Hello, Privet! #1: Hello/Привет

Chapter 4

SOPHIE

I normally don't do this, but I read something that made me so upset that I had to do it. In fact, I could honestly say, looking back on it now that it compelled me to do it. By "this" I mean, calling out a total stranger for being a jerk and putting him in his place, and by "something" I mean the piece about my father that I read in the Times while waiting for my brother, who was running late.

This gets me thinking that if I hadn't come early, then I wouldn't have had to wait for Daniel, and then I would never have read that article, which is the motivation for my actions, which obviously I am regretting right now.

This morning at breakfast, my mother told me that my brother Daniel had invited me for lunch. Since the other option is going with my mother and James to a luncheon with the Pink Heart Gala Committee ladies, I agreed to go to Daniel's Gramercy Park office (he and his family live in the townhouse upstairs). I would've waited for him in the house, but there's no one home. Ayelet, my niece, is still at school, and my sister-in-law Sharon is at her sister's, not that I want to hang out with her if she is at home. I don't think she likes me. I once let Ayelet take a bite of a bacon cheeseburger, and I don't think she'll ever forgive me for that.

My brother shares his office with another shrink, Dr. Herbert Schulman, who's about sixty years old. He's a child psychologist. Their waiting room, with its mismatched chairs and Matisse-inspired modern art, is all very elegant and tasteful, thanks to Sharon. There are mothers and fathers with their little children who are patients of Dr. Schulman, and then older men and women, who go to my brother. Most of the patients are middle-aged women, and there are a couple of suits. I am probably the only person here who represents the Gen Y demographic.

So while I'm waiting, this lady, with her ostentatiously lettered Louis Vuitton bag banging against her hip, comes in and sits right next to me, and she's doing all sorts of things on her phone and makes a ton of noise, like maybe she's playing a game or adding comical sound effects to a Buster Keaton movie. If only it were a Buster Keaton movie.

As if that isn't enough, she has to rummage through her bag too. Loudly. It's like those people in the movie theater who bring snacks in plastic bags, the kind which rustle loudly, and then these people just have to have a snack right in the most dramatic scene of the film.

I try not to be bothered by it and just read the month-old New York Times I found on my chair, but the more I try to ignore the noise, of course the more I become aware of her. Why would she want to attract attention to herself at all? Everyone else is busy reading magazines or filling out their forms, and I am generally of the opinion that people would rather not be noticed in a place like this. If you do call attention to yourself, it's like you're saying, "Hi, I'm crazy. Are you crazy too?"

I guess the only thing I can do is change seats. The only available seat is next to this tall guy, with wide shoulders, like maybe he's an Olympic swimmer. His long legs are stretched out and crossed at the ankles like he owns the place; he probably is an actor or a model. He's wearing sunglasses. His hair, longish and dark brown, is tied back in a man bun. He hasn't shaved in a while, although maybe the scruffiness is deliberate. I wonder why he's seeing Daniel. What kind of problems could he possibly have? He must be famous. Daniel didn't tell me he's a celebrity shrink now.

At least he's quiet, just answering his forms. I sit next to him, opening my newspaper. I can finally read in peace.

But I think this is precisely when all the trouble started, when I found the article on my father.

Benjamin Rosenbaum, Israeli Philosopher, Dies at 56