{"id":165304,"date":"2023-09-05T10:35:18","date_gmt":"2023-09-05T14:35:18","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=165304"},"modified":"2023-09-05T10:40:02","modified_gmt":"2023-09-05T14:40:02","slug":"wrong-turn","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/09\/05\/wrong-turn\/","title":{"rendered":"Wrong Turn"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

Williamsburg Bridge. Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons, Licensed under CC0 4.0.<\/p><\/div>\n

I was in an Uber Pool (I guess they\u2019re not called that anymore) with some stranger, both of us going to Brooklyn from Manhattan. Our driver crossed the Williamsburg Bridge, took the first exit, and then followed its loop all the way back onto the bridge, going in the opposite direction, reentering Manhattan. I wasn\u2019t paying attention. My co-rider looked up, at the skyline that was supposed to be behind us, and said something. \u201cAre we going the wrong way?\u201d Our driver laughed. Yes, he had made a wrong turn.<\/span><\/p>\n

This was a very time-consuming \u201cwrong turn.\u201d We had to go all the way back over the bridge, then get off somewhere in the Lower East Side and find a way back onto Delancey, which isn\u2019t simple, since U-turns aren\u2019t possible, there are so many one-way streets, and there\u2019s always traffic. My co-rider wasn\u2019t done asking our driver questions. What was he doing, instead of watching for the exit? He laughed again and pointed to a phone that was mounted to the left-hand side of his windshield, away from the GPS, which was mid-dash.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is that, a gossip website?\u201d she asked. I looked at the small screen (phones were smaller then), making out a pink-and-purple layout; tiny photos of celebrities; text moving upward, ticker-like, in another language, maybe Korean; hearts and sparkles and whatever animating everything. It would be impossible to make out one headline, much less read these articles, and drive, I thought, and I guess that was being proven. Our driver was still smiling, pointing as if we could see the miniaturized information, as if we could read the foreign text and recognize the faces.<\/span><\/p>\n

I knew from his wordless gestures that something huge had just happened to one of these celebrities, and he was too excited by this event to care about anything else. I was not as mad about the tardiness the detour had caused as I was about the indifference toward it, the way this guy was so elated by some gossip, or, more likely, the way in which he had received such gossip\u2014in the middle of one of those maneuvers that make his job obnoxious, like taking the first exit off a bridge\u2014that he could forget about the exit, about us.<\/span><\/p>\n

It was a moment that resonated with me more than it had to because it felt like the beginning of some next phase. Already, I was disappointed by a lot. When I was in college, professors would talk about \u201ccocktail parties,\u201d as in \u201csomething overheard at\u201d one, and I imagined that once I was done with my academic duties, I could apply all the theories and metaphors I\u2019d learned to conversations, creating a context of higher education that would carry me through networks and nightlife and dependent relationships.<\/span><\/p>\n

But then I was at cocktail parties, and there was never not some playacting aspect to them. Here we are, at a thing that was meant for people who had more to offer, when people could offer more. We\u2019re worth only what we can promise later, now, I am told, in so many ways. It\u2019s all potential, anticipating some later engagement. The real action happens on the highway, in cars heading home to outer boroughs, during a recap of everything that was missed while we were being handed champagne flutes\u2014and come on, champagne flutes? It\u2019s all a joke, isn\u2019t it, that we\u2019re even here?<\/span><\/p>\n

In my therapist\u2019s office, I try to stay on topic, but of course it comes down to this, to the crossroads of writer\u2019s block. I\u2019m not even a writer, I whine; I just went to school for it for six years, tutored, taught classes, took writing jobs, edited others, published, and then, <\/span>you know<\/span><\/i>.<\/span><\/p>\n

Is it something you\u2019re feeling about yourself, or about the world? she asks, I think, although I\u2019m not really listening. I\u2019m looking at the Dunkin\u2019 cup I\u2019m holding, which is marked with red-and-green lettering for Christmas. The exact hues\u2014holly berry and evergreen needle\u2014represent two of the only plants that keep their color in winter, in a certain part of the world (this part). I point to the cup. \u201cThis was a choice,\u201d I say to my therapist, who knows I am hijacking, making the session into a presentation, so I stop myself. I never even say the word <\/span>Christmas<\/span><\/i> anymore, by force of habit, but those colors aren\u2019t meant for some other holiday.<\/span><\/p>\n

Everything can\u2019t be so weighted, or else the words all sit too heavily on the page, each sentence a sign, a headline, a quote. \u201cYou can\u2019t use quotation marks when your subject is thinking,\u201d an old boyfriend once said to me. \u201cThat just looks like an echo.\u201d Because the way letters look <\/span>does <\/span><\/i>affect the way we read them, obviously, and that goes beyond typefaces, colors, the religions those typefaces and colors reference, the contexts in which the words are read. We can think punctuation, like a set of double quotation marks, is simply too much like the comic strip code for <\/span>quivering <\/span><\/i>or <\/span>resonating<\/span><\/i>: short, concentric, semicircular dashes on each side of someone or something. (Thought, in a comic strip, is in a cartoon cloud, and it is connected to its thinker by a dotted line instead of a speech bubble\u2019s pointed tail.)<\/span><\/p>\n

What do greeting cards say on the inside these days? They still exist, at least in the Duane Reade across the street, but I never open them up. In another era, it was always a joke about aging, about needing a stud, about getting uncontrollably drunk because it\u2019s your day to, about how this card is all you\u2019re getting, not a prostitute as pretty as the one pictured on it. Now, maybe they are all blank, although I doubt that, because writing is everywhere, all the time, filling up the bubbles that are tethered to our brains.<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019m addicted to reading gossip, too, especially when it gets close to my life, threatening to destroy it. I pictured that Uber driver steering me, this stranger, and himself right into oncoming traffic and never breaking his smile, already having escaped into this little world I couldn\u2019t translate. He could have been reading a set of codes simply for the pleasure of decoding. Sparkle, heart: newness, love, nothing more than that, like the words <\/span>season\u2019s greetings <\/span><\/i>or a cold red and a colder green on the outside of a steaming coffee cup. \u201cSometimes,\u201d reads the inside of a card about friendship or something, \u201cit\u2019s all you need.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Natasha Stagg is a writer, brand consultant, and editor. She has published two books with Semiotext(e): <\/span><\/em>Surveys and <\/em><\/span>Sleeveless<\/span>. She lives and works in New York City.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

A version of this previously unpublished essay will appear in <\/span><\/em>Artless: Stories 2019\u20132023<\/span>, which will be published by Semiotext(e) in October.<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cI\u2019m addicted to reading gossip, too, especially when it gets close to my life, threatening to destroy it.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":809,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4393],"tags":[68711,67827,124,18687,28250],"class_list":["post-165304","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-first-person","tag-detour","tag-featured","tag-new-york","tag-uber","tag-williamsburg-bridge"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nWrong Turn by Natasha Stagg<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"September 5, 2023 \u2013 \u201cI\u2019m addicted to reading gossip, too, especially when it gets close to my life, threatening to destroy it.\u201d\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" 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