Sarah Kasbeer Has Something in Her Teeth
A profile of me—by me.
When I go to interview little-known writer Sarah Kasbeer, it appears as if she hasn’t left the house in days. Her cascading hair catches the October sunlight a third of the way down, revealing a buildup of natural oils forming dark streaks around the crown of her head. Smudges obscure her glasses, and a long black coat hides the clothes I imagine hanging lifelessly from her body underneath. A pair of nearly threadbare charcoal pajama pants peek out from below her dark cocoon.
We’d planned to meet for lunch at her favorite “bagel spot,” which I learn is really just a deli in Brooklyn Heights with a little bench out front. She orders turkey and Swiss on a whole-wheat bagel. We settle in on the bench, which is unfortunately positioned next to a large garbage can. I want to hold my nose, but the wafting odor of cream cheeses past seems not to bother her in the least. A swarm of finches hop to and fro at our feet, in search of crumbs amidst the autumn leaves.
“Ha ha — look at that one!” Kasbeer says, pointing out a rotund little bird picking at a piece of turkey, carelessly flung from the wrapping of her sandwich. The bird tosses it upward before the bit of folded meat glides down the back of his tiny throat. She seems to be doing more or less the same thing — but to the business end of her bagel sandwich.
It’s difficult to shift Kasbeer’s focus away from the birds, or the sandwich, but then again, I don’t really know where to start on writing a profile about an emerging-emerging writer. She has very little published — a few personal essays here and there on the Internet. Apparently she’s also working on a book, which may help explain why it’s Sunday afternoon and she hasn’t showered since Thursday.
“Jesus,” she says. “I asked for no lettuce on this thing.”
She explains that her essay collection is about growing up female — and how it can be hazardous to your mental health, sometimes with hilarious results. Other times, it’s just plain depressing.
“Let’s talk about something else,” I suggest.
Like most aspiring authors, Kasbeer has a day job. She is a copywriter for a fashion brand. I ask her to describe how she approaches each assignment, hoping she’ll throw me a bone already. Instead, her explanation mirrors how I imagine her tackling the uphill battle of showering and getting dressed every morning.
“Well, I pick words from a list I’ve accumulated over the years I’ve worked there,” she says. “Like modern, silhouette or layering or something. And then I combine them in a new way — or an old way that I don’t think anyone will remember. Then I fast-track the thing for approval.”
She looks around for a napkin before wiping her hands on her coat.
The least interesting thing about Kasbeer seems to be what she’s reading: not much of anything beyond, “That book about the Internet cat — how do you pronounce her name, Pu-sheen?” Nothing against illustrated comic books with cats doing cute things in them, but could she not come up with one work of literary fiction — or nonfiction?
Maybe I have her all wrong, and she’s playing me like a fiddle. Maybe she wants me to underestimate her.
But then again, perhaps not. I glance down at my watch and she appears to take the hint, tipping up her plastic bottle of Diet Coke to gulp down the rest of it. As she stands up, she crumples the waxy paper that once held her overstuffed bagel sandwich and tosses it toward the trashcan. It bounces off the rim and lands on the sidewalk, disturbing the cluster of finches still pecking about. She bends over to collect it before standing up straight and offering me a pained smile.
I notice a bit of green lettuce in her teeth. I think about alerting her to this fact, but decide against it. I figure she has bigger problems.
