the extreme duration of time between this post and the last. I was reminded of this fact only two seconds ago, when I opened up blog application to behold a timeline of posts and views that was, well, slightly anemic (no, Google, I DON'T like a function which only reminds me of my own inadequacy).


But in my defense, there are several legitimate reasons for my technological siesta. First, and most boringly, there were academic pressures. Second, there were some health issues that distracted me to the point where blogging seemed inane, if not outright utterly trivial and inconsequential.


But perhaps the most significant reason for my absence was simply a lack of knowledge of how to proceed. As those of you who have read my last post will understand, I have struggled with how to reconcile the habitual tenor of my posts--part anthropological, part sociological, part theological, part whatever happens to be on my mind--with the realization that I cannot reduce people to types, and cities to impersonal piles of brick and refuse. I am still unsure about how to approach this issue. But I have decided to attempt such a reconciliation anyway.


Accordingly, with each post I will make a conscious effort to incorporate real, living, breathing people--likely even with names! This has the benefit not only of trying to bring people into posts, but justifying my own deficiencies: literary sketches or vignettes are much easier for me to write than actual narratives of any length.


[NON-META PEOPLE: You may now begin reading. :) ]


Allow me, therefore, to introduce Nick. I think that is really his name. Why do I suppose this? Well, for one thing, my memory may actually be accurate. But even more predictively, Nick is Greek. As anyone who has ever seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding can tell you--and anyone who has met the extended Maragos clan--over half the population of Greece seems to be populated by people named Nick or Nikki. I cannot explain why. Wikipedia informs me that St. Nicholas (or Nicolaus) is the patron saint of the Greek navy, military, AND merchant (talk about comprehensive!); consequently, St. Nicholas day "is marked by festivities aboard all ships and boats, at sea and in port." Frankly, that seems rather convenient. Sure, go ahead and make a holiday centered around a saint claimed by almost every person the country! But then again, we have Christmas, so what can I say? 

Anyway, enough about St. Nicholas. I still don't know why every person in Greece is named Nick or Nikki. But I do know that one Nick in particular owns the business which stocks the vending machines in Union Theological Seminary.

Despite the apparent institutional disjuncture, this is by far my favorite place to study at Columbia. Butler Library, where most of my books live, more often resembles an acute case of architectural dengue fever than a place for quiet intellectual pursuits. The odious rash, in this metaphor, is the myriads of students who cover its neoclassical skin. Now, ostensibly, the presence of said "students" in this building suggests they mean to study there, but don't be fooled: they don't. Only about 50% of the students occupying Butler's seats are actually engaged in serious academic projects. The rest are, in order of provenance, facebooking, web surfing, emailing, updating music libraries, and--most irritatingly--exchanging funny links with adjacent friends, resulting in pseudo-stifled giggling that they somehow imagine leaves the library's original purpose unadulterated. It doesn't.

Perhaps I must revise my earlier description, though; upon further reflection, I think the most irritating thing about Butler Library is people leaving their stuff unattended at desks for hours on end when there are absolutely no free seats for those who actually want to work! One would surmise that a library of six floors would have enough seats for its would-be occupants. It doesn't. Several times I have traversed every single floor looking for an open place--only to come up empty-desked. That is the point when I want to shake the body of some giggling, facebook-worshipping undergrad and scream, "JUST GO HOME, WILL YOU?"

Sorry, I just had to get that out off my chest.

Anyway, so I don't work at Butler. Instead, I go to Burke, the Union Theological Seminary library. Thanks to some undefined relationship, Burke is under the same system as the Columbia libraries , so Columbia students are free to enter, borrow books, use the computers, etc. And study in the marvelous reading room flooded with stained-glass-tinted light, provided with a panoramic view of the seminary's central courtyard, and, most importantly, free of procrastinating undergrads! :)

But I didn't meet Nick in the library. I met Nick on my way back from lunch, as I stopped to augment my packed lunch with a chilled Diet Pepsi Cherry soda. He was restocking the beverage machines, but he wasn't the person I had been doing it before, and he certainly didn't seem like some fly-by-night hourly wage worker just counting down the minutes until his shift ended. No, he was older, probably mid- to late-fifties, well-groomed, with an athletic build, collared shirt, an air of assurance and confidence--and a face that is a spitting image of my thesis advisor (if the latter were Greek instead of English).

Somehow, we got talking, and before I knew it, I was having an intense discussion about the Greek debt crisis with a mid-fifties entrepreneur whom I had never met before. He shared how the Greek system is founded on a principle of entitlement, how there was no need to work hard in college or think ambitiously, since everyone with a college degree was practically guaranteed a place in the government bureaucracy.

The conversation was fascinating, but the most fascinating part of it was Nick's situation relative to the country he described. Our conversation, if I remember right, began in the most mundane manner possible, with me remarking something about the change slot, and his responding with a comment on how to load the bottles into the machine. It took patience, he said, in order to load them so that you didn't cut your thumb on the metal shelf. Too many people, he said, rush through it, and end up with bleeding fingers; these people aren't interested in the best way to do something, merely the quickest way.

But then there's Nick, sleeves rolled up, carefully dressed, patiently loading the machine despite the fact that I can't help but imagine such work is beneath him, as owner of the company. He was the farthest thing from a fly-by-night machine loader, but here he was, performing a service one would think below him (presumably because of some scheduling mix-up) with the dignity and care of a delicate artist.

As we talked, I discovered that this conscientiousness was by no means uncharacteristic. His English, while accented, was impeccable, and interspersed with a vocabulary that many of my native English-speaking friends don't have. Who would imagine, then, that this was the very same person who arrived in New York City decades ago completely alone, speaking no English, and with only $50 in his pocket, at the age of 15? Through sheer hard work, Nick graduated from Columbia with a master's degree, and expanded his start-up beverage business to the point where he has multiple employees serving under him. He seems to know every Greek in the city, and rubs shoulders with some of the biggest merchants on the Upper West Side. More importantly, Nick remains as mentally astute and diligent as he was all those years ago. Well, except for not anticipating that I would not accept the proposal for a date from a person probably older than my father--flattered, but not even his wrong, yet complimentary assumption that I was European could make me go that far.

Nick, then, inspired me. We hear so little about "the American Dream" nowadays; when we do, it is primarily in a nostalgic sense, or even derisive, as an unrealistic illusion antithetical to our modern society plagued with social inequality, an education gap, and an increasing level of debt. But when I meet people like Nick, when I see people who have escaped a culture of poverty and complacency reach a level that is solidly middle-class (at least), I can't help but feel my hope rekindled: that Horatio Alger isn't altogether dead, that hard work and intelligence does mean something, that the Slough of Economic Despond is not impassible.

I saw Nick again a few days ago, months after our encounter. I don't think he recognized me, but I did him; I couldn't help but smile and be encouraged. I know that his situation is far different from Johanna's and others' facing hardship in this city. But as we crossed eachother at 111th and Broadway, my arms laden with bridal shower packages, his swinging swiftly with the brisk air of purpose, I said a prayer that the person holding out a styrofoam cup to passers-by on the very same corner would one day walk with the same stride as Nick: confident, assured, and full of hopeful possibilities.