FRIEND GONE QANON

 The first time I heard about QAnon I was riding shotgun in my best friend's car. We were taking a drive to the Massachusetts border to check on a property that would soon be put up for sale. "Did you know that Hillary Clinton is involved in some really evil stuff? They use a pizzaria as a front, but in the basement Hillary, and others are using children as sex slaves, and they push child porn out into the internet. A lot of people are part of this underground society - Senators, Jews, Hollywood, they've all bought in, but you can trace it all back to the Clintons. QAnon is an eye-opening source of information, they're bravery is incredible. If you're not afraid to read the truth, check them out. Google QAnon, Q-A-N-O-N." It wasn't the first time I noticed my friend was veering to a place I deemed unsettling. A couple years before we had met up at a diner near her tony apartment in the city. Her son was back from military school and had showed up in uniform and somewhere between the tuna melts and rice pudding he jumped up from the table and did a goose step clearly for my benefit. My friend had said something about "the Jews" and right on cue he sprung into action with his well-rehearsed hate choreography then plopped himself down with a self-satisfied smirk. My friend's level of admonishment was slight as if her son had burped, or dropped his salad fork. They paid for my sandwich as some sort of consolation but on my long subway ride home to Brooklyn I couldn't shake the event. I called her when I arrived home and probed about her son's disturbing display and her underwhelming response. "Oh, my, GOD - he's a CHILD, Claudia!, I'm sorry you're upset but really, I can't believe we're still talking about this!" It was the first time I had spoken a word, in the moment I was stunned as the 15 year old spun tableside with his F'd up display. "Well, it's incredibly offensive, and you might have a word with him because he doesn't seem to get it. And P.S., He's not a child." She shrugged it off, I could tell from her demeanor and doubted she would circle back with "the child". "Anyway, it's no big deal he's sorry I love you, I'll talk to you later," she rushed me off the phone. I had listened to her ramblings and buy-ins to all sorts of fringe culture, I mistook her interests as a yearning to belong, a quest for knowledge beyond the media's "trusted" sources. And that day in the car I shook my head, inside my head, looking out the window waiting for the conversation to circle back to which farmstand we would stop at on the way home. The truth is I wasn't ready to say goodbye to one of my best friends. A friend that had been always been loyal, extremely generous, caring, and had always been a better friend to me than I had been to her - she was the closest thing I had to a sister. But the year went by, I was seeing post after post on social media - the tenor was ratcheting up. The hate for the girls in the pink pussy hats, those stupid b*tches ordering crocheted hats from Etsy, uploading march selfies on Instagram, her anger made me uncomfortable. Still, I was doubting myself. Where did I stand exactly. Things had gotten so confusing, where did the truth lie? Should I be angrier with the establishment, are the libs fronting? Am I missing the truth? I'd always had so much love and respect for my friend, her intellect, her intelligence, she had never steered me wrong. But one day it became clear that she had jumped the shark a long time ago. I blew up on one of her posts, and an angry death match ensued, some of her friends jumped in to have her back. I unfriended and blocked her and in 30 seconds - undid a 30 year friendship. She called me moments later, I had run from my building trying to get some air - she was clearly blindsided, I'd never uttered a word around her devolving revelations, "what the f*ck is going on with you??" she implored. I started screaming into the phone, I had no idea what I was saying, I couldn't find the words so I hung up mid-sentence - we haven't spoken since. And now that Q is in the forefront, and the source of such horror, disgrace, and death, I remember that scenic drive through New England on that beautiful Fall day. For me it bookmarked a a horrific turning point for our country, a stunning reveal of our violent and ugly underbelly, and the inception of a heart-wrenching loss of an irreplaceable friend.

THE WOKE WALK BACK

 The constant checking of my personal bias was becoming downright exhausting. I was seriously considering burning all my Harley Davidson T-shirts, they simply weren't meeting the moment. The vast collection I had amassed since I was a pre-teen had become an identifier of a small bigoted mind, a foul mouthed blow hard, those black HD tees - were pretty much akin to donning a red baseball cap. A few months after the election - a short, squirrelly man wearing white sneakers two sizes too big, limped across the street, shouting after me, "why you like Trump so much???" I was like, WTF in my head, he just pointed at the tee, I said, "ohhhh" 'n' set him straight. We both had a laugh and mentally high-five-ed over our mutual Trump Hate. A couple years later, now that things in the world, Brooklyn, had accelerant all over it, the orange and black T's weren't how I wanted to represent. But today, the clean t-shirt I found had Harley wings front n back. Agonizing between that and a crisp white Lacoste polo - I went with the more flattering of the two, opting for Bully-Chic vs Clam Bake Glam and headed out to the ATM. There were two machines, I took the open one, looked next to me and said, "hey, how you doin today," it was an NYPD officer. I forgot for a moment The Black Lives Matter movement, all the footage I had seen, how the NYPD Union endorsed Trump and wondered if my pleasantry was warranted. "But she's black, and a female," my brain said as I mentally patted myself on the back. She said in a serious tone, "you be careful out there," as she left. I was pretty sure she wasn't talking about the covid, but referring to the multiple shootings that had been going down around Brooklyn in the last few weeks. I told her to be careful, too and pondered what her experience must be like; being black, female, and a cop. And not necessarily in that order ZING, I surmised, patting myself on the back for my deeper dive. Maybe she liked my HD T-shirt, as the deconstructing of the moment continued, there was so much work to do. But the fact was, people had mistaken me for an off-duty cop on several occasions because of it. I walked into a bodega one night near Coney Island and heard two men speaking to each other excitedly in Spanish, "blah, blah, blah, ICE!! ICE!!" The guy behind the counter took one look at me and reassured them, "No ICE." But as they left they gave me the stink eye just for good measure. And now I was headed downtown. I was questioning my demeanor, my walk, my posture as well. Were my steps like some weird singular formation? My posture too militaristic? I tried to slump a bit, to look less aggressive but I caught my reflection in the mirror and saw an old, tired Jewish lady, and quickly corrected myself. Shoulders back, I headed into an Old Navy to swap out my HD Tee's with some non-redneck, two-for-12 specials. A security guard stood watch as I perused, I took notice and jested, "you think you can outrun me?" He looked me up and down and said, "I dunno, you look like you're in pretty good shape." I was flattered - the shoulders-back posture was already paying off. I was on a sassy roll and smiled, "come on, I think it's safe to say you've got the advantage..." But I was like, "DOH!!" in my head and it was very safe to say I had just said something under bias. Had I offended him with my implication of his athletic superiority based on his blackness and unusually long legs? GAH! I paid at the register and threw him a peace sign on the way out, wondering to myself, what does that even MEAN anymore. "Bye, Honey!" he shouted after me, I was so relieved that we were still friends that the possibly sexist/overly familiar term of endearment - failed to trigger the alarms in my head. Heading on home I passed an NYPD cruiser, two white male officers popped out with no place in particular to go. The young one's cute, I noticed, the other one's kinda looking like Twitchy Trigger Finger Poster Child, my thoughts went unchecked. The young one half checked me out, but both officers ultimately ignored me. They're on the job, I justified, because I was butt hurt the young one passed on saying "hi". But a thirty-something black man wearing Bermuda shorts with tiny embroidered lobsters on 'em approached the corner. The cops lit up, "hey, how ya doin!" but lobster pants ignored the cop's public service greeting. I kinda stood to the side for a while and noticed the PD officers said,"hey, how you doin" to every young black man who walked by. It's profiling, but is it profiling for good? I had the immediate realization I was in wayy over my head - best to shut down my stupid white girl thoughts, I was clearly in the midst of some twisted half-Karen moment. I was exhausted, my bias headspace was spent. Just then I saw a nice young man on a sherbet colored Vespa, I did a double take because it's not every day you see a black dude on a peach colored 150cc scooter with matching topcase. He shouted after me, "HEY! HEY!!" he was stopped at the light as I was crossing the street. I walked over to him and said, "hey, what's up." He was gleefully pointing at the Harley Davidson logo postered on my chest, "ya ride? that's super cool, Lady!" giving me the thumbs up. I gave him the affirmative biker nod as bikers tend to do - we bobble-headed together in silence until the light told him to go. On the way home I thought to myself, I could write a story about all this, but I knew it would end up being all kinds of wrong. A total minefield, I'd be wrong out of the gate, are you ready to piss off your friends? But in a moment of divine intervention a voice said "fuck it!" so I spent the next ten blocks second guessing myself, wondering where the hell I would even begin.

