But not Forgot-Ten

“Remember Graham’s party?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says, and sips his beer.

“Was that the one after prom?”

“No. It wasn’t after prom because my parents wouldn’t let me sleep over.”

“Oh,” I say.

“It must have been that spring. I think you had on a tank top.”

I laugh.

“And you kept asking if I was gay.”

“I don’t remember that,” I say, “but it sounds like something I would have done when I was that age.” I’m not proud, but I’m honest.

“It worked.”

“We were on the stairs.”

“Yes,” I remember. “Graham’s stairs.”

He wipes some of the condensation off the pint glass.

I look at his hands on his beer. “Was it nice? Do you remember?”

“I think so,” he says. “It was ten years ago.”

“As Time Goes By”

It wasn’t that we had planned on traipsing around all evening. That wasn’t the case at all. But the weather was nice and somehow hours had gone by since we left Hells Kitchen, walked down the High Line, and ate burgers in the West Village.

So we had walked east to Union Square.

“The architect dumped me here,” I told Peter. “Remember him?”

“Yes.”

“Well not in the spot, I mean, but on the other side, outside of the Barnes and Noble.” We we were walking that direction. I don’t know why.

Peter looked amused. “I got dumped here once, too. Not by this girlfriend, obviously, but the last.”

“No kidding!”

“She was an idiot.”

I laughed. People are always their worst during a breakup. “Well,” I continued, “I met the architect here and he said we needed to talk. But I already knew—I mean, how stupid do I look—what was happening. It wasn’t working out. I get it. So anyway, he said we needed to talk, and I interupted him and asked if he had brought me my glasses. Because, you know, we were dating, and I left a pair at his apartment. On his shelf”

“Oh wow. It’s good you cut him off. “

“Not really. It was a classic it’s not you it’s me. I saw it coming a mile away. And he forgot my glasses anyway. Took him months to mail them back.” I expected to feel a flash of that insecure bitterness creeping back, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. The architect had been right, after all. It wasn’t working out.

Peter nodded. “That’s lame.”

“It’s funny, but I never think about him. Of all the guys I’ve dated or even just slept with… I don’t know.” My voice drifted off as a homeless man danced by with a pile of jeans of his shoulders and a plastic bag in his hand. “I forget we ever dated. He was so negligable.”

“Guess he didn’t bring enough to your table.”

“Well, either way, it happened right there. Where did yours dump you?”

He pointed toward Fifth Ave. “Right over there. And she dumped me the worst way ever.”

“Worse than it’s not you it’s me? Worse that making sure this park and that Barnes and Noble always leave a bad taste in my mouth?” I challenged.

“Yes. Worse! She quoted a movie. She said: Where I’m going, you can’t follow.“

“Ah, Casablanca…”

“And she was a dancer,” said Peter. “Not an academic. Not particularly smart. But come on! Who quotes a movie for a break up?”

“God, that’s bad.”

“Beats yours.”

“Hey, I’m no a dancer,” I smiled the way I smile when I hatch a plan, “but maybe we should reenact our breakups. Like, to gain control over them and reclaim Union Square.”

The homeless man walked back toward us, dancing along with dirty jeans and dirty words, swerving and stumbling and smelling ripe with alcoholic sweat.

I shifted uncomfortably. “On second thought…”

“On second thought,” laughed Peter, “Here’s looking at us.”

Everyday is Like Sunday

“Is he still in love with you?” he asked.

“Yes,” I sighed. “Which is stupid.”

“At this point, yeah, still being in love with you is stupid.”

“Or, at any point, it’s stupid to be in love with me.” I wasn’t sure what I meant, but I liked that I said it.

He grinned. “All the time?”

“It’s stupid to love me except on Sundays at three o’clock.”

Changeling

It’s a terrible day and we all know it. And its not just the obvious, the bout that local news channels remember for us, but the call from my brother to talk about my dog who died on September 11th a few years ago, just ten days after I moved out, after I signed my Manhattan lease, packed bags, scratched the dog behind the ears and touched my nose to his soft, polished head and walked away.  After that, 9/11 always felt weird. I mean, I didn’t lose anyone. I, and all of us that day, just sank and sank. And now as I walk against the city pedestrians fighting or embracing the somberness, the smoke and images and memories and everything just barks and barks.

