Time Out of Marriage
By: Biodun O. Iginla
I first met Mayda Kaplan at the Cyber-X Internet Cafe on the southeast corner of Lake Street and Lyndale Avenue in Minneapolis the Sunday morning before Thanksgiving, November 19, 2000, around 10 AM, specifically, as I was editing an article for one of the new news media websites that I was contracted to as a contributor of articles and news analyses on international politics. My deadline for that article was precisely November 20, so I had planned to edit and upload it online that morning.
Normally on Sunday morning in Minneapolis, I'm usually at home with my kids (more about them later). But that Sunday morning their cousins were in town from Madison, Wisconsin, where they live, and so their mother had picked them up around 8 AM so that they could visit with their cousins. And I took the opportunity to go to Cyber-X to work on my article.
Mayda was working at the workstation adjacent to mine. The cafe had just a few patrons, as it was still relatively early on Sunday, at least for that part of town.
We worked on our respective tasks for about twenty minutes without saying anything to each other—until my cell-phone rang. I thought I had turned it off, as I was wont to do when I'm in Minneapolis, so that any calls would simply roll into my voice-mail, and so I apologized profusely to Mayda before I answered the phone. Elyse was calling me from New York, specifically from our townhouse on Prospect Park West in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn. (Our 1-718 area-code phone number was displayed on the tiny monitor of my cell-phone.) She was reminding me that we were supposed have dinner with our new friends Byron and Nedah later that Sunday evening—8 PM—at their apartment in Manhattan, after I got back into the city, as I was wont to do most Sundays late afternoon. She wanted to make sure that I remembered this engagement so that I don't make—or haven't made—other plans, as I was also sometimes likely to do. Usually I have so many scheduled (and unscheduled) appointments with (old and new) friends and colleagues in Minneapolis and New York—and elsewhere—that are not captured on My Yahoo's online calendar.
I spoke to Elyse for about five-ten minutes—into the microphone attached to my cell-phone and pinned to the collar of my black leather jacket. And I could hear Elyse through the Labtec headset—also attached to my phone on the same cord as the mike. When I got off the phone, Mayda said to me:
—That's neat. I see people doing that at the airport and downtown.
—You mean speaking into the air?
—Yeah. But I've never seen a headset that big before.
—My apologies for the disruption.
—Hey! It's okay. Now that looks cool.
She was gesturing toward my cell-phone apparatus again.
I:
—This is the only phone I have in Minneapolis. I don't have a landed phone in my apartment here, on purpose.
—Do you have a landed phone anywhere?
—I have one in New York. When people in the Twin Cities call me when I'm here, they're calling long distance—917 area code, which is New York. That's why I always turn it off so that calls can roll into my voice-mail. I forgot to turn it off this time. Sorry about that.
—Hey it's okay! So you . . . like, live in New York as well as in Minneapolis?
—Yeah. I have two kids here, my twelve-year-old daughter and my ten-year-old son, who live with their mother, my ex-wife. We both have joint custody, and I've promised my kids I'll be here until they're off to college, eight years from now.
—So you commute back and forth. How often do you do that?
—Every weekend.
—Yeah?
—I try to spend most of my weekends here when I'm in the US. That's the arrangement. As it is, the kids have ended up spending more time with their mother by default, since I move around a lot.
—Is that rough?
—Yes and no. I love my kids, but I also love my nomadic life.
—What's in New York?
—My wife for one, and the core of my network for another.
—What do you do?
—I write for the new news media.
—Ah, a writer. What do you write about?
—Politics and culture. Mostly politics. International.
—New news media: You mean, like, salon.com or slate.com?
—Yeah, and a host of others, like themestream.com or newsforchange.com. I contribute to a lot of sites. I write all kinds of things. For instance, I'm writing this article for newsforchange.com.
—Awesome. So you're one of those people I read about in the New York Times Sunday magazine, like, a couple of years ago. You're one of the new sky warriors.
—Yeah.
—You travel the globe also? You said a moment ago, quote, when I'm in the US, unquote, about your weekends here.
—Ah, really quick, eh?
—I try to be. So do you roam around the world?
—Yeah. I do domestic US as well as overseas.
—In addition to flitting back and forth between here and New York?—Yeah. And there are so many of us telecommuters these days. I've met about five or six just commuting between here and New York.
—So you spend most of your life on airplanes.
—I just like being up there, at thirty-five thousand feet, where things happen. I enjoy it a lot. Rarified air.
—Not from what I've read.
—Just speaking metaphorically.
—In fact, I read in The Science Times section of The New York Times the other day that frequent fliers risk exposure to radiation from the sun. Especially flights at higher altitude, like, on overseas routes.
—I read that too, but I'm not worried in the least. Up in the air is the place to see the world, not down here, where the show is almost over.
—Which show?
—The offline show. For me the places where things happen are up-in-the-air and online.
—It must be pretty expensive flying all the time, isn't it?
—Ah. I have zillions of frequent-flier miles, from the days when I was with NBC.
—You used to work for NBC?
—Yeah.
—Then why did you leave?
—To do what I really want to do.
—Do you also spend a lot of time online?
—Yes of course. I'm online all day, sometimes all night.
—When you're not in the skies.
—To be in the skies or online is the same thing. Online feels to me like in flight, especially if you're communicating with international friends.
—I can relate to that.