A PAY IT FORWARD CHRISTMAS TALE

So I get this email saying my package from Kohl's was delivered. Only, I hadn't ordered anything from Kohl's. So I trudge down to the lobby, and it's this giant box, I had ordered the hot kitchen gadget du jour three months before that went missing- the store sent out the replacement that week and I'd been enjoying it for months. Seemed the lost unit suddenly got unlost and showed up at my door - 3 months later. It's a beast - it weighs like 30 pounds. So I hauled it upstairs and got on the phone to Kohl's. I explained the situation, the sweet customer service rep said "thank you for calling us!!" and told me they would have it picked up the next day - but suddenly put me on hold, came back on and said - "just keep it". Seems the no-longer-missing unit confused their system - it didn't exist so they couldn't take it back. She told me to donate it then suggested that Christmas was coming and maybe someone on my list would love to have it which made me sad because I don't really "do" Christmas anymore and have no people on a list. I offered to gift it to her, she laughed and said she'd love it but couldn't accept it. So I had this giant box sitting in the middle of my living room. I told a couple of friends about the duplicate culinary device and begged them to take it off my hands. They found it intriguing, but when push came to shove they declined. No one was having the "must-have" item of the season. They all suggested that I sell it, which felt weird because I'd gotten it for free, but my attempts to "pay it forward" had not payed off. So I listed it on a couple of selling apps and Facebook. "Sealed in box! You register it in your name!" - less than half price -seemed like a great deal to me. But the time wasters came out in droves. I'd almost resigned myself to using the giant box as a coffee table when a nice lady on Facebook messaged me and said, "I'd like to make an appointment to pick up the item today, thank you!" She got off work at 4PM and would drive right over. Her name was "Tijuana" - like the border town, she confirmed. She was maybe 4 feet tall - wide as she was tall. She had on a long down-filled puffy coat which came down to her ankles, making her look like she was scooting around in a sleeping bag. Cornrows, a cute little smile, a warm, festive demeanor. She handed over the money and asked me to count it to make sure it was all there. I was worried about her carrying this hulk of a box out to her car and offered to help her, but the little dynamo picked it up like it was a shoebox. She paused, turned to me and said, "thanks for selling it to me for such a good price, I know these things cost a lot more." It kinda got me, I had gotten it for free, but I took the nod, listened to her say she was gonna break it out that weekend and go to town - and with that the stout caterpillar scooted into the night. Her spirit really touched me, her generous comment and pixie smile stuck with me long after I got back into my apartment. I could breathe again with that box gone. It felt good - so I looked around to find my next victim. And there is was - another over-sized, must-have gadget that NASA undoubtedly had a hand in designing. Space shuttle-sized, it had to go to. And in that moment I knew where it had to go to: Tijuana. I sent her a message that next morning, she cheerfully accepted my gift and showed up that night- in her de rigeuer caterpillar duster jacket, tiny sneakers peaking out. She noticed the cardboard pet food box I brought the contraption down in - she asked me how many pets I had - she had several small dogs, seemed everyone counted on her to take their puppies after the novelty wore off, but she didn't mind, Tijuana didn't have a cynical bone in her beach ball body. Suddenly her phone went off, bursting into song -a glorious gospel ringtone explosion- the spirit moved me into some jack-ass raise-the-roof dance. She giggled and put it on silent- "aww, that's just my nephew, he calls me all day long" we laughed again, the spirit still with me, I gathered up the smiley, plump caterpillar into my arms and squeezed her with all my might. We said our goodbyes, Tijuana snapped up her gift wrapped casually in an old cardboard box, exclaiming, "God Bless you!!" and rolled out into the night. It was a nice way to enter the season - a chill in the air, a spirited ringtone salutation, and that makeshift special someone to check off my Christmas list.

HALLOWEEN TALE

So there was this family dressed up for Halloween, taking their young boy out for Trick or Treating. The dad was wearing oversized pumpkin glasses, the mom - rocking a witch's hat. Their little boy was dressed to the nines as a wizard. Only thing is, it's the day after Halloween. The family walked solemnly down the quaint, deserted Carroll Gardens block - the boy dragging his deflated Halloween sack - muttering to his sneakers in French which was indecipherable to me, save for the occasional utterance of the phrase "Trick or Treat" - for which there is no translation.

NOWHERE CHER

I was friends with this girl in either Junior High or High School - very briefly. She lived near me and I would walk over to her house - they had a lot of white shag carpeting and a dog to match - a beautiful Samoyad - perfectly coifed. In the living room they had a glossy white grand piano and I would sometimes accompany her - doing her best impression of Cher. She would wear a halter top and hold her arms just like Cher, hands dropping, belting out those A side and B side tunes. She had a nice voice which she disfigured singing through her nose to get those Cher-like tones. The few times I was over I never saw an adult anywhere. The house was silent, almost padded (due to the sea of shag) until she filled it song. I still remember how soft that dog was, perfectly coifed - I had no idea who was tending to the animal. The whole thing had a kind of Grey Gardens effect - although the inhabitant was 14 and everything was white and brand new. Just last year I got a friend request from her - some forty-plus years later, now seemingly transformed into a tragic figure. Seems she was living on the fringes of society, the posts had a distinct victim voice. Now Cher is no one's victim - so it was surprising - plus she had been a smart, kind of "with it" teen - so I was wondering how this world-view had come to be. Her son had joined the military and it soon became apparent that her lodging might be in question. She started posting items for sale - only those you part with when times are dire. A mattress, a worn coffee table, and old washer dryer all on Facebook marketplace. I could tell by her posts that she would be un-hirable - her state-of-mind would not present well at any interview. Friends would post potential job opportunities - but were always met by crickets by my old friend. One day I had posted some light-hearted thing on my page which she responded to with a "me too" comment about a near miss experience involving almost-assault and possible rape, it was really out of place and awful. I sent her a private message saying she had misunderstood - and some sorry attempt at being sympathetic around her trials which obviously fell short -she read it and never responded back. It wasn't long after that - that her posts came to a sudden halt. Weeks and months went by, her friends would post "where are you - I'm so worried about you" posts. I couldn't have been the only one who was wondering if she was living in a car, on the street, or worse. The posts from friends kept coming, people would give them a thumbs up or the crying emoji. Cher was nowhere, I assumed something horrible had happened. Until today. I saw a profile of a guy I knew in high school. He was the first guy I kissed. I was in the basement of his house, I had followed his cute, popular friend there after school - but the cute friend proposed that I kiss his shy friend and it was terrible. How could I know it was terrible, it was my first kiss, but it was. He was nervous, and trembling horribly, an icky memory - so naturally, I wanted to see what had become of him so I clicked on his Facebook profile. The guy was still "shy" - he had like 40 Facebook friends, and one of them appeared to be Cher. Only she had created a new profile, a new version of her name, stating she had moved to a new town as a Facebook event. Her old profile photo was blurred as though looking at someone through punch-drunk eyes - it was now replaced by a new, crisp photo. I wasn't sure it was her, I hadn't seen her since her teenage make-shift lounge act - but I was sure, in the end. Now, I can't claim to understand depression, or severe mental health issues but lord knows I've tried. I understand wanting to re-invent yourself, to start fresh - but what I don't understand is wanting people to think that you're homeless, living on the streets, or have perhaps committed suicide. All these friends reaching out to her on her page - and I imagine in Private Message - which she clearly got but left each and every one of them hanging while she tweaked her new/improved profile. Maybe if I tried a little harder, gave it a bit more thought I'd get there. Do I lack empathy, see it as just another story? But it's this ending I can't quite grasp - the disappearing act, the studied air of mystery, the silent reinvention - all Cher-like traits come to think of it, sans tragedy.

