From Morgan Avenue with Love (New York City Stories – Take 8)

(…Continued from Part 7)

Disclaimer: This part of the travelogue doesn’t have much about the travel aspect. It’s about a moment during the trip that needs documenting. There’ll be more travel-related destination banter in the next one. So there you go.

The next day, I woke up in the Bronx with a pounding headache, lying next to a near comatose Italian* chef from Detroit. This man was NOT the DJ; this man was not who I was supposed to end up going home with. So what the hell happened?

I wish that I’d taken pictures that night, because my memory is not quite as sharp as I wish it were…

When Lisa and I got to the DJ’s gig, the first thing the DJ did was take us inside and make sure his bartender friend Neela took care of us. We sat at the bar and got comfortable with the plethora of shots that began making their way to the bar, into our hands, and down our throats. The DJ was in good form. He was always in good form. He’s one of those people who always maintain the perfect amount of positive energy. You know when people say “your smile could light up a room”? He’s one of those people you’d say that about. And boy did he like to keep those dark rooms bright.

Throughout the night, we saw the crowds come and go, mixed bags of yuppies and out-of-towners and aging hipsters and people just looking for a night cap. The DJ played on, and took cigarette breaks as often as possible, and then began taking dance breaks as often as possible; his tall, lanky self pulling Lisa and Neela and I out on to the dance floor, smiles aplenty. And the drinks, and the drinks, and the dancing and the drinks until my head was swimming and I wanted to grab him and kiss him and tell him that he still meant something to me, that he always had. The streets of Manhattan were quiet outside while the noise in my head was only muffled slightly by the alcohol.

The hours went on and the party did too. I would sneak over to the DJ while he worked sometimes, and I held his hand, and he squeezed his fingers in mine, and I would get sad because I knew that it might be years before I got to see him again, and how long would this go on? More drinks, more smokes. And then another man walked in, and this one knew the DJ well, so much so that he and the DJ began to dance. Then the DJ introduced us, flinging me into the strangers arms as he made his way back to the DJ booth. This is how I met Parker.

Parker hit me like a ton of bricks. That’s not the right way to say that. He didn’t hit me. But something about him hit me. He had another one of those smiles, though nowhere near as endearing as the DJ’s. But still, he had a good one, and I’ve always been a sucker for a nice smile. Parker was working overtime that night. The way he’d look at me. The way he’d do anything to force me to stare back into his eyes. And my god, did he lay it on thick. “Beautiful.” “Baby.” “Gorgeous.” I would tell him he really didn’t have to, but then he’d spew another “I’m not a player or anything, I’m being serious,” and i’d laugh it off because there really wasn’t anything else to say or do. Lisa began sitting out more dances, buying us more drinks. Parker kept on, and on and on. Until he’d invaded every inch of my personal space, and with his finger tips lifting my chin up, he kissed me. It hit me. Like a ton of confused, awkward bricks that have landed everywhere after an explosion. It was fantastic and awful and i’m pretty sure the only thing I said or thought for a good while afterward was, “Oh, fuck.”

The DJ saw everything. The DJ kept playing music. The DJ kept drinking and smoking. The DJ, the DJ. Hang the DJ, hang the DJ, hang the DJ…

I ran to him like some scared little girl, unsure of what to do next. The DJ was still my friend. I felt terrible about Parker, and worse about what I knew would happen next. I grabbed the DJ and asked him what he knew about Parker, what he thought.

“He’s a good guy.. I like him. You should go for it.”

 

…Alright, It’s been over 6 months since this incident. It’s taken 6 months for me to say all of these things and be (almost) okay with them. But I’ll tell you this: at that moment, it was one of the worst things I’d ever heard anyone say to me. Ever. It’s tough to admit when we’re wrong about something, and even tougher still to admit when things just don’t go your way. Because I know deep down I would’ve wanted there to be some kind of jealousy, or at least a sign to say “hey, maybe this isn’t such a good idea.” Nothing. Go for it. So let’s just say this: It fucking hurt.

Why didn’t he care? This plagued me to no end. He didn’t seem thrilled about the situation, but I couldn’t tell if he cared at all. At that point in our lives, we hadn’t been talking very much. For all I know, he was seeing someone. Maybe having an affair with Neela the married bartender. Maybe he had a girlfriend that he didn’t like to talk about. Maybe he’d just finally stopped feeling that chemistry that had existed between us for so long. I couldn’t be sure. When you’re plastered at 3am in the city that never sleeps, it’s hard to be sure about anything.

