Spring/NYC/2022

A brief-ish check-in

• I saw a man try to fight a bus yesterday. He was so angry. I don’t know what the bus had done to him personally but he screamed at the bus and chased the bus. The bus got away.
• The tombs of the ancient pharaohs of Egypt were filled with treasures and that’s how I spent this past winter. I sealed myself in my apartment. Inside my tomb: a flatscreen TV, a comfortable couch, a one-eyed dog. Pillows. Comic books. My ex kept the instant pot when we broke up. But I kept the cast iron Dutch oven. I thought that was fair. I wore masks in the building, dutifully, the whole time, to do laundry or pick up mail or walk my dog outside. But other than that, I sat in my one-bedroom in Harlem and waited for one of two outcomes: death or Spring.
• I went for a walk because the sun was out and right there, in the middle of the sidewalk, was a dead rat. The rat was plump and it wasn’t mauled. It looked like it was napping, actually. So I shouted “hey, rat!” and it did not move, so I walked around it.
• The park is mud and tiny purple violets punching their way through the soil like zombies crawling up and out of their graves. But mostly mud. That didn’t stop a couple from enjoying their first picnic of the season. Their blanket will need to be washed because the ground was wet and thawing, and there won’t be a carpet of lush green grass for weeks. These lovers stretched out next to each other, their feet in the soft dirt, and then she rolled on top of him and straddled him and they kissed, deeply, as if they shared a tongue.
• I can tell the difference between the pop-pop-pop of a gun and the whoosh-kaboom and cracka-cracka-cracka of fireworks. Anyway, it’s that time of year again.
• I had a relapse dream for the first time in a long, long time. I haven’t had a drink in almost twelve years but in my dream, I was back at the bar tossing back bourbon after bourbon and Hakeem is sitting in front of the jukebox selecting another Pink Floyd classic and my nerves are burning but I feel nothing. I feel nothing because, inside, I am nothing. Not even an echo. There was a time I was terrified of quitting drinking, which I imagined was like waking up during surgery. So in the dream, I walk outside, high-fiving alcoholics on the way, and light up a Parliament, and the night air is fresh. This is my life, I think. Nothing will change. Forever shitfaced. I inhale deeply, and I can smell the trees and then my eyes snapped open, and outside my window, birds chirped before dawn.
• The barber was huge, a boulder of a man, his thin hair slicked back. He wore a black v-neck t-shirt tucked into dark green slacks. His silver belt buckle shined, and so did his black leather shoes. A thin mustache floated above his top lip. His fingers were thick like mozzarella sticks, maybe one knuckle per digit, but he held his tiny scissors with skill. Snip, snip, snip. I needed a haircut. I looked like the famous black and white movie wolfman, my head and face covered in fur. I wanted a change, too. A low-stakes change, though. I wanted it to be easy. I apologized for my unkempt beard and I joked that I had enough hair to make a sweater and he did not respond. I praised his work and he was silent. I gave him a large tip and he said nothing. Not even “have a nice day.” I look good though. Cleaned-up. I ran home immediately, locked the door behind me, and took a hundred selfies.
• The news is ugly—my feeds are nothing but war and sickness and hate — so I deleted all the social media apps on my phone and then re-installed them the next day.
• I opened my windows and cleaned my apartment. I vacuumed up all the dog hair. Scrubbed the bathtub of grime. Dusted. My sheets are clean now. Bath towels, too. Do you want to come over? I searched my pantry for foods beyond the expiration date and I threw away a lot of oatmeal but there were some canned goods that I kept in case there is a nuclear war. I collected all my masks, dozens stashed next to my bed, and in books marking pages and in pockets and stuffed them in the kitchen junk drawer. In that junk drawer, I found my engagement ring. I had forgotten that’s where I had hidden it.
• There’s a guy who hangs outside my corner bodega and asks for money, very politely and very persistently, and I give him pocket change when I can, sometimes a buck, I bought him an egg and cheese on a roll once. I think he lives around the corner, actually. I don’t know why he’s asking for money but he’s part of the neighborhood and he’s never rude. Everyone knows him. Maybe he’s someone’s son or cousin or, like, just a local dude who can’t catch a break. There are times he looks stoned but who am I to judge, right? The cops leave him alone, for now. I went out late for dish soap the other night and he didn’t ask me for a dollar he just said “you be careful out there” and I responded, “you too.”
• The pandemic isn’t over. But I’m making plans anyway. First, I want to see my therapist in person. His name is Gary and he is very gentle and funny and we have been talking via computer screen for so very long, like two astronauts on separate spaceships communicating, back and forth. I want to fly to Texas to see my mom. We have old movies to watch, together. I want to eat barbecue with my fingers across from my brother. I want to go to a crowded beach and a crowded museum and a crowded street fair, the kind where socks and sausage and peppers are cheap. I want to eat popcorn the way God intended, by the handful, in public, watching a vampire movie. I’m making plans. They’re just plans right now. I close my eyes and wonder when they will happen. Soon, I hope.
• It is time to listen to Jesus Christ Superstar on repeat.
• I hung out with an old friend I had not seen since long before the plague. I thought hugging was one of those things you never forget how to do, like riding a bicycle. But it took a couple of tries before he and I worked out the embrace, which was warm but short. Two, three backslaps. And then we slowly removed our masks in front of each other. We spoke to each other as if we were both returning from long voyages to the edge of the world: what news? I’m fatter, he’s balder. I’m newly single, he’s still married, his husband hasn’t left him yet. We laugh. It’s funny because it hurts. We’re both getting older. The world is getting warmer. I mention saving for retirement and we roll our eyes. I mention they’re banning books, he brings up an uncle, who thinks vaccines are poison. We laugh, again, but it’s a weaker laugh. The restaurant is empty but noisy. After the hummus was served, we both stopped talking. It’s all too much. Everything. For a brief moment, we were small and quiet, together.
• I forgot the number one rule of living in New York City and that is to never make eye contact with someone on the subway but I did because she wasn’t wearing a mask. There were about a half dozen of us, all masked. One dude’s nose was poking out, over his mask, inhaling all the molecules in the car but, you know, thanks for trying? Her eyes were red like she had been crying or drinking. We stared at each other and I telepathically told her I wasn’t judging her for not wearing a mask and she telepathically responded “I don’t care.”
• It’s “eat a slice of pizza over a trash can” weather. Soon, it will be ice cream truck season.
• I want to wear short shorts. I want to show my legs to the world, like a can-can dancer. It is still too brisk but soon. Behold my thighs. Aren’t my calves muscular? I want to walk around in short shorts and a tank top, one foot after the other, my legs wobbly and my eyes squinting because the cold Spring sun is too bright. I am Persephone, goddess of growing things and queen of the underworld, free from the deathly grip of my husband, and I bring with me new life, green and colorful and lush, flowers bloom in the footprints I leave behind.
• I took my dog for a walk after a brief, lazy drizzle. You could tell the chilly little raindrops were disappointed they were not born snowflakes. I whispered to myself “maybe I should get off these SSRIs” and then I forgot about that and later I watched a new Disney movie about family and I cried. My dog watched me with her one good eye. She went blind in the other one last year, and that eye is cloudy and she can see into the future with it.
• I met someone. We talk on the phone a lot. It’s spring now and when we see each other, we smile.