Everyone is Watching (16 page)

After the reading, Edmund signs many books. He asks his audience to spell their names. He writes their names in the books, crossing out his own printed name to sign instead.

Jane is walking up to a tenth-floor apartment in 1959. A woman is waiting for her at the top of the stairs. She is smiling, recognizing the extent of the climb. She welcomes
Jane in and asks her to sit.

I wanted a new kitchen and a view of the city, she says. When they told me I was being moved I thought, finally, somewhere clean. I thought about the people uptown in the Plaza and the sights
they must see through their windows. Now I can see the city, but I can’t see my kids. I miss my old tenement, Mrs Jacobs. The windows were left open in the summer. I knew all my neighbours. I
don’t any more. The gangs that hang around down there are dangerous. No one comes to repair the lights. I used to have a friend in the next tower block. Look, Mrs Jacobs, in that window, the
second floor down from the top and three windows across from the left, that’s where my friend used to hang a red handkerchief to signal when she wanted me to come up for coffee. If it was up
then I went out, down the stairs and across the grass. I walked up the stairs because the elevator was always broken. I knocked three times on her door so that she knew it was me. She’s moved
away now. I don’t know where. I went over one day and she had gone. She didn’t tell anybody where she went. Now I live here alone with my kids. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like
to live in the suburbs in a white detached house with a wrap-around porch and a garden. I would sit on the porch and mend clothes there. My kids would play in the grass.

A man and woman are sitting on the sand beside a trashcan. The summer hasn’t started yet. They watch seagulls beating their wings against the wind. Red flags mark the
area within which it is safe to swim. A few children are throwing inflatable rafts onto the water and jumping on. Lifeguards watch, unconcerned, from high posts. The man and woman get up and walk
to the West Bath House. The fast-food kiosks are faded, closed. The linoleum floor is stained and cracked. The woman looks up at the chandeliers from yesteryear hanging from the ceiling and imagines
what this place must have looked like in the past. A janitor who has been mopping the floor straightens up and says, We’re not open yet. Come back next week.

They go outside.

Why bring me here when it’s closed? she asks.

Next week will be too crowded. Come on.

They sneak up the stairs that lead to the empty restaurant. Through the window they see chipped plastic chairs and Formica tables. Laminated menus lie in a pile by the door.

Was this place ever good? she says.

Beats me.

Over the wall they see dry swimming pools. The woman takes a photograph with her camera. They run down the steps. They are looking for a suitable secluded space. There are many to choose from,
it seems. Along the boardwalk are scuffed basketball courts, volleyball courts, the faded fake grass of a pitch-and-putt course. The trashcans that line the boardwalk are designed in the style of
ship vents made for luxury cruises. The paint on the handrails is chipped and spotted with gum. The boardwalk curves along the shore. It is empty except for the man and the woman. They are holding
hands and looking about. They feel they are the only survivors of a natural disaster. It is impossible to imagine this place teeming with people. The display signs show pictures from the 1930s, a
woman in a generous bathing suit and swimming hat, teetering on the edge of a diving board. The auditorium they come to is very small. In the distance they can see the new stadium built far away
from the beach. A sound-check is being performed, getting ready for the first day of the season. They listen to the beat of a single drum. The woman kisses the man and leads him through the stage
door to a dark corridor. Off the corridor are two dank rooms containing overturned plastic chairs. Seagulls call and beat their wings as the couple put their heads around the door. The man presses
the woman against the cold, wet wall. She pushes him away.

Not here, she says. This whole place is wide open.

In the refreshment stand, a few beach-goers are lining up for French fries and slices of pizza. Giant sauce bottles line a dirty window ledge. There are vending machines, change machines. The
floor is very dirty.

Further along the boardwalk is the East Bath House, which is also closed. They walk up the flight of stairs to the upper floor where beach recliners are lined up in the shade.

Well? he says, lying out on one of the recliners and crossing his hands behind his head. He smiles. Come get me, he says.