Uncommunicative

My exboyfriend, of my first college puppy love, has a baby. She’s beautiful. I don’t think most babies are beautiful. I don’t even like babies. They make me uncomfortable. Kids I like. Babies are overrated: full of spit up and tears and uncommunicative woes. But he had one, and she’s beautiful. He lives with his wife and daughter in Europe. So that happened. How would that make you feel?

Song For My Father

The next day, the day after my birthday party, I woke up. Of course I woke up. But I didn’t know what time it was. I have terrible eyesight, I don’t know if I’ve told you that, and have to grope around my side table for my glasses. I was hung over and didn’t bother. I went to the bathroom, scrubbed the make up off my face, brushed my teeth, and returned to bed to find my glasses, open my laptop, and check the train schedule.

There. Much better. Okay. I could catch the 1:45 train home and surprise my dad for Father’s Day. I’d get there by 3:30. Not bad. The only problem was I had a massive hangover, was extraordinarily dehydrated, and it was 1:20.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK! I bolted out of bed, threw on a dress that was in a pile of “birthday party reject outfits”, threw make up, a book, and my phone in my handbag and ran out my building.

I jogged to First Avenue and jumped into a cab. “How quickly can you get to Grand Central?” I pleeded. It was 1:30. “Can you do it in ten minute?”

“I never tried,” the driver said. “Hold on.”

We flew across 23rd, narrowing avoiding a nun. Straight up Park Avenue, I screamed and closed my eyes. I swear to god he almost rear-ended an ambulance.

But I made it. I ran into Grand Central, had enough time to buy a ticket and run on the last car. The train pulled out. I was swearing and sweating and panting.

The rest of the story isn’t very interesting. My dad was delighted to see me. We had steak at his bar/restaurant and teased my brother. My grandparents were there, too, and my mom took the wine away from my grandma.

My dad has two favorite expressions he’s passed on. One he reserves as the last thing he says to me on New Year’s Eve: “See you on the other side.” The other is his everyday go-to. He says it when he works ten hours and then goes to a concert, or when he wakes up early and has to bolt. Because some things are worth it. Like he says: “You sleep when you’re dead.”

The Party’s Crashing Us

I canceled the dive I had booked for a private event. It was pouring, and if the small backyard was closed my group would never fit in the teeny tiny bar. The place across Avenue B had room, and a pool table, so I sent a notice.

“I’m sorry,” my college roommate texted, “I’m too tired.”

“Happy birthday!” wrote a coworker. “Had to go home for Father’s Day!”

And that was pretty much the trend of the day. My BlackBerry buzzed and another friend canceled. By the time I arrived (half an hour late) to my own party, I was sober and somber and disappointed. But it didn’t matter. Honestly, I didn’t. I had celebrated wildly on my actual birthday, and this party was some sort of self-inflicted tradition of mine. So when I saw 10 people, I felt relieved.

And then another group came in. And a coworker. And three friends from college. And an entire band of freelancer writers I loved.

I was overdressed. Jacob had convinced me to ditch my purple plaid shift dress for my hot pink sequined designer dud. Dud being the operative world.

The ice in my scotch and soda melted and the drink grew warm. I flitted around the bar, trying to make sure my coworker had someone to talk to, hugging the fuck out of someone I hadn’t seen in two years, introducing favorite A to favorite B.

There must have been 50 people. And then 60. At least 70.

Be careful what you wish for. Eventually, I took down gulps of tequila and kept making introductions with a lime in one hand and an empty shot glass in another. I watched my friends flirt. I watched strangers make out. I didn’t have time to make eyes or make friends. I felt guilty for being with my friends enough. I felt overwhelmed and depressed and exhausted by managing what was no longer, in my mind, my own disappointment—but my friends’. I had dragged them to Avenue B in the rain and managed a hug and an overzealous greeting before I moved onto the next embrace.

I ducked out by 1:30 to take off my shoes and allow Patrick to roll a big birthday present. Five or six of us sat there; the birthday blithely fogged away with smoke and stories. I slinked home and ditched the sequins. I made a bowl of pasta and curled up in bed.

It was 4am, and I finally felt good.

Five Years

I don’t know how many hours of sleep I got last night, but they weren’t enough. I don’t look older, but I certainly feel it. I can’t keep drinking the way I’ve been drinking. Definitely not. And certainly when I’m 30. So I think, yeah, maybe another five years will be okay. Right? Right?