I was twenty-one years old when I met Marc. He was thirty-six. Maturity hadn’t
wound around me, and everything was a first in southern California. I loved Marc’s
stories, especially the ones about New York City when he had been about my age. The
one about being a popcorn vendor captivated me. I could see Washington Square Park
the way he described it. He talked about the fountain in the middle, men playing
chess on the west side, students sprawling across the grassy areas, business people,
tourists, uniformed military men, or homeless types, sitting on the benches. There
were dogs. I would forget the details and have to ask him to repeat them. The details
slipped away against the irony of a young hippy Marc, with hair down to his waist,
cooking popcorn for people. Marc burned everything, including water. He could chop
an onion like a pro, but he didn’t cook.
“My grandmother taught me,” he said. His chest would puff out, and shoulders
would straighten, when he told of how his grandmother praised his skill with a knife.
We stood in his grandmother’s kitchen when he said it. He had purchased the North
Hollywood duplex at the end of his grandparent’s lives. He lived in a house of
memories. Every cupboard, window, low ceiling, or creaky wooden floorboard held his
history. Manhattan was part of his history. His stories would make it my future.
Popcorn was an in between something we shared. I had been a camp counselor a few
years before. Every night I made a batch of popcorn for my cabin with oil, kernels,
and a pot with a lid.
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THE CONE - ISSUE #5 - SUMMER 2015