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.

From Morgan Avenue with Love (New York City Stories – Take 7)

(Continued from Part 6)

Monday rolled around and I wasn’t sure what to do except that I had to do something before the relentless awkward silences between Tyler and I. Luckily, he had some prospective work meetings to hit up so I decided to venture out finally check out the ol’ Statue of Liberty.

The Statue was the only major NYC landmark I still hadn’t seen. My first trip to NY brought me to the Empire State Building (which, though touristy, I highly recommend for anyone’s first trip to the City. The sights are phenomenal in the open air), and I’ve already been to the other landmarks like Times Square and Central Park and some of the major museums. So it made sense to finally put my curiosity to rest and see what that big green dame was about.

When I finally got around to the ferries, I quickly realized that the final one bound for the statue had already left without me. However, the Staten Island ferry would be traveling for a few more hours and was free to ride, so I opted for that. Since I haven’t been to Ellis Isle, I don’t know what it is exactly that I’m missing, but if you’re traveling on the cheap as I’ve been, riding the Staten Isle isn’t too bad at all. You still get a fairly good view of the Statue, plus it’s nice to catch the breeze on there when trying to beat the wicked summer heat. I had some (other) tourists take pictures of me and I took pictures of them, and when it was time to get off on the island, I realized I didn’t have a clue as to where to go.  I wandered around for a few blocks and wound up popping in to the first bar I found to unwind with a beer. Somewhat dive-y, full of locals, but nothing to write home about. One down the hatch, and it was time to return to the city.

Back on the mainland, I sent a text out to The DJ. He’d mentioned that he had a weekly gig at a bar in SoHo and that I should come hang out, but knowing him, I wasn’t sure if this was a solid plan or not. There was never a real way of knowing where he’d be. I called Lisa to see if she wanted to hang out in the mean time, and possibly be my date to see the DJ.

“Sure! How about dumplings first?” she suggested. We met up in Chinatown and she took me to Vanessa’s Dumplings where I had quite possibly the cheapest and yet most filling meal of my entire trip thus far. The place was small and simple, with a few picnic tables on the right side and a huge line of poor, hungry college kids on the left, eagerly awaiting the most cost-effective Chinese fare around. I opted for a veggie dumpling, a veggie sesame pancake, and a coke for good measure, all of which set me back about $3. The problem with this place is once you’ve eaten there, you question why food anywhere else will cost at least double that to get you as full as this stuff does. The dumpling was alright, but the sesame pancake was phenomenal. The craziest part is I couldn’t even finish both items – that’s how big the portions are! While eating, Lisa ran in to an old roommate whose name she’d forgotten.

“I’m Pris, and you are?” I ran interference for her.

“Oh, I’m Ned. I used to live with Lisa,” he replied, and went back to his conversation with her. Lisa later told me that Max wasn’t exactly a regular apartment building tenant, but rather that he squatted in the basement of the building along with a few other rotating faces. His girlfriend, whom he didn’t bother to introduce, looked annoyed. We went back to our dishes.

The DJ finally responded to my text, sent me the address for his gig, and told me to meet him there. A knot formed in my stomach. I’d seen him once in the past year when he decided to finally grace Florida with a visit. When we were together, it was like the old times we’ve never actually had.

I guess I should briefly explain the deal with the DJ. We met once via mutual friends when I was 18 after chatting over the phone and internet for some time. One date was all it took, and really, it was all there ever was. One good date to look back on fondly, to keep us together as though we’d someday really have a chance at something we both knew would never work. With all his faults and all his bullshit, I’ve never been able to shake that witty motherfucker out of my subconscious, although I think I may be getting closer with every passing year. We kept in touch more or less via the wonders of Livejournal and AOL Instant Messenger for years after he moved to New York City, leaving me to envy him while I remained stagnant in Miami.