What I did know was that Parker seemed to have taken a liking to me. He wasn’t the DJ. The DJ was lost to me now. Parker was real, and his arms would wrap around me, and his lips would kiss me deep, and my head would spin. So I said fuck it.

“Parker wants me to go home with him,” I said to the DJ on our final cigarette break alone.

Parker was back inside, maybe talking to Lisa or Neela, maybe drinking more, I can’t be sure. I couldn’t care less at the time. He was a man I didn’t know and the man I did know was doing everything possible to crush all the feelings I’d harbored for him for the better part of a decade. He smiled and hugged me tight. I wished with every fiber of my being that I could read his thoughts, that he would tell me something that would reassure me that I wasn’t insane. That whatever that thing was that existed between us still did indeed exist. That this would not be the last night. That he cared in some way but didn’t know how to say it, just like every other time had been, when he’d act like everything was fine only to tell me months down the line how much I’d actually been wanted and missed. For fuck’s sake, anything.

“He’s a good guy. Like I said, you should go for it.”

I’m surprised, given how drunk I was, that I didn’t cry or yell or even get angry. Maybe I knew it was coming. I could hear tires driving over the slick streets blocks away. It had rained again, just like it’d rained every day that I was in NYC. I met his gaze and gave him the saddest false smile I’ve probably ever given anyone, and I let him go.

Parker was eager to get out of Manhattan. Lisa thought I was crazy to go home with a near-stranger, but I trusted the DJ. He wouldn’t send me off with a total nut job. At least, that’s what I figured. Parker bummed a final cigg from the DJ and I said goodbye to Lisa, Neela, and the infamous Mr. DJ. Parker and I walked/stumbled down the street, searching for a cab to hail. I could see his Squee tattoo on the back of his calve and figured he couldn’t be so bad if he was a Squee fan. I grabbed his hand and decided to go with it.

In case you're not familiar with Jhonen Vasquez's Squee...

A cab ride to the Bronx. My first time in that most avoided of boroughs (aside from Staten Island, although I’m not sure which one is avoided more – any native New Yorkers wanna take a stab at it?) And then we were inside the apartment, which was by far one of the most spacious NYC apartments i’ve ever been in.

“Just one of the perks of living in the Bronx,” said Parker, who actually absolutely hated New York City, and who had plans to move back to Detroit to open up a fine dining establishment someday.

Sigh. From there, you can guess what happened next. The sex was alright, but not terribly memorable, probably for numerous reasons (we were both too drunk, I was still hurt about the DJ, we’d only just met a few hours before, etc). I spent the next morning hydrating and smoking (his very low grade) grass while he snored away, sleeping off the hangover. I felt terribly awkward about not coming back to Tyler’s for the night. Not that I owed him explanations, but all my things were there and he’d been nice enough to let me stay with him for the duration of the trip. I tried to come up with different excuses as to why I hadn’t made it back to Manhattan. I tried to forget all about the DJ.

Parker had to get to work that afternoon, so we took the train back to Manhattan that afternoon. He got off two stops before I did.

“It was nice to meet you,” we both said, with the knowledge that we’d likely never speak again. I thought about how ridiculous life could be sometimes. So many years feeling one way about someone, regardless of time and distance, and now it was over. 6 months later, I still don’t know how I feel about all of it. Except maybe a little grateful.

The DJ and I discussed the matter about 2 months or so later. I told him how awkward the whole thing was, how strangely I felt about it. He was candid, telling me he just wanted me to be happy and have a good time. That he didn’t feel like he had any claim over me, and that he genuinely felt that Parker was a good guy, that he also wanted him to be happy and have a good time.

“I may be perpetually unavailable, but I’m not a bastard; you’re still a good friend, and I do care.”

…And that’s it, really. That’s the anti-climactic conclusion to the longest non-relationship i’ve ever had, all wrapped up in one New York City night. It feels strange to write about it now, but I couldn’t have written it any sooner. So much has happened since then that I’m able to be somewhat disconnected about the situation. The DJ and I have spoken very briefly online since, but for the most part he’s rarely around and it’s for the best.

By the end of the next day, I wanted nothing to do with anyone. Sometimes people need a night away from the world, to walk silently with ones’ thoughts and memories in a city of eight million people. Lonesome as can be. And that’s just what I did.

But I’ll write about that later, because that night did take me to some unexpected places, including making my first friend from Amsterdam. For now though, it’s 5am and definitely quitting time. Quitting on the past, and quitting on tonight.

