Orbitals

Once upon a time, there was a restaurant called The Globe, on Park Avenue South at 27th Street (now occupied by Dos Caminos). And once upon that same time, I invited a friend, The Volleyball Pro, to dinner to celebrate his fortieth birthday. I harbored a crush on him when we first met, but discovered that he had one girlfriend after another, and I figured I was not in the same league of women that a six-foot-five, semi-famous athlete desired. Nevertheless, we enjoyed each other's company and shared easy, silly laughter. In time the crush softened, and our friendship was relaxed and open.

Over cocktails and some kind of Latin-inspired small plate, he asked, "So, are you seeing anyone?"

"No not really," which was the truth. "But I have a few orbitals." I raised both my arms so that my palms were level with and facing my head, then moved them in a semi-circle.

"Orbitals?" He asked, his eyes tracking my arm motion.

"Yeah. Like planets orbiting the sun, or moons circling a planet. Orbitals."

He still looked puzzled.

"There are a few guys hovering around. Nothing serious, but maybe one of them will be. I can't tell yet."

"Well I hope I'm one of your orbitals."

That surprised me. But I recovered fast, no evidence flashed across my face. I said, "You'll always be one of my orbitals."

"Orbitals," he said. And he laughed out loud. Something about the word must have amused him.

That was years ago. He's since moved to Puerto Rico, where he's establishing volleyball training camps for children, and looking after his mother. And we're still friends. Maybe I'll visit. I'm sure it's warmer down there. I could use some of that.

I have been down with the flu this week. The cold-flu compounded by a violent stomach flu. Sicker than I've been in two decades, I must have dropped five pounds in twenty minutes yesterday morning, my body voided everything. I had the shakes, cold sweats, and I could barely stand for feeling as though I would pass out. Cold. Scary. I crept back to bed, buried my face in my pillows, and shivering, I cried. In the semi-darkness of early morning, I realized how alone I was.

But a few minutes later, I reached for the phone and started dialing. One after another. I left messages. Then, during the course of the day, Jean Phillipe, The Polyglot, The Depilitator, and GV Wonder visited with various remedies.

Jean Phillipe arrived first, and I could barely make it to the intercom-door-release button, much less down the hall to the elevator. Dizzy again, I dropped to the hallway floor and lay on my side until he came up. When the elevator opened, he said, "Oh my god. Holly."

In his thick French accent, my name sounds like "Oh-lee," which in French is au lit, slang for let's go to bed, let's have sex. (But let's not dwell on that just yet.) He helped me to my feet, held me up, and we staggered back into the loft, whereupon I fell back onto my bed, shaking.

"My god. This is so bad. You stay here. I come back in a little while. I bring you something."

"Take the spare set of keys, " I told him. He lives two floors below me. "Just come up, and if anyone else comes over, I told them to buzz you - so I don't have to get out of bed."

A couple of hours later, I heard the front door open. Jean Phillipe had given entrance to The Polyglot. I met The Polyglot a week earlier, and he works in the neighborhood, so I was sure he could spare a few minutes from his office. I asked him to bring the almighty cement-medicine, Imodium. He was officious as he opened the bottle and set it upon my nightstand. I swallowed a dose, then lay back again.

In my semi-stupor, I watched as he stood at the foot of my bed, the flat of his hands pressed into the small of his back, making his abdomen arch out, and I was reminded of eighteenth century courtly postures. His voice was sonorous, and he aspirated his vowels, like a Shakespearean actor. He was thinking out loud, or so it seemed to me, describing an antique camera he purchased, and his possible plans for the New Year, until he wound round to admitting he needed to return to his office. Which was fine, I thought. I thanked him for the meds. He left behind a copy of The Onion (Bush Elected President of Iraq; Asian Tsunami, Hurricane Katrina, Kashmir Earthquake Battle for Disasty Award, and so on).

I dozed a while, until the phone rang.

"Baby. What's wrong? Are you okay? Do you need me to come over?" The Depilitator.

He's taken to calling me baby. A lot. It started this week.

Makes me think of Baby Baby All the Time. Diana Krall's rendition on her fine collection, All for You: A Dedication to the Nat King Cole Trio.

"Where are you?" I asked him.

"Running around, dropping off year-end gifts to clients. I can come by. What do you need?"

"Yogurt," I was thinking acidopholous. "Yogurt would be good. But buzz Jean Phillipe. He'll let you in. I'm not sure I can get out of bed."

"Baby." (Again.)

This was feeling like an intensive care unit. Rest a few hours, then someone comes in to minister. The Depilitator arrived, baseball cap pulled low over his face, set the yogurt next to me, banged around in the kitchen making me a cup of tea - and a cocktail for himself.

He sat in the chair at the foot of the bed. I listened to his stories (good grief! I'll address those head-on, later), but I wound up reading to him from that Alison Fell book. We laughed. I advised him not to order hisho from a sushi bar. The Depilitator eats a lot of sushi.

After he left, I slept another few hours until Jean Phillipe returned with GV Wonder.

"Double!" GV Wonder's voice boomed. That's one of the nicknames he's developed for me over the ten years we've known each other.

He brought me Pedialyte, explaining that his mother had come down with a severe stomach virus over the holidays, whereupon her doctor advised Pedialyte, a drink given to babies when they suffer the same ailment. It replaces essential electrolytes and minerals. Who knew? The stuff tasted like Gatorade, sort of, but less sweet.

Jean Phillipe sat on the bed with the cats and me.

"Yo muthafucka," he started, gesturing to Jean Phillipe. "I've been watching you. You've got the moves. I've seen you with the ladies. At Frenchtuesdays. First you talk to everyone, circle the crowd, check it out. Then when everyone has had a few drinks, I see you. I watch you." He pointed to fingers at his bespectacled eyes then back at Jean Phillipe, Robert DeNiro style. "I see you move in on one woman. And then you're dancing. And moving. And your hands are on her hips..."

GV Wonder is standing and moving as if to music. Jean Phillipe and I laugh.

"Stop making me laugh. Every part of my body hurts."

"Man. I am going to copy your moves. It's you and me. We're gonna be a team next time."

"All my life. It is like this," Jean Phillipe says. "I am here. I am me. I am a man. I ask the girl, 'Do you want me?' It is easy. All my life, I tell you."

"You know. If you said that in American, you would get nowhere. Dude."

I'm not sure Jean Phillipe understood. But the two of them went back and forth, and I laughed again. Damn, it hurt, but laughter is medicine too. I took it.

GV Wonder stayed until almost ten that evening. after, I slept all night and well into the next day. Which is good. I'm one hundred per cent better today.

Orbitals. They're out there. They hover, they circle, and when I'm in straits, when I call, without hesitation, they give in to gravity and fall toward the center.

Comments

[Lindsay]

Ah the orbitals, nothing better than being reminded that they care when you've almost forgotten. Perfect term.