Be serious, she says. She looks out at the ocean. There is a cold breeze now. She wants to feel the sun. They stay here awhile.

They walk back to the main entrance where families are posing for photographs before the Jones Beach sign. She takes a photograph of it too, then of the original black iron silhouettes of
comical figures, a man holding a beach umbrella to advertise beach equipment, a woman striding off to change her clothes. They wait for the bus at the beach entrance. She sticks her legs into the
sunshine. A man wearing dirty clothes asks them for money. When the bus comes they climb aboard and walk to the back seat. They are the only passengers aboard. The bus drives them back along the
parkway. They look out at the ocean.

You always take me to the best places, she says.

He laughs and holds her hand. She lets him. They close their eyes. They sleep all the way back to Manhattan.

In the photograph, Laurie Anderson sleeps on the beach, lying on the smooth sand. Coney Island amusements loom in the distance. Her ankles are crossed. Eyes closed.

In the photograph, Laurie Anderson sleeps in the courtroom. She wears a hat and a thick overcoat. She sits pressed up against the wall. She has made herself small.

Beside each photograph is a description taken from the notebook in which Laurie Anderson wrote after she woke. The first thing she did when she woke up was to write down her
dreams.

Laurie Anderson is changed by outdoor spaces.

It’s not the place where she sleeps that’s important but the things she records as she is dreaming, or after she has dreamt, or before, or when she is about to
dream. Then it is what is left on the page that counts and not the sleeping as such. Though the sleeping has something to do with it because without the sleeping there would be no dreaming.

She is travelling all over New York, not just to Coney Island to sleep on the beach, and not just to the subway station, and not just to the afternoon court. She is interested
in the line between the conscious and the unconscious. She wants to sustain the unconscious for as long as she can, but, of course, when she is asleep she is waiting to wake.

She feels under surveillance. This is because she is sleeping in public spaces. People are watching her as she sleeps. You could call the sequence ‘The Sleepers’
because there is more than one. When she is awake she looks at the photographs of herself sleeping. The city, too, is sleeping. There are no other people. The beach is empty. The courtroom scene is
happening way away from the frame and you can’t see the people.

The reporter follows the directions he’s been given from the subway station, down a deserted residential street to the beach. The wind buffets him, cuffs him as he walks.
He can’t see the clear line of the tide due to the spray and mist hanging in the air. He checks his notebook as best as he can in such conditions, holding it in the shelter of an elbow crook.
He walks along the beach to where he can see a line of beach cabins through the sea mist. He squints his eyes against the cold air. The boarded-up cabins are in need of restoration for the paint
has begun to peel and crack. He continues along the beach but he can’t see the houses he is looking for. He has been told this is where the residents are being housed, somewhere close to the
beach. He makes his way past the cabins. He sees something in the corner of his eye as he passes. He looks at what it is – a girl of about six wrapped in a bed sheet, watching him – and
he thinks he must be imagining things.

Where did you come from? he says.

She doesn’t seem to understand.

Do you live around here? he says.

She doesn’t move.

Where’s your mom and dad? he says. Do you live around here?

She points to the cabin.

No, he says. Where do you live?

She points to the cabin.

You live there?

She nods.

Where is your family?

She points to the cabin.

The reporter knocks hard on the door of the cabin. He knocks again and pushes his nose against the windowpane. A young boy’s face appears in the window and the reporter jumps back. He
knocks on the door again.

Hello. Who’s in there?

The front door opens and a man’s face appears in the gap.

What do you want?

The little girl pushes past the reporter and runs into the cabin. The reporter sees other children sitting under blankets on the floor. The man slams the door.

Hello? Mister? Look, I’ve come to ask you a few questions for the paper. Will you talk to me, Mister?

Bucke wakes to the sound of low conversation. He opens his eyes. A young man is sitting beside Walt. Bucke closes his eyes and pretends to sleep. He cannot hear what they are
saying. Always there is the sound of this train moving forward. Walt laughs. Bucke imagines his full weight tipping forward. Bucke opens his eyes. Walt sees him watching.