Here’s a song to keep you company that’s been helping me out while writing all this.

 

Part 9 in this series will be up soon!

 

*He was Italian and a chef, not a chef of strictly Italian cuisine. There’s a difference.

This Week In Amazing: Booze Blogs, Airplanes, Crunchy Granola, and the Margaret Cho Powerhouse

I don’t know if it’s the new year, or if the planets have just been aligning in the right way, or if it’s all my positive thinking as of late, but 2012 is shaping up to be pretty grand. It’s been another busy busy week – hustling to find work and making time for the amazing people in my life.

It’s been a little extra boozy around here this week... On Tuesday, a friend of ours came in to town from Las Vegas and we all went out to one of our local haunts (Scully’s Tavern, as seen on Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives – please try the Garlic Fries if you’re ever there!) for a few pints. Had to dedicate a cheers to our friend Germs, whose been sailing on the high seas with his new gig as an airbrush artist for Carnival Cruises (what an awesome gig to land!). Also joined Miss Emily Gingham for a few daytime cocktails at Chilis (note: we didn’t have the pizza shooters or extreme fajitas) during the week, and this was when we came up with our new brain child… or rather, booze child. See, Miss Emi and myself have some pretty extensive knowledge of the Miami bar scene. Plus, we love booze. So with that, we decided we’re starting up our very own blog about our misadventures with alcohol!

Our "contract," written appropriately on a bar napkin.

Emi's first contribution to the booze blog.

We’re still finalizing a name but we’ve got plenty of ideas for writing and artwork to go along with it. I’ll post a link up to it here once the site’s gone live. Seriously excited about giving ourselves another excuse to bar hop, hah.

Speaking of bars, I hung out with a friend a few nights ago who actually showed me a spot in Kendall I didn’t know about. If you’re a Kendall rat, you already know the Ale House, Flanigans, Gridiron, and the rest. However, tucked away inside of Tamiami Airport is a little insider secret called the Runway Cafe. A decent beer selection, plenty of Jamaican food, reggae and latin music, and most importantly – a seriously chill vibe are what make this one of my favorite new Miami finds. After a round of beers, my friend took me out on to the actual airport runway and showed me his plane (not a euphemism, I swear). It was my first time hanging out in a cessna and it made me think I should add “Get my pilot license” to my ever-growing bucket list. I can’t imagine how freeing it is to know that you got yourself up in the air! But one thing at a time… On a side note, my new friend is looking for someone to join him in some indoor rock climbing (something i’ve been wanting to try out for ages now), so watch out for some embarrassing posts about my fear of heights at the rock climb gym!

Of course, these kinds of activities will require a bit of money. And speaking of money, I started one of my gigs this week. It’s running the front desk of a dance school. Extremely part time, but a gigs a gig and right now I take what I can get. The job hunt is a slow and frustrating process, but I feel like it’s partly about the numbers and the rest is who you know. This is just one of many reasons why I love meeting people. I’m currently in the process of possibly obtaining another PT gig for a small software development/consulting firm. Regardless of whether I get the gig, I’ve already met some new folks and learned some interesting things as a result of the interview. My potential new employer asked me to come attend a tour of his home as part of a local permaculture class.

For those of us new to permaculture, let me guide you to a short wiki description:

Permaculture is an approach to designing human settlements and agricultural systems that is modeled on the relationships found in nature.It is based on the ecology of how things interrelate rather than on the strictly biological concerns that form the foundation of modern agriculture. Permaculture aims to create stable, productive systems that provide for human needs; it’s a system of design where each element supports and feeds other elements, ultimately aiming at systems that are virtually self-sustaining and into which humans fit as an integral part.

So basically, it’s keeping in mind both multipurpose design and sustainability when creating living and farming spaces. There’s some great people and great ideas to be found in the Permaculture Miami group. They offer a 6-week course twice a year, so any local folks interested in this sort of thing should definitely join the Facebook group and sign up! In a simple tour, I learned about the importance of having lots of windows, how to make your home look bigger by design, how to use composting bathrooms, and how people use groundwater to keep their homes cool. There were so many different kinds of people in the group too: bankers and socialists, interior designers and dancers, all together because they want to see how they can build their own beautiful living spaces cheaply and as green as possible.