THE TENATIOUS WOULD-BE TENANT

Well, it's been a long, interesting journey finding a tenant for my rental. Perhaps people looking to secure housing aren't their "best selves" - the last gentleman put me through the ringer. Sixty-plus, fastidious, with great sensitivity to noise. Although he owned a condo just 2 blocks away, he was seeking a nest with "zero noise". Now my rental is off the street, facing a quiet courtyard, he checked out the windows and inquired about installing "sound proof" windows. He nervously scoured the 600 square food space, scanning for evidence of annoyances. I suggested he look at unattached housing, to which he did not respond. He asked if he could come back at 9PM to garner findings about noise levels when neighbors would be home. I needed an out. I did allow him to return, and spent most of the time coming up with reasons why he would not find the place to his liking. Still, later that evening, he sent me a lengthy text - asking to return at 9AM to "make more notes". Now, I'm a person who doesn't suffer fools gladly. Yet, I couldn't find a way to extricate myself from this nervous gent. I turned down his request for a 9AM, then he sent another two lengthy texts about his schedules, appointments, and his next available window which would be 9:30 the following morning. I spoke to fellow landlords that gave me an out - but I created my own, a response to his inquiry to purchase the unit after a "trial" period. Told him it would be unlikely that I would part with the unit, to which he responded, "I would be happy to be your life-long tenant." So push-over here let him back in. He began nervously scanning the apartment again, but this time busying himself with a tape measure and copious notes, asking me for exact measurements for ceiling height of closets, I could get back to him that afternoon. I started jabbering away at why he would never be happy in such a space, but he was in the zone. He only spoke up to report he had looked into "sound proofing" - he had a plan that involved staplegunning a double layer of towels to my freshly painted walls. But soon after he determined that he could "never be satisfied" living in a studio apartment; that he couldn't sleep unless he had a closed bedroom door. Although I had suggested this from the very beginning, and he assuring me that this was the perfect fix for his "downsizing" plan, he finally determined after much handwringing and note-taking that my apartment would not meet his rigorous requirements. After he left, I engaged a realtor to sell the apartment. The steady stream of apartment seekers had worn me down. The realtor was eager to see the pad, he brought an associate over the very next morning. We discussed what they would offer, and came up with a price. Yet, the next morning I was filled with doubt. I still loved the space, and it had served me well as a rental, albeit with some drama, for almost the last 30 years. But my inquiries had slowed to a halt. It had been on the market for 9 days, which qualifies it as a stale listing in this desirable Brooklyn 'hood'. As I mulled over what to do - lower the price, hire a realtor to handle the rental, or perhaps a property manager to deal with the drama both before and after move-in, I got a lone inquiry. She showed up the next day, a young advertising gal, very polite. She and her mother walked in, within 30 seconds she turned to me and said, "I love it!!! - I can't believe it's still available!!!" We signed a lease within the hour. This isn't a tale about faith, about the universe, although I don't discount that. I did put my hands together, looking up at the sky - and thanked, well, the sky - but it was most likely just blind luck. As I like to say to myself, "it only takes one." But that can be broad, as I got a doozy of "ones" - until the "right" one appeared.

THE WIDOWER

There's a man in my building, his wife had suffered from MS long before her untimely death a couple of years ago. She was a real cool woman, funny, ironic, really open about her "situation" and life in general. They had two kids, the girl in high school - an incredibly talented singer, super smart, a "big girl", spent a lot of time in therapists' offices. The son who was in college was a gifted athlete who was considering playing pro baseball, he, too had his own demons which may or may not have been fast-tracked due to his mother's illness or the fact that he broke his arm a week before training season. Anyway, this man who lost his wife - he was frumpy, shy, introverted and gentle. I felt so sorry for him and I thought perhaps I should invite him to the movies or something, just to get him out - I knew he dearly loved his wife. So one day I engaged him in the elevator and asked him how he was doing. He said he was doing okay, that he had started dating but he wasn't looking for anything serious. I guess he immediately started dating a close family friend and it was going well but he had "cut her loose" because there were "so many options". I guess a lot of women wanted to "take him to the movies" - and not in the innocent way I had considered. Cut to a couple years later - he's hot n heavy with a woman in the building who wears a lot of leopard print - I see them dining in the window in a few of a local eateries. His kids - I haven't seen either of then in the building for over a year. Today I passed him on the street on my way home from a walk in the 'hood - he was wearing a Burberry jacket, dad-jeans replaced by something less ill-fitting (he had dropped quite a few pounds), aviators hid his eyes although the sun was sinking fast into the Fall sky - yet, I could feel that horny gaze of a 50-something feeling seventeen. Perhaps it was his pursed lips or the way he insisted on getting my attention on a day I wanted to remain invisible. This, his new life, seems awkward - because he's still a huge dork behind those Foster Grants. I have to give him credit, though - still, I wonder if in those quiet moments he ever thinks of his wife, her wit, her courage, her fabulosity, and remembers their life fondly.

THE ROCKSTAR AND FOUR BOTTLES OF MOBIL 1

I was at Pep Boys yesterday morning, under somewhat embarrassing circumstances. They had gone out of their way to procure me 4 bottles of motorcycle oil on the day I needed it, getting someone to drive it over from the Queens location. After a couple of my friendly mechanic friends fell through, it was clear that I would need to go to a storefront mechanic, and they would have no interest in helping out a customer who "cheaped out" by bringing their own fluids and filter. So I now had a total of 5 containers, way too much to hold on to, so I headed in to Pep Boys and the guy that had gone above and beyond was at the register. "Domingo" had a broad smile on his face and a warm welcome. I plopped all the containers down and said, "you're gonna kill me" - plus, I could only find the receipt for two of the four bottles as I had purchased them at different times during that day. He said, "no problem, let me see what we can do." And as my mother used to say - we got to talking. He asked me about my ride and told me his dream was to one day own a Harley Fat Boy with saddlebags. He had such a nice way about him, and I told him so - he said he had just requested a raise from the 13 dollars he was making - to 20 dollars, which he was told was manager's pay, but they would see what they could do. I mean, this guy was a rockstar- before and after my sale. I said something like, "good for you, I appreciate people who know their worth." He told me he always worked hard, working as a dishwasher at Peter Luger, and a lot of the restaurants on Court Street. This was his first job with some growth potential, and he was doing everything in his power to be at his best. He went on, "you know, I was homeless." I was stunned, it was like one of those stop-you-in-your-tracks moments you see on Undercover Boss. He told me he had gotten a divorce, lost his job, his home, and before he knew it he was on the streets, going from restaurant to restaurant looking to wash dishes, never asking for a cent from passerby's. He finally earned enough to get himself an apartment, and one day, he told me, he was coming off the subway and recognized a homeless man who was asking for help. It was a friend of his from high school who had fallen into crack addiction. What did Domingo do? He said, "come live with me". He took his drugs and paraphernalia, brought him home. and back into the world. Domingo showed me his pictures on Instagram - the once homeless friend now living in Florida, with a wife and two kids, his drug addiction, history. I was blown away and told him so, "What a complete privilege to meet you, I heart you, Domingo!, you're an amazing man" He had managed to refund all of my money, and told me to come by anytime, he was there most days. I said, jokingly, "I'll prolly be back tomorrow to re-buy all this oil, ha!," which is exactly what happened. See, the biker who had offered to help me texted me this morning saying, "I just woke up and realized I left you hanging! When do you want to do this?" I didn't want to admit that I had lost faith in him and had returned the oil to Pep Boys. It would be my secret, so I headed back to the auto supply store to re-purchase the 4 bottles of Mobil 1, counting all my blessings along the way.

