A Prospective Romantic Encounter in Hudson

[mallorys_camera]

G and I finally met up in the strange little hipster enclave of Hudson.

We clicked, which is to say that he got all my obscure movie and literary references and was quite willing to go along with my game – that Hudson was a magical portal where things weren’t quite what they seemed. He’s a grownup, meaning that he pays his bills on time and that he owns many expensive objects including a brand new jeep, a house in the Berkshires and another house on an island off the coast of Maine.

Of course, he’s mad as a hatter, but then, I suppose it could be argued, so am I.

I was given to believe that his heart was mine for the taking. His history with women is a series of passionate relationships that close very quickly, are passionate and intense, and last approximately 10 years.

He was a publisher when he worked, and has published seven volumes of poetry. Quite handsome for his age, too. Which, of course, is my age.

He was in Hudson to catch a train that would reunite him with his troubled son.

“Ah, yes,” I said. “Troubled sons. I have one of those, too.”

“Tell me about your troubled son,” he said.

So, I did. While the chinless waiter at Café La Preche hovered at our table waiting for us to look at our menus. Annoyed. Which was really odd: We were the only customers in the café.

When I was done, I paused for breath and said, “Now, your turn.”

“Well, I’m going to New York City to get my son out of jail.”

“Whoa,” I said. “That’s hard.”

“Rikers Island,” G said. “He was there for eight months.” He smiled ruefully.

I didn’t want to ask why, so I just sat there. Beaming compassion.

“Crack cocaine,” G said in answer to my thought. "Possession and intention to distribute."

“So-o-o-o the next step is rehab?”

“Oh, he’s done all that,” G said. “Many, many times. This is his third stint in the Big House. No, I’m afraid the next step is probably death. Unless he changes. And I have no reason to believe that he will.”

No glib response to that one either, I’m afraid. So I just sat very still.

“Thirty-six years old,” G said. “Handsomest, most brilliant young man in the world. And hell-bent on destroying himself.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Is there ever any reason why?” he asked.

Yes, I thought.

“It’s an addiction,” G said. “My charming, brilliant, handsome son is now no more than the sum of his addictions. An addiction that speaks in my son’s voice and wears my son’s clothes. It’s like demonic possession.”

“That’s a hard one,” I said. I mean, really, there is nothing you can say in a situation like that that isn’t completely lame, right?

I decided the best gift I could possibly offer G was distraction. So I took him on a walking tour of Hudson’s antique stores and junk shops. Ostensible mission: to find something appropriate to give to Ines whose citizenship swearing in session I will shortly be attending this morning.

Along the way, I regaled him with my Hudson creation myth.

“Do you know who Ray Bradbury is?”

“Of course! I love Ray Bradbury! I think he’s one of the very best American authors."

“I do, too! You know how so many of Bradbury’s stories concern astronauts on Mars who come across these weird little human towns?”

“Yes, yes!”

“Well, in one of those stories, the astronauts come across this perfect replica of a Midwestern town. I mean, perfect! And the astronauts wander around weeping with some combination of nostalgia, PTSD, and relief. And it turns out the town is a kind of Venus flytrap concoction devised by alien intelligences so that the alien intelligences can suck the astronauts in and eat them.

“Hudson has always reminded me of that story. Except the prey isn’t astronauts but hipsters –“

“That's perfect,” G cried. “Yes!”

And I see I am running out of time because I have to pick up Lois Lane so that we can go to Ines’s swearing-in ceremony together. So this will be continued.

Or not.

Just as it may or may not be continued in real life, right?

In the meantime, some photographic evidence of the general Hudson weirdness:

Comments

[bleodswean.livejournal.com]

At the end of it all, it's about humour. A quick and dangerous intelligence brined in wit.

I loved your walking tour!

[mallorys-camera.livejournal.com]

Hudson has some funky architecture that allows me to use one of my favorite words -- fenestration! :-)

[therobertpaul.livejournal.com]

Oh, I think I know that story. From The Marian Chronicles, right? That makes an excellent Hudson creation myth. Brilliant!

[mallorys-camera.livejournal.com]

Yes! That's the one! Couldn't remember the anthology. Thanks! :-)

[platofish.livejournal.com]

A couple of years ago, I was up in the Tri-Cities area of Washington State. A somewhat godforsaken place with one decent café* An older couple were sitting next to me were clearly on their first date. Lots of awkward silences, broken by 'coffee ok?', until the woman asked the man if he had kids. 'Yes, I have a two. A girl and a boy. The eldest - the boy - is the bane of my life. Always has been. Probably always will be'.

The woman said 'I have the same problem. My eldest - a girl - nothing but trouble, trouble, trouble'.

And that was it. Ice broken. Common ground found. They were chatting about their kids like two long lost pals.


*The café was very hip -- organic soy milk, free-trade coffee, vegan cookies, gluten free sandwiches, etc. Given the location, I'd have said it was a terrible business opportunity. But, I would have been wrong. It was always busy. Who knew so many people driving trucks with plastic gonads hanging from the tow bar were lactose intolerant.

[mallorys-camera.livejournal.com]

Ha, ha! Some day, when you finally give up science, you simply must write the definitive guidebook to Tragically Hip Cafés. Preferably, an illustrated guidebook. :-)

[dinahprincedaly.livejournal.com]

I like him. Where do you find the Energy for cat and mouse? Or cat and cat as it may be...

[mallorys-camera.livejournal.com]

Well, I'm not married. :-)

And I don't have two beautiful dogs.