After the tour, I came home to two pretty great family-related moments… The first was a conversation with my grandmother, whom I hadn’t spoken to in about 2 years. In the past few years, there were a few falling-out moments with a lot of my family in Nicaragua and as a result, I’d basically been unable to speak with anyone over there in a long while. Finally getting to talk to my now 85-year-old grandmother, hearing her speak, still sharp as a whip, brought me a whole lot of joy and made me realize that I seriously need to book a flight over and visit my abuelita in Corinto. Life is much too short and in my life, there are few people I have ever felt loved by so unconditionally as her.

Chloe and Sophie know what's up.

My second family-related moment came when my nieces, the Wonder Twins, came home while I was having a nice 90′s dance party on the solo in my kitchen. As it turns out, Chloe and Sophie both share my great love of TLC and NKOTB and every other 90′s group with acronym names! I had a blast lecturing these almost 9-month-olds about never settling for “scrubs” and I even confessed my formerly undying love of Taylor Hanson.

Oh, yeah. I'd still hit it.

Yeah, I really can’t complain. It’s been another amazing week. As I type this, I’m also in the process of getting ready for a mini-vacation to West Palm Beach to hang out with a rad artist friend of mine. To say it’s going to be good times is most likely an understatement.

One last thing before I go… If you read anything this week, make sure to read Margaret Cho’s recent piece that up on Jezebel. The short of it is that she said everything that every woman (hell, every PERSON) has ever wanted to say to any asshole that decided it was their job to criticize another person’s body. Here’s an excerpt:

Some outside Facebook observer said that my “language” was too much and told me that I had “lost a fan” because she couldn’t condone my “language.” I am sorry for that, as I love my fans, and it sucks to lose one, but obviously she doesn’t understand that when you grow up the way that I did, with kids at school throwing rocks at my face because they hated it because it was so ugly to them and they wanted the blood from my wounds to cover it so it wouldn’t have to be seen and at summer camps stuffed dog shit in my sleeping bag because I was told time and again that I looked like shit — and that I had to empty myself in the dark forest and still sleep in smelling that shit all that night and for weeks after because my family was too poor to afford a new one — my “language” is on the strong side. I apologize for offending the former fan, but I am only myself. That is all I can be, and if I must apologize for that, I don’t mind. All I am trying to say is that no young girl should be told she is ugly. If she is, you kill her spirit, and she may grow up like me, and lose a fan.

Ms. Cho is gorgeous and for her to have the kind of strength to share this and to really lay into someone that deserved it makes me respect her a million times more. As someone who grew up at times completely hating what she looked like, I can completely relate to her anger and frustration, and also to what I bet was a nice catharsis when she finished writing all of this. Some people grow up oblivious to how cruel words can sometimes be, especially when you’re deemed as “different.” (How appropriate that TLC’s “Unpretty” just started playing as I write this?) I spent years wanting to get a nose job, a boob job, laser hair removal, and wanting to lose weight so I could fit in to the mold of what I thought was supposed to be beautiful. I grew up admiring my Barbie dolls and as a 10 year old was convinced that when I turned 23, I would magically go blonde, grow huge tits, have a tiny waist, and look like some imaginary Caucasian model version of myself. When I turned 13, I realize that would never happen, and real depression set in. Compile that with ignorant kids saying ignorant and hateful things, walking across a hallway in order to not have to walk near me, getting spit balls thrown at me, having people play mean tricks, and it’s no wonder that I had suicidal thoughts before I even got to high school. I’ll write more about this another time, but basically – Margaret Cho, thank you.

That’s it for this week in amazing. Time to prepare for the next one! Here’s a little outro music for your listening pleasure. It’s an oldie but a goodie:

From Morgan Avenue with Love (New York City Stories, Take 2)

CJ was really busy the entire time I stayed with him, which was unfortunate, but I understood. The freelancer life must be quite the hustle. After getting settled in to my new home away from home, he took me to the corner bodega and we got a cheap breakfast – egg and cheese on a roll. For some reason, every sandwich in New York City is automatically cheaper if served on a roll. Regular sliced bread or some other variation seems to almost always automatically incur additional fees and I kind of wonder what kind of bizarre deal the city as a whole gets on these rolls. Or worse, I wonder if anyone has the real ingredients list for these mystery carbs that sustained me for a good part of my NY adventure. Regardless, they taste fine and at $2 for a breakfast sandwich, there’s really no need to continue wondering.

