Yasli Adam ve Benzin Pompasi

Kuf yesili araba, yasli bir adamin yorgunluguyla, US-1 otobanindan guneye dogru gidiyordu. Deposu bostu, on panelin benzin pompasi sekilli turuncu isigi yanali cok olmustu. Her an, oldugu yerde kalabilirdi. Colun issiz sicaginda bir adim oteye adim atmaya takadi olmayan biri gibi. Bu yolu cok iyi biliyordu: iki mil ilerde her zaman alis veris yaptigi carsi vardi, bir strip mall. Uc mil daha giderse, ondan biraz daha buyukce ikinci bir carsi gorecekti. Ancak bunlar, bildigi carsilardan degildi. Her biri, otekinin tipa tip aynisiydi. Dev ciplerin icinden cikan bezgin, besili, hantal insanlar bile ayniydi. O insanlardan bu ulkenin her yerinde vardi, ama bu semtte o insanlar cok daha fazlaydi. Sanki burasi karantinaya alinmis, veba salginindan sonra kendi haline birakilmis, bu betonun icine hapsedilmis bir bolgeydi. Kimi zenciydi, kimi Meksikali, kimi Arap. Kimi kara carsafliydi, kimi turbanli, kimi sortlu. Simdi de belki de o carsilardan birine gidiyordu.
Ilk kirmizi isikta durdu, sola sinyal verdi, U donusu yapti. Saginda, bes yuz arabayi alacak kadar buyuk, bos bir otopark vardi. Otopark, semtin olagan halini yansitiyordu. Terk edilmis, issiz, pis. Nisan gunesinin yalanci bir sicaklikla oksadigi asfaltin uzerinde, kirli bezler, plastik posetler, curuk meyve kabuklari, kagit parcalari, sigara izmaritleri, dunyanin kiri pasi yatiyordu. Otoparkin karsisinda, dort seritli otobanin kenarinda, bir kadin yuruyordu. Kara carsafliydi, onunde bir cocuk arabasi itiyordu. Siyah kiyafetin icinde, yola yansiyan sahipsiz bir golge gibiydi. Dortyola gelince, durdu, yesil isigin yanmasini bekledi, karsiya gecti. Deposu bos yesil arabanin, issiz otoparkin bulundugu yere dogru yuruyordu. Yalnizdi. Belki komsu ziyaretinden geliyordu, belki de cocugu rahatsizdi, ona ilac almaya cikmisti, muhtemelen arabasi yoktu, ehliyeti yoktu, cebinde belediye otobusune verecek para ya vardi ya yoktu, bu semtte yasayan cogu zenciden, kacak gocmenden farkli degildi. Otoparkin hemen yaninda, paslanmaya yuz tutmus bir benzinlik vardi. Bugunku trafigin hedefi iste uzerinde metalik pompalariyla, siyah deri hortumlariyla, kendi halinde musteri bekleyen bu dortgen beton parcasiydi. Ilk gorunuste, dokuntu bir yer olmasi disinda herhangi birsey dikkat cekmiyordu. Her benzinlik gibi, buraya da sadece isi dusenler gelirdi:ya butikten sigara, abur cubur alanlar, ya da kredi kartlariyla benzin alanlar. Ancak biraz dikkatli bakinca, isaretler ortadaydi: Gazoz, sigara, telefon karti satan Pakistanlinin butigi, kursun gecilmez koyu camlarin arkasindaydi. Pompalarin uzerine, gangsterlerin kol gezdigi semtlerde gorulen uyarilar asilmisti -- Odemeden cekip giderseniz, bedelini odersiniz. Yesil araba, son enerjisini bir pompanin onune park etmek icin harcarken, benzinlige bir misafir daha geldi: gercek olamayacak kadar huzunlu bir adam. Kambur degildi ama iki buklumdu, kiyafetleri rengini coktan yitirmisti. Sakali karman cormandi, saci bembeyaz ve daginikti. Yasli adam, salas benzinlikle coplu otoparki ayiran beton yukseklige dogru birkac mekanik, aglamakli adim atti, yere coktu, sirtini benzinlige dondu. Yuzu sanki otoparka bakiyordu ama aslinda hic bir yere baktigi yoktu, basi hafif egikti, hareketsizce oturmak disinda hic bir seye takadi yoktu, hemen onunde yatan kirli bir bez parcasi disinda hic bir seyi gordugu yoktu. Bu benzinlige, isi dustugu icin gelenlerden biri degildi. Gidecek baska yeri olmadigi icin gelenlerdendi.
