Townies is a series about life in New York, and occasionally other cities.
The men native to the locker room of New York University?s Coles Sports and Recreation Center are a mixed bunch: old and young, fat and fit, smooth and hairy, N.Y.U. athletes, N.Y.U. professors, N.Y.U. administrators, the Polish, the Jewish, the Latino ? each category with its complicated subdivisions, everyone in various stages of undress. The lockers are red and arranged somewhat symmetrically into U-shaped banks. Each locker bank has one low wooden bench running down its center where men sit, talking as they dress themselves, trying not to touch one another.
It?s lunchtime on one rainy Tuesday, about a year ago. The locker room is full. Undergraduates dress quickly. They face the wall and keep their towels around their waists until they?ve zipped up their jeans. The swimmers drip all over the tiles, and one guy is standing on top of the bench so that his feet won?t get wet. An elderly, naked man stares into his locker as if looking hopelessly down the tracks for a train that will, in all likelihood, never arrive.
?I had you. You have to admit that I had you,? one man, who?s dressing in the bank across from mine, declares to his racquetball partner.
?You would have had me if you?d won,? counters his opponent. ?But you didn?t win.?
?I beat myself,? the first man says. After knotting his tie into a half-Windsor and turning his collar down, he sits on the bench ? a towel beneath his still-bare rear ? to put on his socks. ?I just wanted to tell you, so we both know, that I should have won both games. Not just the one of them.?
Only then does he pull on his underwear.
As always, a spirit of competition hovers in the locker room ? a game is being played. I haven?t figured out the rules, or the ultimate goal, but I?m pretty certain the main action is to carry on as many arguments as possible without acknowledging the fact that everyone is naked. With few exceptions, the older men ? professors emeritus, mostly ? have the best endurance for it (there is, however, a Frenchman in his mid-20s, a candidate for a Master of Fine Arts, who has proved himself precociously skilled). They stand at the sinks and sit on the benches for what seems like hours at a time, gabbing.
?Name me one good Dutch author.? I?ve heard this argument before; it?s a retired art history professor speaking. For some reason he hates the Netherlands. He?s pink and sweaty ? he has, I know, a workout routine that involves a stationary bicycle, a rowing machine and innumerable situps ? and his belly is large yet hard-looking, like a teakettle. He leans against the wall near the scale, speaking to a robust man who?s weighing himself, and seems disappointed with the results. ?You can?t. You can?t name me one even decent Dutch author, because there aren?t any.?
When I come back from the treadmills about 30 minutes later, the art history professor is still naked, still holding forth. A pair of black underwear is clenched in his hand, as if he?s threatening to put them on should his listener ? still the pudgy man, who is mostly clothed at this point ? try to escape.
?Mondrian,? he?s saying now, ?wants to write like a philosopher, but ultimately just doesn?t have the brain power for it. Kandinsky ? Kandinsky is a writer.?
?I prefer Mondrian,? says the other man as he zips up his raincoat.
?You don?t know what you?re talking about,? the art history professor says. He?s clearly disgusted with this other man?s opinion, because now he unfurls his underwear and is about to step into them. Just before he does, though, he pronounces, ?It?s that simple. You don?t know what you?re talking about at all,? and, as his partner opens his mouth to proclaim that he does, indeed, know what he?s talking about, their argument regains its momentum.
Despite ample training ? apartments with faulty hot water have often prompted me to shower in gymnasium locker rooms ? I remain an amateur at this sport. I?m still uncomfortable conversing (let alone theorizing in polysyllables) without a towel on. Perhaps it?s a matter of maturity, and these men have arrived at a point where, no matter the situation, they?re comfortable in the nude: what?s one awkward moment when added to a lifetime of naked experiences? Or maybe they?re too mature: past the age of sexual relevance and therefore needing to assert their masculinity in semipublic areas.
But whether it?s innocence or shamelessness, apathy or authority, sincere or affected, I can?t help but admire the lack of self-consciousness here, the essential humanity on display.
?A line is a single point set in motion,? the art history professor says. ?Think about that. Kandinsky. It?s simple but actually I find it a little profound.?
His companion shrugs, picks up his umbrella, and leaves. Alone, the game over, the retired professor looks around to see if there?s anyone else to expound to (at which point I search for something invisible embedded deep within my locker). Reconciled that the match is finished, he finally dons his boxers.
Townies welcomes submissions at townies@nytimes.com.
Max Ross, a graduate of New York University?s M.F.A. program in creative writing, has written for American Short Fiction and Tablet magazine.
Source: http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2013/02/21/the-lecturer-has-no-clothes/
sweet potato pie sweet potato pie Turkey Cooking Time Kmart Black Friday PlanetSide 2 Alexis DeJoria sweet potato casserole
কোন মন্তব্য নেই:
একটি মন্তব্য পোস্ট করুন