THE PROPHECY

I asked him if he would care to exchange photos. His letter to me was generic, but I could feel the holiday weekend fast approaching. I had solid plans with my best friend solitude; so I found myself exchanging concise, uninspired emails with Robert. We swapped photos and I found his to fall squarely into my demographic: bald, with a red beard. Excited, I shot a photo of myself back to him which he responded with brief prose, “you look good”. It was strange in that he didn't know me, perhaps me meant in relation to the age I had posted on my profile, or perhaps he meant simply, “good enough”. Solitude persisted so I hit the reply button again. I asked, where do you reside? He said, “I reside in Manhattan”. I told him I lived in Brooklyn, he responded, “never been”. Did his cellular plan charge by the word? Perhaps he wasn’t a morning person, or had never learned to type. I noticed myself making excuses for him, before I’d even met him. Still, the red beard intrigued me, with such great facial hair there had to be substance. I needed to know more. So I turned to the web with promising results, I’d matched his picture to his name. Now we were getting somewhere. Beers and burgers on the water, an evening walk down a secluded path. I clicked on a link and there was my Robert, a US Army veteran. He had almost no friends on Facedbook, he had started a GoFundMe in his own name that had later been removed. Robert said he suffered PTSD, he had reached out for others to help get his life back on track. He qualified as 100% disabled, no wonder he had been reticent to share the details of his life. Perhaps he was wheelchair bound. I’d had a dream the night before; an epic love scene with a man in a wheelchair.

Had that dream been a prophecy? I reached out to Robert again, telling him my passions, asking him about his, the memory of my dream-state wheelchair make-out session filling me with anticipation about what his answers might be.

His response was expedient. “Do you like oral, “ he queried - my prince hadn't bothered to answer any of my questions, or even bothered with adding a question mark. My wheelchair dream had, in fact been a prophecy, a sure-bet indicator that I would once again seek out damage, sit in his lap, and attempt to save him just in time for the next holiday weekend.

The three times I didn't speak to Michael Cera

The first time I saw you was in front of the laundromat. It's not everyday you see an A list actor on the corner of what and what - I walked by again on my way back from the store, and I'm embarrassed to say I mentioned it on the social networking site, and everybody fanned out and got really jelly. People dig you, Man. I said you looked cool, like you kinda wanted to engage with strangers (that day, you did); God, this is embarrassing, but necessary to tell the story. Anyway - my assessment of you being *accessible* prompted one of my friends to send me the link to that piece you wrote that appeared in New York Magazine, "My Man Jeremy". I thought it was a great success - not an easy story to construct, and it conveyed such a great atmosphere of boredom, loneliness, and rejection, but maybe that's my life, lol. Anyway, I really dug it.

Cut to a couple weeks later, I'm downstairs at the grocery store and you actually inadvertently cut me off at the register. There's like no one there, so it's pretty funny. But once again, you prove yourself a kind human being and slide your half dozen eggs forward on the conveyer belt to make room for my chopped turkey meat. When I got upstairs, I thought, shit, I shoulda said something, I should have told you I loved your freakin' story. And I swore to myself, next time- next time I see Michael Cera - I'm gonna say something.

And that was today. I'm embarrassed to say, I was ordering some friend chicken wings at the Chinese restaurant and I look out towards the street and what do you know; it's that gifted author, Michael Cera, groceries in tow, I run out to say something, but he's halfway down the next block, high-taling it home.

IN DEFENSE OF CRAY

I recently (in the past 30 years) have realized that we are all crazy; sliding around somewhere on The Continuum of Crazy. Maybe you're the "crazy cat lady", kookoo for Cocoa Puffs, experiencing that Time Of The Month or suffering from Grouchy Old Man Syndrome - or maybe you're all the way over to the right, the certifiable, NAMI defined, impossible-to-live-with CRAY.  

Even the recent coining and viral embrace of the phrase "cray" implies a certain affection (and acceptance) for crazy behavior. "That's cray" is the much cuter, bouncing baby sister of "CRAZY!!!" It's an evolved way of calling out behavior without putting the "crazy" sticker on your forehead. And that's a good thing - because no matter how "healthy" or "together" you are - sooner or later Cray says, "come out to play-ayyy."

I, for one, have the tendency to be constantly checking myself for signs of cray to "collect data" to properly find where I fall on the Cray-tinuum. 

I've discovered that I also use others to accurately place myself on the continuum of crazy on any given day. If I have spent time on the internet typing in your behavior, waiting for a proper diagnosis to pop up, you are one of the people that helps me validate my belief that my cray is better than yours - or less than yours, and therefore supporting my cray notion that I am "righter" than you.

A friend of mine referred to me as "Crazy Glue" - a diagnosis/term of endearment defining who I  am in relationships - the implication being "they"flock to me like moths to a cray. Which begs the question, what is the attraction? Do I have an air of cray that implies "cray's ok by me!" Is it a silent reciprocal no harm/no foul contract? Or maybe I simply like focusing on my partner's "quirks" in order to avoid the painful self-dive.  Or maybe it's just that I like my men big, brooding, and unpredictable vs.  "bookish" or "overly neat." The truth is, my "type"makes me crazy, which sometimes just feels good - in a 'crack-feeling-good-to-a-crackhead' kinda way. 

Sometimes "crazy" is mild, or an addiction, or a diagnosis with prescription, it doesn't really matter; at the end of the day it just IS. And the sooner we embrace it in ourselves and in others the better.

So how 'bout we all just own up to our crazy and cut ourselves some slack. Call me crazy.

