I sometimes make plans to walk the Brooklyn Bridge with S. It's a done deal until we step foot into a stationary store and/or locate a happy hour somewhere with four dollar margaritas. To shake things up a bit, I'll do something crazy like give the bartender my phone number or blow $100 on dinner afterwards cause that always seems like a good idea when you're trying to teach yourself a thing or two about saving money.
But mostly on my days off I have breakfast twice and I study Facebook like I'm still in college and I have a very important paper due the next morning. I tell myself I should get up and be productive, but then I cave into something as horrific as watching The City on Netflix, and it makes me feel terrible inside, so I only watch four more episodes and then I look around me and realize that if I were to suddenly die from some random freak accident, I would probably die again knowing people saw what a state I've been living my day in. So I get up and tidy the room. Pick up the the one or two raisins that fell from my midnight swoop of trail mix the night before, make the bed, maybe do some laundry. You know. Get my shit together.
And in the process start considering what few hours are now left of the day and how I've limited my oyster.
I start thinking about the few friends I've made thus far and what they might have on the books for the evening. Chances are there's a gay club waiting to bedazzle the night and how fun would that be, except the idea hardly amuses me, no matter how hard I try to get amped about it. I'm tired of drinking. I don't even like it. At all. And though it would be nice to find myself surrounded with people, I don't particularly feel like talking to any of them.
So instead I make plans to fly solo to Barnes. The bookstore is always a great idea. I don't think anything quite fulfills me so simply as holding a hot beverage while taking inventory of all the interesting titles I wish I had the jail time to soak from cover to cover. I met someone once who said the same kind of thing. I remember getting goosebumps from the excitement in sharing such a hobbie with somebody. We used to go to Barnes together a lot. And let me tell ya- there was something very endearing about the way we'd sit there and get lost in our over priced pulp fictions together. At moments he'd break my escape, by rubbing my back or running his fingers through my hair. But I'd keep reading. Or maybe I'd tilt my head slightly to let him know I was there with him in that space between ficton and reality. Sometimes, I recall those times and I miss them. Really tho, I just miss having someone to hold my latte while I go pee.
It's dark out now. I've made a purchase and the only logical option I have is to begin the trek back home to Astoria. But I'm out now and there's foundation on my face and long lasting mascara on my lashes and I've read a thing or two that's got me feeling all inspired. Suddenly, returning to my dismal four by four living space, however tidy and slightly warmer it is at that point, seems incredibly lame. I live in New York City now. It's not even ten and surely there's something going on in this town. But I don't know where to even begin looking, so I just start walking. I walk for blocks and blocks. I walk and walk and at moments slow down as I pass a crowded bar. I consider the possibilities of just walking in and having a drink. But I've never felt comfortable just walking into a bar and sitting by myself. The only thing that ever comes out of that is texting the very same people whose plans I had already figured out and decided I wasn't interested in, liking everyone's recent instagrams, and finally paying for a drink that I didn't even really want to begin with. So I don't go in. I just keep walking. Some live music or something would be nice, but I don't find any good vibrating beats beneath my feet before I end up just hoping on the nearest N train. For a hard moment I'm disappointed. Maybe I should have just gone out with my friends to the gay club.
It's midnight when I return home. I take my coat off and I toss it onto the bedroom floor. It's an old coat that I don't care about and I've decided that now the room's too clean. I swoop up what's left of the trail mix, dropping a single raisin to cuddle up against my coat and I check Facebook one last time for the day. Someone else just posted their marriage photos. Cute.
My sister is online. I say hi and we chat for a little bit. I tell her how much I miss her and I tell her for the 29837th time that I can't wait for her to come out and visit me. She's doing really good. She just got some great notes from a casting agent and made a bunch of money bartending this past weekend.
I think about how far we've both come. From round one of LA to Orange County to back to Ventura to now.
I get a text message from Steve. "Hi."
Some characters in life are just constant, no matter where you go.
I find myself lost in a blog post, the menu on Netflix, some old e-mail accounts I thought would be interesting to go digging through before I finally respond with a "Hello."
"Do u wanna live in Costa Rica for a month or two?"
I've been quite the Yes Man lately, but it breaks there. Tho Costa Rica would be nice.
It's almost two now and I'm sleepy. Somehow I manage to convince myself to get up and brush my teeth. I think about the whole day I had off from work and I'm glad I didn't go to the gay club. But I definitely should have squeezed the gym in, or gone to the High Line, dang it, that's what I should have done. I keep meaning to do that. Well, next time. Next time, Brooklyn Bridge and High Line it is. I'll bring S with me.
I write something short and far from eloquent in my journal and then turn out the light.