After brunch, we walked down the street to get a key made for me, which was fortunate since it allowed me the freedom to come and go as I pleased, without getting locked out (which, unfortunately, was a scenario that I encountered twice later on in my trip – more on that later, in detail). I asked CJ where I might go about buying some second hand shoes since I only thought to bring one pair of shoes (and a pair of flip flops) for my adventuring. He showed me a few places and then he went home and I opted to go hunt down some new footwear. Two thrift shops in, I found a comfortable pair of sneakers and a cheap pair of shorts, since I had underestimated the heat when I was packing back in Miami. Living my whole life in a sub-tropical climate, I figured i’d prepared for 26 years for summer conditions anyplace. But I was wrong. There’s a definite difference between the heat in Miami, which we constantly avoid by never going outside unless we’re in bikinis jumping in large bodies of water, and heat in a New York City subway, basement, or basically anywhere in that city during the summertime.

New (old) shoes in tow, I decided to head in to Manhattan. I’d read about a bar that gave free bread and cheese during happy hour in the Village and I figured that’d make for an excellent lunch/dinner. When I got in to the area, I realized it was much too early and feeling famished, I decided to pop in to the pizza joint near the bar and had a delicious slice of NY’s finest. When I finally made it to the bar, it wasn’t what I was expecting. Excellent beer list, but chock full of yuppies who all seemed to be running in the same pack. Wearing my thrift finds and about a pint of sweat, I began feeling out of place and letting insecurities get the best of me. I stuck to my cellphone and began texting my friends in the city.

There was Mark, whom i’d stayed with last year for a brief stint, who had a girlfriend now. I was almost sure we wouldn’t end up hanging out. Not because we weren’t friends, but also because we weren’t really good friends. There had been a short-lived semi-intense meeting of the minds with us which wound up fizzling into nothingness when it became painfully apparent that we probably weren’t meant for each other. And there’s just always that unspoken rule that you almost always end up staying away from ex-flings once they have new, steady relationships, so I didn’t press too hard for the company.

Then there was Carlo, a good friend from high school, who was also living with a girlfriend. He was good people, but like most New Yorkers, severely busy. I would get to see him later on luckily.

And then of course, there was the DJ. Anyone who’s known me for a while knows about the DJ. If you’ve ever had a long-term, non-relationship with someone, maybe you know what I’m talking about. He’s that guy that for some reason you’ve never really been able to shake. Time passes, relationships come and go, and there he always is, kinda smug, always sharp, but only showing just enough interest in your friendship that it makes you almost wish you never met them. But then you see them again and you don’t know what to do with yourself because it always feels like regardless of all the other bullshit in the world, this was the person you should’ve been able to have something with, but you also realize that it would never actually happen in reality. Yeah, that guy. More on him later.

So I texted one and then the other and then the other and then texted friends and proceeded to empty my wallet into some really great tasting microbrews. An older gentleman sat next to me and began chatting me up about beer. His name was John and he had just retired a few days ago at the not-so-old age of 63. He would be the first of two recent retirees I would spend hours conversing with. He recommended beers and then bought me a few but he didn’t act like a creep so I was fine with the arrangement. We talked to people who came to the bar and left and made recommendations according to their tastes. After a while, I realized that I never even got my free bread and cheese, as it was never set out at the bar, but rather at a small table on the opposite end of the room that had so many guys exchanging business cards that I couldn’t even see it. It was okay though. I had beer and company and that was good enough.

After a few beers, I decided I should head back to Brooklyn and get some shut eye. It had been a long day, after all. On the way back, I got absurdly lost on the train and wandered around in circles a few times and then it began to rain. Rain would become a highly prevalent and not-too-amusing theme for the last month. When I was a little girl, my mother would tell me that people would catch colds if they got caught in the rain. I believed this wholeheartedly growing up to the point that I think I almost psyched myself into always getting sick, or at least developing symptoms, every time I got rained on. If I still believe this old wives tale, let’s just say I would probably be dead considering the amount of times I got soaked in various cities.

The walk back to CJ’s started off somewhat miserable, but after a while, realizing I was in New York and not in Miami, realizing that I was actually traveling, realizing I was working toward making my dreams come true, and realizing that I in fact would not be catching a cold, I said fuck it and slowed down and enjoyed the cold drops of water falling on my head, streaming down my face, making my clothes heavy but my heart light. It reminded me of how fun it was to play in the rain as a kid (right before the faux colds hit). I smiled to myself, hiding under the shelter of bodega awnings whenever I needed to wipe my glasses a bit. I made it back to the apartment and wished I had something to smoke. Everyone was either asleep or not home. I stumbled down into the basement, changed into some dry clothes, and passed out.

(Part 3 coming up soon!)

*Names have been changed more or less to protect the innocent and guilty alike. If you happen to guess real identities, keep it to yourself.