THE SAD SELLER AND THE PRETTY WHITE BIKE

I had barely gotten any sleep the night before. A combination of hourly hot flashes, and visions of the bike I was going to see early in the morning had me twisted in my sheets. My alarm was set for seven – and sounded just as I had settled into a restful deep sleep. I fed the dogs, splashed some cold water on my face, loaded up my bag with cash, DMV forms, grabbed my helmet and jumped in the car. I circled around to pick up my friend Brian. When we had dated a long time ago and could never trust him with my heart, but years later we had settled into a deep friendship and I now could trust him with my life – and with riding my new Triumph Bonneville back from Long Island without incident. I found this bike in the same place I found my last boyfriend. I had come across it on Craigslist. It had been a harrowing couple of weeks dealing with bike dealerships, I would hold the two wheel hucksters up to a standard they couldn't possibly live up to; expecting them to be decent and fair was naive. Soon they would let me down with a sexist comment or shell game upon closing the deal. So I went back to shop at the only place I truly trusted: the Craigslist community. And one day I saw it, it wasn't like all the other Triumph Bonnevilles – the ubiquitous black ones the hipsters rode around with on Saturdays to buy artisanal groceries, or over to the far reaches of Brooklyn to the latest beer garden. This "Bonnie" was white, all my friends had poo-pooed it; it was the anti-Bonnie and thus had to be mine. The owner was a guy named "Sal". Coincidentally he had grown up in my neighborhood, Carroll Gardens, long before it was tony and exclusive. It had been a family oriented old school neighborhood, Italian, a little rough back then. Sal had moved out and moved up, he implied on the phone. He was out on Long Island now, had a house, a family, a boat. He told me the bike was a midlife crisis, we bonded on that, the hood, life in general – he sounded like a kind, decent guy. We arranged a time for me to come on out and take a look at his midlife crisis ride the following week. But in the next day or two Sal became agitated. He would call and send emails within minutes - he seemed manic and filled with anxiety about our upcoming meeting. I almost bailed on the deal as Sal's communications increased, but I kept coming back to that first pleasant conversation and the photos he had sent me in one afternoon of the pretty white bike. So off Brian and I headed to Sal's place on Long Island. Sal kept the calls coming though out the week. We had originally planned to meet on Friday morning, but he had called Thursday night sounding oddly intense. He asked if we could push the meeting up to 8 AM. he said he had something to do much further out on the Island that Friday. So we changed the day to Sunday, and as we ware 20 minutes away, Sal was calling in yet again. I picked up, Sal sounded calm yet sad. He explained that he had taken the bike out to give it a wash and now for the life of him couldn't get it to turn over. It was on a battery tender, but still showing no signs of life. He wanted to let me know and said we were welcome to still come, but it would be like coming to "buy a puppy and getting a dead dog." Still, we had come this far. So we went ahead and pulled up on his modest, sweet suburban street. There was a shiny new Audi convertible parked out front of Sal's house; the midlife crisis' latest effect. Sal came out to greet us. He was a 50 something guy, nice looking, a little rough around the edges and weathered from what looked like some hearty partying and a sunscreen-free life in this seaside town. He welcomed us past the white fence in the driveway and led us back to the separated garage which was next to a small well-kept pool. The bike was outside, all white and shiny, with a long black tail that led back into the dark, freshly swept garage. The battery tender had our hopes up as we all stood around the bike. Sal began his tale. "I bought this bike to piss off my wife, we were having a real hard time back then, she must have been menopausing." I never heard "menopause" used as a verb, but I liked it; I had been menopausing myself just the night before and was now considering adding it to my skillset on my LinkedIn profile. But Sal continued. "Yeah, she was a real pain in the ass about it so I decided to pull the trigger. Had some fun with it, even got the wife on the back a few times – but now I dunno. I lost my brother last week and riding is pretty dangerous, ya know, we can't have another one of us dead right now." He had gone from his wife menopausing vignette to his brother's passing story so seamlessly, I barely caught it. But Brian was kinder, and a much better listener than me. He had been a detective and never missed a detail, whether he was tuning into a perp with a "story" or just a regular Joe on the street. "I'm sorry, Sal," he said, "can I ask what happened?" Sal explained, "he committed suicide." Now Sal had my full attention, the bike had lost its pull and my eyes were now squarely on the surviving brother. "It was weird, there were no real signs, no. um reason we could tell," Sal explained, "he cashed his paycheck that morning, washed his car, and killed himself that afternoon." Brian nodded like a doctor who had just told a patient they had cancer, I was looking down at the freshly hosed asphalt of Sal's pristine driveway. "He called me to say 'goodbye' – but he didn't call my cellphone, I think he dialed my home number by mistake and left a message; anyway, it doesn't matter now." I then realized why Sal had changed our Friday appointment. His further out on Long Island meeting had most likely been his brother's funeral. I wasn't sure how Sal was processing his brother's death. He had gotten the news that evening and apparently listed his motorcycle on Craigslist the next day. After he shared his intimate story with us he had moved on with levity. Talking about the bike, how hard it was to get the seat off to reach the battery - recalling his old motorcycle with the under-seat-easy-access compartment where he would store his essential items, "my cigarettes and weed." We all stood around the bike and silently mourned Sal's brother under the guise of closer inspection to the angelic white steed. Sal offered me the honors to try and start her up but in spite of my best efforts, she was still and lifeless. It would have been crass to discuss a deal given the news about Sal's sibling and the general pall of the morning that ensued. "Maybe I'll take her out the the beach house, I dunno. Sorry again for your wasted trip," he said as he led us out through the gate. He had taken our sensitivity to not show interest as disinterest and sullenly talked about re-listing her on Craigslist. When we were back in the car I asked Brian if I should have discussed a deal after all. He said, "no, it wouldn't be appropriate," he explained not because of Sal's story, but because the bike hadn't started. "I think it would be nice when you got home you reach out to Sal again, let him know you liked the bike," he said hopefully. "Yeah? Should I send him an email," I looked to Brian, he always seemed to know what the situation warranted. "A call is always nice," he said sweetly as we turned the corner from Sal's sad street and out into the silent Sunday morning out on Long Island.