—But since we have to take off from land, I also like moving around in the streets, buses, and subways. I want to be there to catch the show at the point when it's almost over.—Yes, but you have to move very fast to catch that moment. Because didn't I read somewhere that today's newspaper wraps tomorrow's fish?
—That's why I'm online. I'm a new-media journalist, even if the name of that profession has its roots in paper—you know, journal, journal dash list?
—Clever. Was that, like, your wife on the phone just now?
—Yeah. How could you tell?
—Oh, that was easy. Your voice sounded different, talking to her, combined with, like, fragments of content, here and there, like quote, did my themestream.com check arrive yet? Unquote. And then there was, like, the tell-tale I love you at the end of your conversation. At least your side of it.
—Oh, boy. My life is an open mike. Now let's talk about you. What do you do?
—I'm a cellist.
—You're kidding.
—No I'm not.
—A cellist? For real?
—In fact, that's my day job. But I have a part-time job at a music-instrument store doing retail work and giving lessons.
—I've never met a cellist before.
—Well then, this is a morning for firsts.
—Where do you play? Or are you solo?
—Minnesota Orchestra.
—You're kidding.
—You're repeating yourself.
—Pardon me. Are you famous?
—Hell no. Not yet.
—Are you native?
—Native, like, what?
—Native Minnesotan.
—I'm from North Dakota. Fargo, like the film.
—You're kidding.
—That's, like, the third time you've said that in the last thirty seconds!—How did you end up in this town?
—I came here after college in Oberlin.
—Yeah? The music school there is excellent, I hear.
—It is. I drifted here, like, about two years ago.
—When did you start playing for the Minnesota Orchestra?
—About a year ago.
—That must have been an achievement. It must be tough to get in. It's a great orchestra.
—I had a sponsor: Tony Ross, the principal cellist of the orchestra.
—Interesting. But hey, don't let me hold you up.
—You're not. I was just responding to friends' e-mails before I go to my practice.
—You must practice a lot.
—Like, everyday.
—You're kidding.
—Number four. I'm counting! You must practice a lot too—on your writing.
—I have to. Everyday. I write several genres. First-person action reports. News analysis. Essays. And fiction.
—Fiction too? Like, what kind of fiction?
—Literary fiction.
—Okay.
—I just had my first novel published.
—Yeah? That must be exciting. What's it about?
—My life. It's semi-autobiographical. Like all first novels.
—I guess you have to, like, get it all out there with the first one.
—You've got that right.
—What's it called?
—Love in This Time of Silicon.
—Silicon? Like, Silicon Valley?
—Yeah, as in Silicon Alley also, in Manhattan. Or Silicon Prairie, in Austin.
—Your life must be exciting, from what I know of it so far.—If you really want to know more, just go to amazon.com and type in my name in the search box and order my book.
I gave her my business card.
—I will for sure.
—A friend of mine once told me that my life is a walking novel.
—Your life sounds, like, huge!
—Now I better let you go. I have to upload this thing and get myself to the airport.
—What are you . . . like, writing about?
—Capitalism and US corporate media.
—You're, like, talking about how capitalism controls the media?
—Yeah. But it's more complicated than that. It's also about how capitalism is beholden to the media.
—Ah ah. Don't worry: I won't press you for details.
—You can always read it online later.
—Sure thing.
Then, she asked as she squinted, looking at my card:
—Is your e-address on here?
—Yeah.
— I'll e-mail you and you can send me the link.
—For sure.
—You have an interesting name. Tokun Lawal? How do you pronounce it?
I told her how to: Strictly phonetic, hard consonants.
—Where is it from?
—Nigeria. Tokun is diminutive for Tokunbo. But everyone calls me Tokun.
—Interesting. I'll be in touch. We should hang sometime when you're here . . . although I understand you'll probably want to, like, spend all your Minneapolis time with your kids.
—Oh, there are breaks here and there.
—I'd love to hear more about your life.
—Me too. I'd like to hear about yours. How a Fargo girl ends up playing cello for the Minnesota Orchestra.We both went back to typing. From time to time, from the corner of my eye, I saw her casting glances at me. About thirty minutes later, Mayda got up and left, but not before saying to me:
—See you. I've got to run.
A few minutes after that, I dipped into My Yahoo mail, as I was wont to do very ten minutes when I'm online. Among my messages was one from a "Mayda Kaplan," as follows:
Date: Sun, November 19 2000 07:58:09 -0700 (PST)
From: "Mayda Kaplan" <tartini@excite.com> Add Block
To: <writingmachine@yahoo.com>
Subject: Hi there
Message:
Hi Tokun. We've just met. I've got to run now. But please e-mail me when you get back in town. I'd love to hang. Have a great flight back to the Big Apple.
____
Mayda Kaplan
Cellist, Minnesota Orchestra
E-mail: tartini@excite.com
First I clicked Reply to tell her I'll definitely e-mail her when I get back in town, then I clicked Add to add her e-address to My Yahoo address book. I then signed out of My Yahoo all together. Then I went back to newsforchange.com to edit my capital and media article and clicked Publish to get it online.
Around noon Central Daylight Time I stepped onto Lake Street to catch the 21 bus to 27th Avenue South in Minneapolis, to connect there to the notoriously late 7 bus to the airport, all the while wondering how a Jewish "Mayda Kaplan"—with braided hair no less—could be from Fargo, North Dakota.