Siyah carsafli kadin arabalar icin yapilmis asfalt yoldan benzin pompalarina dogru yururken, yesil araba golgede usulca beklerken, herkes kendi halindeyken, ilk bakista kimsenin aciklayamadigi bir sey oldu: issiz parkin, dokuntu pompalarin, gurultulu otobanin uzerinden bir sarki duyuldu. Sozleri, benzinligin icinde yankilaniyordu. You have got to be strong. Eski bir sarkiydi. Bir klasik. Elbette radyo bu sarkiyi defalarca kez calmisti. Ama bu sarkinin o anda, pasli pompalarin arasinda yankilanmasi, bu harap yere sihirli, belgeselimsi bir hava vermisti. Kuf yesili arabasina benzin pompalamak icin disari cikan kisa sacli, kadife pantlonlu kiz, sasirarak etrafina bakindi. O anda, elinde bir fotograf makinesi olsa, yasli adamin, arkasindaki dev otoparkin, cirkinligin, ve yaslinin hemen onunden yuruyen siyah carsafli kadinin fotografini cekerdi. Hepsi, bir saniyeligine, bir kareye sigmisti. Ama fotograf makinesi yoktu. Sihri uzatmak icin, kendi kendine, sarkinin sozlerini mirildandi: Cesur olmalisin. Guclu olmalisin. Sanki muzip bir D.J., gorunmez hoparlorlerden, o anda benzinlige yolu dusen uc yabanci icin bir sarki caliyordu.
Gercekustu, gercek olamayacak, Amerika olamayacak kadar huzunlu bu yerde, sevdigi sarkinin nerden geldigini kestirmeye calisti. Sihire inanmiyordu. Benzinlikte kendi arabasindan baska bir araba yoktu, gorunurde hoparlor falan da yoktu. Sonra gozu, bir kosede, adeta yikilmis gibi oturan bir insan figurune takildi: cevresine bakmayan, kimseyle konusmayan, derdini soylemeyen, dilenmeyen o yasli adama. Sonra, gordu. Yasli adam, buyuk, delik desik montunun eteklerinde, gumus renkli minik bir radyo sakliyordu. Bu sarki, yasli adamin, o anda orda bulunanlara armaganiydi.
Su bir dolari dort ceyreklik yapabilir misiniz lutfen?
Siyah carsafli kadin, Pakistanli adama, cantasindan cikardigi bir dolari uzatti. Siyah camin altindaki ufak delikten altin yuzuklu bir el uzandi, icinde dort ceyreklik tutuyordu. Kadin, dort demir parayi aldi, telasla bakindi, gec kaliyordu. Belediye otobusu, biraz ilerdeki duraga coktan yanasmisti. Kadin, bebek arabasini olabildigine hizli ittirerek, kosmaya basladi. O otobuse yetismeliydi. Sofor, bu sehrin butun otobus soforleri gibi siyahti. Bekledi. Herkes bindiginde bile otobusun kapilarini kapatmadi. Otobuse yetismek icin kosan siyah carsafli kadini bekledi.