THE CYRANO LUNCH

I went to meet my honey out at a pub in Stroudsburg, NY. I decided to leave my bike at home and drive, we planned to grab a cozy booth, have a big lunch, a beer, and ride on his bike along some back roads down to the lake and spend the rest of the afternoon out on his boat.I waited for him on the front porch of the pub, we kissed hello, went in, and the hostess led us to a remote booth in a back corner of the wood and brass restaurant. As the waitress brought our first round of cold draft beers, the hostess seated a man and a woman behind us. She was a seen-better-days blond. Hard to pinpoint her age, but her ravaged white blond hair was thin and desperately trying to reach her waist. Her too-tight blouse was straining across her missile tit bra, circa 1963. He was an unfortunate looking lackluster man, probably early 60’s in an unflattering shade of grey/blue, revealing a sad pair of deflated man-boobs. It was hard to tell if it was a date, an interview, or possibly a hybrid of the the two. I only noticed these details after we had paid our check, I had to get a visual on the conversation I had just overheard.Jim, my man, had just finished telling me yet another hard-to-conceive story from his childhood. His Dad was a retired Marine who had decided to raise his family in about the worst area of Brooklyn imaginable. Even as the drug dealers, addicts, and prostitutes had taken over the streets, he held fast to his territory like it was Custer’s Last Stand. His brother had left the block many years ago and bought a house upstate, by a lake, he had told Jim’s dad about an inexpensive house that had become available right up the dirt road, but Custer wouldn’t hear of it. Although they would have to sweep the sidewalk of needles and condoms before the grandkids would come down to play, Jim’s dad held his ground. Cops used to question Jimmy as he walked down his block, yelling at the young boy from the car window, “hey, kid!! watcha doin’ over here, it’s dangerous, go the heck home!!” But he was home. The local news had come to interview the last of the holdouts on the block, after a couple of the homes were burned to the ground by pimps or dealers in some payback deal. Jimmy described coming home from school and turning on the TV. He told me how excited he was, his Dad yelling at the reporter, “I’m nevah leavin’, WE was here first, this is OURS (probably referring to his Irish heritage), this is OUR neighborhood,” he was now talking to the camera, and the Puerto Ricans and Cubans who had taken over, his arm outstretched, and pointing down towards the sidewalk, violently delivering the last few rounds of bullets into the imagined scum bag’s body with an invisible firearm. Jimmy sat across from me, mirroring his father’s murderous mime from the 5 o’clock news, with a mixture of pride and disbelief, although it had occurred almost 40 years before.Jim had a million stories like these, and they just kept coming. Charming, horrifying vignettes from his boyhood from the west side of Sunset Park. He was a great storyteller, a fine mimic, I loved to hear Jim talk in a car, or in a bar, I especially loved hearing his tales echo from deep inside him as he would recount another episode with my head pressed against his chest in the wee hours of the morning. These stories explained a lot about his deeply embedded anger and hurt, and I loved how he fluctuated from being “stuck” in all that emotion, and the next minute being full of joie de vivre as he narrated his recipes as he chef-ed around my kitchen, or as he would playfully look back at me with a wink, as he captained us out into the middle of the lake, or led me onto more and more beautiful adventures on our bikes in Upstate New York.“I love complicated men,” I told him, and it was true. I had a fascination and passion for men who had survived problematic childhoods. Maybe it was because I had grown up with a silver spoon in my mouth on the pristine wooded streets of Westport, Connecticut and never had to work too hard for anything; maybe it was a simple case of bad boy complex; or simply because I was just plain fucked up - but I had accepted a long time ago that this was who I am, and what I love, and I had settled on Jim. And as I told him, “I love complicated men,” Jim looked into my eyes suspiciously, like was this a compliment, or an insult, but he quickly resigned himself that it was what it was and took another gulp from his sweaty mug of brew. It was then in that gulp of silence between us, that I heard the woman in the shiny polyester date/interview blouse chatter to her man friend, “I just LOOOVE complicated men!!” I couldn’t quite believe my ears. I looked behind me, her “complicated” man looked dully towards her, he wasn’t trying to decipher her comment, he simply waited for her noise to stop as he went on talking about some sign that a neighbor had put up on his street corner, and was trying to have removed by attending a city council meeting. She went on, “I could listen to your stories all day,” she cood, the plagiarist continued. I had said this to Jimmy just moments before, saying it in all sincerity - little did I know that I had been acting as Cyrano to the unfortunate woman sitting within earshot just on the other side of the pine back of the booth that we shared.I told Jimmy what I had just overheard, he shook his head and closed his eyes like he was recalling being molested as a child. I stopped providing the woman material at this point, now that I was aware that she had one ear on me and one eye on her date/prospective employer. But now she was on her own. “I LOOVE intelligent men,” she told him. He didn’t respond, so she just kept saying it, “I just LOOOVE intelligent men,” a second, then a third time, until she got the response she wanted as he dully told her, “and I like intelligent women.” “Why THANK you,” she said with an insipid giggle, “I ‘ppreciate that,” she snapped back. Jim still had his rape recollection face on and said, “let’s get the hell out of here, it’s a beautiful day out there. She’s gonna suck his dick in the parking lot, and it’s not going to get her the job or a second date.” The man sure had a way with words, I could listen to him talk all day. We got the check, hopped on the bike and rode down to the lake where we spent the rest of that beautiful late August afternoon. I wondered how the lunch ended between the interview/couple. Had she swallowed the man’s penis for dessert in the parking lot, as Jim had predicted; her charms beyond that seemed limited. But enough of that, I thought, as I rubbed Jimmy’s back as he steered us into the welcome silence of the vast placid lake.

THE DEFAULT OF THE EX-WIFE

I met my boyfriend just a few months ago, we attached very quickly. We had a few things in common; motorcycles, music, cooking, over-eating, and a desire to be loved by someone who loved us back. I had a failed relationship behind me, he had split up from his wife who he met back when they were just in high-school. They had been happy, raised three children together, had a close knit family, he thought it would be forever. But towards the end he sensed that she had a secret, she had always handled the finances until one day she finally revealed that she had leveraged their house against her secret off-the-rails spending. Since then she had chased lower interest rates, opening multiple credit cards until it snowballed out of control. My boyfriend Jeff was set to pay off the house and retire in a year; his faith in his marriage and plans for retirement were destroyed in what seemed to be overnight.

While Jeff went on high-alert damage control over the family finances, his wife started spending all afternoon on the treadmill in their carpeted basement, or hunting down spray tan at the BOGOs at the local CVS. She had maxed out a credit card buying tank tops in neon colors at nearby Mandee shops- she had lost 50 pounds and started coming home at odd hours; his Straight Edge Christian wife now smelled of cigarettes and tequila. They always spent the 4th of July down by the lake, Jeff took the kids down to the water to watch the fireworks but when he turned around his wife wasn’t there. After the show was done, he and the kids ate hot dogs and hamburgers without her until she showed up two hours later - riding in on the back of the bike behind an Eastern European bottle-blond - dismounting her new friend’s ride in her short shorts, wife beater, in all her spray-tanned glory. It was then that Jeff knew that his family and their life as they knew it had come a sad, slow halt.

She announced that she was leaving soon after, “taking a break” to move in with mutual friends of theirs. Jeff heard from their friends days later that she had never shown up on their end - the guestroom bed was untouched, her car had never been seen in the driveway. She left no forwarding address, she’d never said a word to the kids. Before she left Jeff had asked her if there was someone else. She threw him a sly grin, his oldest daughter chased her out of the house and into the driveway screaming, “wipe that fucking smirk of your face.” striking her in her face with a chunk of ice she had pulled from the front steps of the house. Jeff’s wife sped away from the house leaving Jeff, and his three kids in her wake. They didn’t hear from her for weeks, she never divulged where she was staying - all they had left of her was a kitchen table piled with bills and a half-used bottle of store brand spray tan.

Jeff and I met a few months later, we fell fast and hard. He was strong, masculine, with an open, romantic heart. He had married his childhood sweetheart, had been saving up for a house in the country since he was 9 years old. He had grown up in the toughest area of Brooklyn, had dodged many bullets literally and figuratively before he took his new wife to a beautiful town in Upstate New York where he bought her a house on two acres of land. He had three great kids in good public schools, and now he had me. But the wounds from his ex-wife were deep. I knew that it was best not to date a man who had recently been burned, but it was too late, against my better judgement I had fallen in love.

Jeff would take me for long drives to the country, opening the car door for me, holding my hand as we rolled through the back roads, kissing me softly before we would get out of the car to have lunch at a quaint country inn. He was the sweetest man I had ever met - until the ghost of his ex would take control of our afternoon. Jeff revealed his painful story slowly at first, I would get tidbits here and there, his face tightening, his mouth forming a grimace as the words spewed from his lips. It was hard to listen to and painful to watch; the emotion taking over his body as he pretended to enjoy the Hudson River views. The man was barely managing - he had to work nights, then go home and clean the entire house, do the food shopping, the laundry, make a square meal every night, look after their three kids, catching 20 minutes of sleep here and there wherever he could. The ex was long gone – she had only contacted him once, the morning of what would have been their wedding anniversary, texting him first thing that morning from some stranger’s bed, “no matter what happened, this will always be a very special day to me.” Still, I played devil’s advocate.

“Jeff,” I tried to cut through his vitriol, “you two met so young, she’s just now living out her teenage fantasies .” I hoped that this would somehow help him put a better spin on things, take the edge off his hate - I’d since met his kids, their grades were slipping, they were sad and disoriented, I wanted them to have some sort of relationship with their mom. Jeff would cook up a storm; we would all sit around the table eating and laughing, but after dinner a silence would come over the house - the ghost of their missing mother was lurking about in the buzz of the overhead lighting. How could they live with suddenly losing their mother? I discouraged Jeff from making so much as a sour expression in front of the kids when her name came up. The ex had recenlty started texting them, asking to see them, but they’d all refused. They had removed all signs of her around the house, just the bottle of spray tan remained - collecting dust in the corner of the kitchen, a shrine to the mother that had betrayed them all. Still, I held out hope, Jeff had noticed on his medical insurance that his wife had seen a therapist once or twice. Was this a sign that she was working on her issues for herself and the children? The kids needed their mom, particularly the youngest one. She had opened up to me, we had taken to having heart-to-hearts, I cut her hair one Saturday afternoon, she smiled and said, “um, I think we’re bonding.”