Say hello to my new friend, Walt says.

Bucke sits up and nods in greeting.

Walt seems a little drunk. He seems giddy. His cheeks are flushed. He has unbuttoned his shirt. His breakfast remains uneaten on the table. What is this, now? Now that we are getting close
another man is here.

This man is from New York, Walt says. Explain to him what you have written. Come now, Bucke. What do you have to say for yourself?

It isn’t ready, Bucke says. But I’ll have it before we arrive.

Twelve hours, the man says.

Twelve?

Bucke shifts in his seat.

Jane rides her bicycle to the East Village, where she has arranged to interview another woman for her book. It is 1959.

She wheels her bike into a narrow alleyway and chains it to a drainpipe. The space is filled with ferns and geraniums, pebbles and polished shells. A jungle, a garden, created by this
woman’s own hands.

Jane pushes open the door and climbs the dingy staircase to the second floor. The corridor smells of damp and garlic. She knocks on the door to number 3.

The door is opened by a young woman in her thirties. She is wearing a pretty floral dress and a headscarf. She takes a long inhale of smoke from a cigarette, and says, Jane?

Jane smiles.

Please come in, the woman says.

Jane enters the studio apartment, where every surface is lined with books and pot plants, the shelves, tables, beside the stove, and hanging baskets hang from the ceiling. Through the fog of
cigarette smoke the woman hands Jane a drink. Jane smiles and takes a cautious sip. The woman sits on her unmade bed and begins her story.

They say it’s better to have your own private garden, the young woman says. They say it’s better to have a seven-foot fence and a designated driveway. They say it’s better
never to walk the streets. You don’t have a choice in the suburbs because in the suburbs there’s nowhere to go. There are no restaurants or cafeterias. There are no squares or
sidewalks, even. Once, I went out for a walk and I saw a woman I’d seen before at the local school. I didn’t want to stop and talk. I’d gone for a walk to be by myself. But what
was I supposed to do? I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t seen her. I couldn’t turn around and walk the other way. So I said good morning and I asked her about her children, and she said
Oh, they’re fine, fine. Then she asked me about my children and I told her they were fine. Then we just stood there not knowing what to say. If we had been in the city I might have suggested
we get a cup of coffee or a bite to eat somewhere but there was nothing like that there, only the diner on the freeway and that was too far to walk. I did the only thing I could do and invited her
back to my house, and she said fine.

As we entered the hall I thought, This is it. I am laying my secrets out on the table. Here is a woman I hardly know standing in my house.

In the kitchen, I delayed conversation as best I could. I played with the coffee grinder and the filter machine. I struggled to find something to say. We talked about the things we had in
common. We had both moved here from out west. Neither of us was close to our families. I wanted to say, Hey, let’s get out of here. The city isn’t far away. I thought about how it would
feel to arrive in New York. We could start a new life, my new friend and I. I wanted to say, They would never find us. Instead, I said, I worry about my husband working late in the city. I worry
about him coming home late at night. I worry about the times when he doesn’t come home at all. I worry about my kids. They don’t talk to me any more. I used to live in a studio
apartment in the city. I remember sleeping and dreaming in that one room. I remember falling into it late at night with friends. There was no sense of the future or the past then. But now I am this
person. Now I am a wife and a mother. Now I am this stranger’s friend. If the two of us had been sitting somewhere in the city something would have happened to break our concentration –
a siren, a beggar passing the window of the cafe, a beautiful woman walking by. We would be reminded that our problems were only very small. These people you see all around you, in the street, in
the diner – they all have lives. But in suburbia, there are no distractions. There are only other houses that look the same as yours. My coffee guest thinks I am the only way out of her
situation. My problems are a distraction from hers. I have become the siren in the street, the beggar passing the window where we are sitting, the beautiful woman walking by. She peered at me over
the rim of her coffee mug. She was waiting for me to speak but I couldn’t. I just sat there looking at her, watching her. What was I supposed to say? Then I remembered something that had
happened.