Not much to write about, brag about, or complain about these days - thanks to a winter that always seems endless, I have been reluctant to venture out. Instead, I prefer the coziness of my home, cooking spagetti, almost every night(I love spagetti!), reading Vogue and Instyle, and by the way I bought a few new books - one of them is Hippie - have not read it yet, but I know it is about my favorite era: the sixties. I am making plans to go to Turkey, visit family, Mediterrenean, friends - plunge into Turkey's oriental moments of chaos and tranquillity. I really missed being somewhere - anywhere. Ah, we have also been planning two trips in the US: to San Francisco and Woodstock, the town of Woodstock, which I hear still has something of its unique spirit. Lately, my total lack of interest in political science has been replaced by my interest in cultural studies, mostly inspired by Ilgin - my brother's ex-girlfriend. This reminds me, I promised her I will visit her in New York once winter is over, so I must start planning for a New York escapade as well- this time, on my own. I am dreaming of going back to Cafe Sabarsky - I am really not a fan of cultural icons, or landmark museums. Cities to me have a different appeal now that I am in my pre-culturalist mode - look at things you can't see at first sight, places you don't know about. What is the point of going to MEMO (Museum of Modern Art) and waste time among sculptures and religious paintings that have no connection to the place they belong to - I will definitely take my notebook with me this time.

Pavlina and Douglas, my old friend from Kansas City, and her boyfriend from upper New York dropped by yesterday to take us flying with their cessna named Juliette. While we had discussed meeting in new York, this was a last moment visit, they flew in from New York, a 2,5 hour flight, to pick us from the Manasass National Airport. The airport is a small one. 4 or 6 seat planes routinely take off or land here. In the waiting room we found a complimentary magazine titled The Elite. It had a price tag on it, $35, but since it was displayed on the shelf as complimentary, we just took it. On our way back, after a long day, I scrolled down the first page. The Editor of the magazine explained why she was bullish on the jet set, and bearish on the carrier industry, meaning she fervently believed everyone must fly jets because commercial carriers are air buses, and when was the last time you were a source of inspiration for the air hostess?, and besides, private jets were getting more and more affordable for everyone. Well, maybe we should get one --- Once a cultural studies student, always a cultural studies student- here I am doing it again!
Anyways, the magazine, drinks in Manassas quaint Old Town, and sad good byes came last. What came first was the extreme anxiety attack. I am speaking on my behalf, for Pavlina is already flying the plane with the assitance of Douglas, including the hardest part --- landing. And Levent, well, the last time I saw him he was on the phone talking with a crazy biker friend of his on base jumping. His crazy friend told him he had already tried base jumping and was almost falling asleep. It wasnt nearly as exciting as speeding on a highway. So, given the facts on the ground, I decided to enjoy the flight, and try not to feel like I was being kidnapped. After a brief orientation which included some coded words and no fly zones, Pavlina and I hopped into the back seats, while Levent and Douglas took the front seats. Seeing Levent fly the plane with his own two hands did not help me overcome my anxiety! Happily, I forgot how scared I was at some point- it is too beautiful up there to really feel down or negative. My stomach was the only part of me that rejected the whole adventure from take off to landing. As for me, I was too happy to be on the back seat with Poly. We joked that with her white blouse and dark sunglasses, Pavlina looked like a congresswoman running for a political campaign, and I looked goofy like her PR manager. This was indeed like a scene from The Aviator, where Cate Blanchett and the aviator romanticaly drink milk at dawn – we had no milk, yet it was a beautiful day, no clouds, gentle wind, nothing but occasional planes flying overhead, and the tiny miniscule shadow of Juliette reflecting on a lake underneath. Our destination was charming Annapolis – a picturesque spot on the East Coast. We landed at the local airport, and walked to a conveniently located crab house. Our gang of four picked a big table outside, ordered Maryland Crabcakes with french fries, and spent the next hour or so discussing Levents newest photography projects, meeting in Albena, Bulgaria and having fun, and generally daydreaming. Wow, was this really happening? It had been ages since I last saw Poly, and I was sitting there with a giant red crab sign over my head. Not really talking, but traying to convince myself that only several hours ago, I would not imagine flying with her in a private airplane and having lunch in a completely different city.