In spite of the kid's resistance to see her, the ex would pipe up now and then, she texted the kids around Christmas saying she had money for them from their Grandparents so they could buy themselves something nice at the mall. They all met up for breakfast, the three kids returning home from the diner an hour or so later, sullen and quiet. Their mother had given them two unwrapped gifts – a waffle iron, and a margarita maker set, seemingly re-gifted from a housewarming party from her new mystery address. She had passed along the grandparent’s money, the kids left the envelopes on the coffee table next to the misappropriate presents. Still, it was a start, I thought, still clinging to the hope that these kids could reclaim their mother. I continued to remind Jeff not to disparage her in front of them, and maybe even offer up the idea that they could forge a relationship with her over time. But it never came to pass. Their mom took to sending repeated rapid-fire “I LOVE YOU!!” text messages from her mystery location, imploring them for support, texting, “I NEED YOU TO COMFORT ME!!” The eldest girl, the one who chased her mother with the block-of-ice-weapon, set her straight immediately, “you’re the fucking mother, we’re the kids. Get it straight who comforts who!!” The writing was on the wall after that, but their mother kept on coming, each attempt more strange than the last. She pleaded with their son to meet her out one night, she devised a plan to get a beater car from her parents in Florida, she asked that he and his sister buy one way tickets to Florida and spend their Spring break driving it back by themselves. The following week she showed up at the youngest one’s school unannounced, ambushing her at her school play rehearsal - forcing the 13 year old to snap photos of the two of them on her phone that she would later post to her Facebook page where she was posing as Mother of the Year. It was long past due that I give up any hope of the kids ever having any semblance of a normal relationship with their mom at this point. I knew that over time Jeff’s anger would subside, now I would support him in whatever he was feeling and listen and nod. With the kids off at school in the afternoon we would lie in his bed talking about the summer that we would soon share, surely it would be a better Fourth of July for the kids - he would pull me towards him in the peaceful drawn shade darkness of the bedroom, until the shrill ring of the intermittent creditor’s calls would slice our cocoon; their repeated attempts to address the multiple defaults of Jeff’s ex-wife.

THE OLD BOOK

My ex-boyfriend gave me a book a long time ago back when we were together, telling me it had great meaning for him, a reflection on how he lived his life. I never read it and now that we stopped speaking it was time to return it to him, why was it so difficult, I had struggled with its return for weeks.

Was there some insight into his psyche that I had missed? Would it unlock some mystery as to why he could never say he loved me? I knew he did, I could feel it when he looked at me, the way he spoke to me; he’d said it twice, but retracted it, denied it, I wished he’d never said it at all. I needed to hear those words from him, from someone; finally I decided to give up and let him go once and for all, it had been eleven years.

The book was ancient, hardcover, bound, yellowed, possibly rare. Tossing it away seemed cruel, he’s asked for my assurance that I would one day return it, I had promised. I always keep my word, it was a thorn in my side, he’d let me down countless times and yet, I always had trouble letting go.

I decided to make one last trek over to his house, I would leave it outside, on his doorstep, no phone call or note. I rifled around in the kitchen and found a flimsy bag I got from some drugstore that i would normally use for trash, the morning coffee filter, tissues, pizza crusts - it would soon be home for his beloved book, it would be joined by his sister’s latest best seller. She had skyrocketed to fame by writing stories about their abusive childhood, she spun it into gold, a sweet fairytale, but I knew the truth - I fell in love with the damage, a man that could never really love back.

The drugstore bag was a sad beige color with black type that said, “thank you”. And inglorious parting sentiment, it almost seemed ironic, I thought perhaps I should choose another receptical, as I slipped both books into its sparse waterproof shell. I had started his sister’s novel, I found her style beautiful and grating in that I knew she reinvented tragedy, it was her version of her family history, but her truth nonetheless. But the other book, the one that held the secrets to my ex-boyfriend’s truth remained unopened by me. Was it that I hadn’t had my eye glass prescription renewed for several years, or was it fear of what I would find on those faded pages? Would it reveal a sweet Tom Sayer-esque tale, romanticizing his childhood days when he would scramble into town looking to roll a passed out drunk for change, or stay after the school bell rang to rifle through the lunchroom trash looking for something to eat while his mother hid under the covers at home, gorging on a Whitman’s Sampler she had bought with the dollar or two she might have used to buy some bologna and bread for her 3 hungry children?

I pulled the book from the sad “thank you” bag. It smelled like history, his house, the slim chance that I would finally make sense of my defunct love. I opened it and started to read the first paragraph, I was immediately drawn in to the prose. Simple, eloquent, a vortex. I placed it back where I had kept it on the top of my armoire, almost out of site, a sticking point, surely one day to be returned to my now "ex" boyfriend.

A BRIEF STOP IN ALLSTON

I've lived in a few places, Connecticut, Brooklyn, but none more memorable than scenic Allston, Massachusetts. A total dump of a place, a low rent district on the outskirts of the B.U. campus, my parents said that I could have whatever money it cost them to house me in the Boston U dorms, I ran the numbers, I would make a pretty profit if I moved off campus.

I met my roommate in the theater department, she was studying scene design. Wendy jumped all over me when she heard I was seeking lodging off campus, and promised to stop smoking by the time I moved in.

It was a dank basement apartment, but Wendy sweetened the deal with a can of paint and an offer to coat the cigarette stained walls by the first of the month. I had a couple of lawn chairs, a neon clock, and a 1940's mannequin head that gave a living room a cool retro look. I did more of a country theme in my bedroom with some old apple crate art I had framed, a vintage hutch, and a quilt thrown over a mattress and box spring I had centered against the wall, my time spent working for Martha Stewart had a sweet design influence on my subterranean chamber. Things were OK at first, Wendy seemed over the moon that I was her roommate, and we were only a couple blocks away from the best pizza place in Brooklyn, T. Anthony's - where I had spent a couple of semesters honing my eating disorder skills with some of the other girl's in the dorm.

Wendy's room was less than refined, it smelled of dirty laundry, the floor would have been a great landing strip for a faulty mosh pit. Jeans, sheets, mismatched pillow cases, all these smells intermingling with the ever growing pile that was now being fed by her new boyfriend's dirty flannel shirts and jeans. I never saw a light turned on in there, I wasn't sure if all the bulbs were burned out, or if she, in fact, had any lighting in there at all. She seemed to be happy with whatever residual light was being thrown off the urine colored glow of the bathroom light as she picked out the day's "look" from the bedroom floor: one of two pairs of 501's she owned, and a choice of 5 faded navy blue t-shirts. She was kind of a pretty girl, but she did her best to hide it. Her boyfriend seemed fond enough of her in spite of, or because of her stage-techie de rigueur. They would spend hours in her dirty laundry padded cell with the door almost closed, the door nob was missing, and I would have to shade my eyes as I passed, I was scared that I might catch a glimpse of their dirty laundry love making. Eventually, I would hear her emerge from their sex cell, the door in desperate need of some WD-40. She would throw a used condom in our communal wastebasket in the tiny bathroom, grab a 2 liter bottle of Diet Coke, her pack of Salem Menthols, and pad back to the bedroom in her navy t-shirt and beige panties. Contrary to our verbal contract, Wendy had never kicked the habit.