I had a relationship and plenty of pot and he had his adventures and struggles in the city between then and the next time we’d meet, 3 years later. I went to New York shortly after I turned 21 and our moment came again. I wrote a story about it once, about our night in the city and our nights in his apartment, about the Yellow Tail we drank and the American Spirits we smoked and all the vinyl and the pipes above his bed and the girl he was dating that I made him forget because I knew it was our only chance and how it all made so much sense that it couldn’t possibly last. About our sad farewell at the Fung Wah Chinatown bus stop that last night, about not getting over it on the bus ride back to Boston, or on the flight back to Miami, or the subsequent months thereafter. But I was 21 and then life kept happening and I met this wonderful person who I wound up jumping head first in to a relationship with and that was good enough for me. And that girl he’d been casually seeing when I saw him last? He wound up dating her again, for a good 4 years.

I remember feeling jealous that she was able to keep his interest for so long, the one who refused to settle or settle down. But not to my surprise, his relationship tales were never very endearing, and I wasn’t entirely surprised when it finally all came crashing down. And then the danger started because we began to talk, and talk and talk, and suddenly the nostalgia for times never had began to grow again. But nothing would ever come of it because nothing ever will.

Lisa took me on a brief tour of the Village before we heading to the DJ’s gig. She showed me markets and the place where Sally faked orgasms in When Harry Met Sally (Katz’s Deli) and Little Italy and all these other neighborhoods, each distinct in their own way, and we stopped at bars in each so that the knot in my stomach was beginning to feel smaller and smaller. We turned a corner and I could see him standing outside, having a cigarette, the same smile on his face I’d been picturing for years.

“Well, hello!” I said as I walked right up beside him.

“Pris!” he hugged me warmly hello, like a nice, familiar, broken record. I braced myself for the skips.

( To be continued in Part 8… )

From Morgan Avenue with Love (New York City Stories – Take 4)

I haven’t known many who could refute the fact that New York City is in fact a drinking town. And that if you only casually drink back home, you will certainly be drinking a-plenty once you’re in the City. So it’s not a surprise when I say that the next day also began much the same as the last, and that from now on, I’ll spare you the details of hangovers long past, unless there’s something especially exciting about them (I had a hangover and then Tom Hanks showed up at my door after he read my Tweets telling him that I wanted to meet him and he brought me an autographed replica of Wilson! Okay, not really.)

After a quick exchange of words with CJ and his roommate, I opted to head in to Manhattan to kill some time. Rumor had it that They Might Be Giants would be playing a free show that eve over at the Williamsburg Waterfront, so I figured I should head back to one of my favorite parks and do a little people watching in the meantime. No, not Central Park (although if you’ve never been, you really should. It’s a fantastic park and it will take you several visits to see all of it – I am particularly fond of the Alice in Wonderland statues and Strawberry Fields is quite iconic as well). Come to think of it, this is the first trip where I didn’t end up in Central Park at all, an error that should be rectified if I make it back up there before the year ends. But I digress…

After a short hop on the L, I wound up smack dab in the middle of Union Square. Now, the first time I came to Union Square, I was 21 and it was my first time meeting up with The DJ since our first interaction (the infamous date where I had to have him pick me up from my friend’s father’s car dealership and we ate sushi and drank wine and danced to the Squirrel Nut Zippers in his North Beach apartment) back when I was 18. I was with my friends Sara and Eli at the time and the DJ called me to tell me to meet him at the McDonalds at one of the far corners of the park, so being 21, I dragged my friends along with me. That turned out to be one of the most memorable nights of my brief liaisons with New York… But that wasn’t this trip. This time, I walked around, drenched in sweat among the few trees in the park and sweat some more until I found an opening on a bench, where I proceeded to sweat more. Have I mentioned that NYC is really fucking hot in the summer? Because it sure as hell is.

People watching in NYC is definitely one of my favorite (free) activities. No matter where you are, because there are over 8 million other walking, talking, breathing individuals to choose from, you’re guaranteed to see something or someone interesting and your chances of it being terribly entertaining are automatically increased than if you were in, say, Boise, ID*. Point is, park benches (and apartment stoops) are prime real estate when you’re in dire need of some real street theater, or at the very least some interesting sights. At one point, while walking around the park again and checking out the Farmer’s Market, I got to see a group of Hasids, a group of Krishnas, a group of Greenpeace canvassers, and a group of skateboarding teenagers in the same 15 foot area and I felt there had to be a joke in the making there somehow.

