If I had to describe him in one word it would be lucky. I wouldn’t think twice about it. He wasn’t strikingly handsome, but he resembled a celebrity who was handsome. That was lucky. He was the son of an American car company executive. He was the middle child, browbeaten by lovelier children, protected in private palm tree enclaves. Statues were erected in his father’s name. He was shipped off to university. His roommate fell out of the window. It was the sort of secret he kept to himself until he felt close enough to someone to need to win them over. He told too many people. It was a badge of sensitivity. It was an excuse to drink too much, to dramatize relationships. He wasn’t even close to his roommate, he admitted, seven years later. He was drunk and fell out and he was gone. He told me like that as a perfectly good reason to sleep with him. He was used to getting lucky. Big, blue eyes and subscription to a political magazine. A mild, unimposing voice. He thought he was completely fucked up. He thought he was a writer. The laundry room in his house smelled like lavender. The bedroom smelled like pewter. Photos of palm trees on a near-empty bookcase. He was the charlatan of the neighborhood. He was lucky boy of Brooklyn.
Subway MapSubway Philosophy is about New York, culture, sex, publishing, memories, alcohol, or a combination of the above. Originally taken from drunken musings on the subway, it has evolved into something extraordinarily similar to most young blogs: which is to say, redundant, romantic, and woefully introspective.
Current Subway ReadingWhite Teeth