I kept my bedroom immaculately clean, Wendy's bedroom had become a cautionary tale to me. The living room was similarly kept by me, but the kitchen was Wendy's domain, as I never set foot in it. Her previous "roommates" had never moved out, when she flicked the switch they all went for cover under the stove she used for the only dish I ever saw her cook - a cooked-on grease-stained cookie sheet scattered with tater tots. On her nights off from Romeo she would sit at the kitchen table in her t-shirt and beige panties, selecting the next desirable tater tot from the tray with one hand, with a lit Camel Menthol in the other. This would go on during what was usually laundry night - which consisted of soaking one of the two pairs of Levi's she owned in the bathroom sink with dish liquid, the shower rod serving as her cost efficient dryer. The drip-drip of the water from the jeans hitting the dirty bathtub became a makeshift Chinese Water Torture to me.

It wasn't all bad, a couple of girls moved upstairs from us, although they didn't look like any of the girls I knew back in Westport, or even in the dorms at B.U. They had shoe polish black hair, wore a lot of tank tops without bras, and had tattoos the likes that I had only seen on some of the Irish boys who lived on the wrong side of the tracks back in Connecticut. But they were fun, funny, and friendly. One morning I was approaching the building after doing a load of laundry, the girls were on the stoop smoking, and asked me if I wanted to come up for some coffee. I didn't drink coffee, but it sounded more enticing than going home where I would be met with a sink full of dirty dishes, Diet Coke empties, and the ever growing heap of Camel Menthol butts that covered all but the rim of the dusty topaz ashtray that doubled as a centerpiece on our kitchen table.

I went upstairs with the girls, they had a fair amount of light in there, it smelled a bit of old smoke and something else I couldn't quite identify - still, it was fun hanging out with the funny bad girls all before breakfast. The tall skinny one got out three mismatched coffee mugs while the short skinny one grabbed some bottle of booze - they married the two liquids in the three cups and rolled a joint. I was now regretting not stopping at the donut shop on my way home, I would have missed all of this, but it was too late. The substances were taking over, I was trying to act cool while I took in their prison-esque ink and their black bras that littered the kitchen floor. Just as they took a pass on my offer to go for breakfast, two men emerged from somewhere, they dropped a roll of bills on the table in front of us, stole a couple of butts from the cigarette pack on the table and went out the front door with a groggy "see ya". I never ran into the rock n roll looking fellas, or the girls again, for I would be leaving Allston by the end of that coming month.

I had grown quite depressed, my boyfriend and I had broken up before I moved out of the dorm, and he had started sleeping with some of the boys in the theater department. Seemed everyone had someone to love, Wendy and her man rolling around in the dirty laundry room, the girl's upstairs with their mystery men, but I was completely alone, curled up under my antique quilt. I soon met a handsome boy on my way home to visit my parents in Connecticut, he was sitting across the way from me on the Amtrak train. He looked exactly like John Cougar Mellencamp, he was wearing a gas station attendants shirt that said "Phil". It was actually his name, but the shirt was for affect - he was a student and artist attending Tufts Museum School. I gave him my number and didn't hear from him for awhile. I had given up hope and was sobbing in my Martha Stewart bedroom when Wendy tapped on my door and opened it, holding a lit cigarette. "Someone named 'Philip' is on the phone for you," she said flatly as she pulled on the 100 feet of tangled phone cord so that it could make it's way over to my bed. We went on a date that night, and the rest was history. He was smart, looked like Mellencamp, and lived in a huge loft on the South Side of Boston. He worked nights as a waiter at one of the best restaurants in Boston, he had cash to burn and wined and dined me mercilessly until I was spending almost every night cuddled up next to him in his loft bed in the heat-challenged loft; I was in love.

But Wendy had a bone to pick with me when I returned home one morning to fetch a fresh batch of clothes from my Shabby Chic bedroom. She said that I had broken a contract to be there, to be her roommate, friend, confident - which was surprising, she spent most of the time behind the cracked door with her boyfriend, and had nary offered me a single tot. I shrugged, inhaling the second hand smoke of the cigarette she had promised to snub out before my move-in date, I called Phil to confer and he got a friend's station wagon and moved me out that Sunday. I never made it back to Allston, not even for T. Anthony's pizza. I was loft living now, with real Punk Rockers living upstairs, performance artists in the loft next door, and a motorcycle jacket manufacturer below us, life was sweet.

I must have run into Wendy at school after that, but I don't remember, I had moved on from Allston, and Boston University pretty much altogether. I spent my days skipping school watching Philip paint, or riding his bicycle around the expansive loft. We would cook and have large parties, a girl he knew from school came up to me at one of them and said, "you sleep with Phil?" I nodded at her downgrading of my girlfriend status, she went on, "so did I, he's terrible, how do you stand it." It was true, our first night together was horrible, lasting all of 58 seconds, and it never improved; but he was a wonderful guy, showed me all the cool stuff in Boston, made me dinner, I decided early on he was the one.

A year later we moved to Brooklyn, I had gotten my first advertising job in New York, and Phil joined me in New york shortly thereafter. The years took their toll on the relationship, I'd had a sexual awakening in the halls of my ad agency, everyone was dirty, drunk a lot of the time, and fun. Philip and I had grown apart, he was working nights at The River Cafe, I was working days. I offered him a chance to work on things, to get counseling, he took a pass - he wasn't much for communicating, so we both moved on. Many moons after that, Wendy resurfaced, turns out she lived in Brooklyn, too, she friended me on Facebook. Her profile picture seemed as though it was professionally shot. It was showing off her new husband, a very wasp-y looking man. It was a close up of them on a sailboat, gazing into each other's eyes, apparently she'd ditched the Levi's and flannel, and possibility the beige panties judging by the look of longing in her Wasp's eyes. I commented on the photo, "Very romance novel!!" She de-friended me immediately, but that was always the way with us, Wendy and I could never find our groove.

I don't think of Allston much, I lived there for all of a couple of months. But every time I see an overflowing ashtray, a used condom in the street, or a tray full of lingering tater tot grease I look back with a certain fondness and vow to never, ever go back there again.

WORTHY

You look at me like a miracle;
don’t wanna let you down.

Sending me a love song
that’s hard for me to hear.

You say I saved your life
while I look down at the floor.

Or put it in a love letter;
was this thing meant for me.

All you ask is that I hold you
but you deserve much more.

If only I could love myself
as sweetly as you love me.

MY BIGGEST LESSON

You grew up on the wrong side of Brooklyn
saving up for your house in the country since you were 10

You write “your” instead of “you’re”
in the most eloquent letter I’ve ever read

I know you’re not a rich guy
but you make damned sure I feel loved

To think I might have dissed you
my biggest lesson in love

YOUR TO-DO LIST

You’re spread too thin
they call and you come
just one last favor
your version of fun

Mr. Fix-Her-Upper
you now gotta run
“Whatever, it’s fine”
‘till I’m finally done

Go re-pot her plants
go spackle her cracks
Then you want me nekkid?
Don’t even aks!

This feels kind of weird
ya don’t wanna hear it
you say as you leave
your baby mom’s therapist

I tried to be cool
tell myself you’re too nice
but I know that it’s just
your detaching device

So go and get handy
with damsel on line 2
this is me hanging up
on your list of to-do's

LOSS

Such harrowing sorrow
for one so young.
Her dog taken this morning,
now she sleeps with the loss.

A woman sells a ring,
a loss forces the sale.
She sells it online, under
“mewithoutyou”

Loss loves a party;
my friend,
her daughter,
their just rescued dog.
A stranger selling a ring.
A father losing his job.

These losses remind me
of my dad dying young,
my mom’s distant memory,
my name lost in the fog;
all lost
in this loss.