After I got my fill of amateur ethnographic research, I hopped back on the train and made my way to Williamsburg (a.k.a. Hipster Mecca. Or at least it was a few years ago, I’m probably behind on the times on that). Walked around and got lost a bit in a slew of pretty brownstones, record shops, thrift stores, and organically grown coffee shops (the coffee was organically grown, not sure about the shops themselves… hrm…). Stopped in one and grabbed an iced coffee so I wouldn’t wither away under the sun and made my way to the Waterfront.

The show was supposed to begin at around 8pm, so I figured if I got there around 5, I should be fine. But it didn’t hit me that NYC has 1. a hell of a lot more people than back home and 2. a hell of a lot more TMBG fans (or at least people who know of TMBG). So I walked a block, and then two, and then another, and then two more, until I finally made it to the end of the line. Ahead of me was a family; a blond girl of maybe 15 with her mom and dad. I stood there sipping my coffee when this snowflake of a boy came and stuff behind me.  I turned and asked him if he thought we’d make it in. He figured there was a good chance, and we began chatting about TMBG and he then informed me that the show wasn’t just them, but a slew of comedians including Patton Oswalt, Eugene Mirman, and Jim Gaffigan. Pretty damn sweet.

The wait lasted about an hour or so and during that time we continued to make small talk. He had this very subtle accent that was punctuated with sarcasm; I would later find it was Russian. I learned the boy’s name (but have since forgotten) and that he came to the US just a few years ago to attend college and was now making loads of money working for some Wall Street folks, or at least, that’s what he said). After a while, his friend (an awkwardly tall guy with slightly buggy eyes and a shaggy haircut, who enjoyed doing improv in his spare time) and another girl (a short, curly haired nurse with a good, strong smile) came to join us. They mostly discussed the girl’s work and talked shit about the friends they had in common. When we finally made it in, we grabbed some Bánh mì‘s from the only food vendor around and proceeded to get closer to the stage. The conversation kept dwindling and I could feel myself itching for an overpriced festival beer, so I wandered back over to the beer garden and grabbed a Brooklyn Lager. I was going to meet the group back with my beer, but the security wouldn’t let me leave the garden, so I opted to get a nice bit of standing real estate while I caught a buzz. Eugene Mirman was on first, followed by Jim Gaffigan, whose serial killer-like voice only adds to the comedy in my mind. The skies had been getting progressively cloudier over the afternoon but I was hoping for the best. Unfortunately, half way through his set (and 3/4 of the way in to my beer), the clouds burst open and it was like a horizontal dam had been broken. The red headed boy ahead of me looked back and smiled as I bitched about the rain to myself. A bespectacled blonde to my left made similar remarks, and then the three of us began our “Bonding Under The Circumstances” moment.

Between commenting on Patton Oswalt’s set and discussing how ridiculous the weather was, I came to find that the blonde girl’s name was Lori and that she had been an illustration major and was now working as a public school teacher living while in Astoria. She was friendly. She came prepared (she let us put our electronic devices in her plastic bag to keep them from getting ruined). She had cats. The boy was Danny, and he was about to start medical school in Albany, wore leather sandals, and made me laugh more than the comedians on stage whom I could no longer hear.

Rain on, rain off, and then finally, TMBG came on stage and rocked it. We danced and when we got tired of dancing, we watched the hardcore fans, the ones that all looked like your old high school Math teachers, bust a move like i’ve never seen done. It was pretty fantastic.

At the end of it all, Danny left with his friend and I left with Lori and got a few $1 beers at a bar down the way, and it didn’t rain the rest of the night.

(Part 5 soon!)

PS. On the completely non-existent chance that he’s reading this… Tom Hanks, let’s be friends?

* = To be fair, I’ve never been to Boise, so I can’t be 100% sure of that. It’s just an educated guess though.