The D Train to Brooklyn

     I like the air here. It is sweet with boutique botanicals. Someday, I want to live above the shop with the Star Wars memorabilia. I’ll be on the third floor. There is no view except for the third floor across, but I am sure there are beautiful people on the other side of the street.  I can’t afford it right now. Things can change.

     Some places feel like home. The scattered leaves on concrete could be my front yard. The record store on the corner would be my favorite shop. The guy behind the counter is cooler than I will ever be. We will talk about rare boots and Japanese exports all day. He’d know me by name and buy me a beer. I’d refuse and pick up the tab. That’s how it would be. 

     It is not that the sun is brighter in Manhattan or that God loves you any more here. It’s just different. Are people nicer here? Maybe I’m just more open to their good graces. The girl at the deli smiles at me like we have a history. I wish we did.

     The streets grow darker than the sky. If there was an empty bench on Thompson street I would sleep all night beneath the city’s glow. Instead I’m looking for railings on the sidewalk. I have a passage to make.

     You and I don’t know each other. I assume we have the same dreams. Twenty seven dollars a week lets us go where we want, but we’d rather stay where we are. Instead we are crammed in a tube, some of us standing, all of us leaning towards our destination. One guy sings and another dances. It’s not for us, it’s for their own amusement, and no one cares or pays attention. The whoosh of air steals my breath. The lights pass like a strobe. This is my club. 

     The platform at Prospect Park is quiet except for the chattering of teenagers making out in the shadows. I walk past the murals and decals and graffiti to my street. In Little Haiti the Haitians speak French. I don’t know what they mean. 

     The bodega on the corner is adjacent to another bodega on the corner and they both carry the same goods. One is owned by Fermin, the other is And Sons. I am thirsty and want a drink. I lament, do all the drinks in SoHo have papaya too?

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     To say that alcohol is insidious is not original. It is just such a fitting adjective that no other word works as well. God knows you love to drink. Ever since your first high school kegger you knew you had found a friend. Through all the fake IDs and underage beer bashes right up to legal age and bar crawling, alcohol had never let you down. The biggest difference is that all those excursions happened somewhere else.
     You didn’t drink at home. You always had a bottle or two of the good stuff, but that was mostly for show. Drinking in public happens at a staggered pace. Either it’s so packed you can’t drink as much as you want or you have to worry about getting home in one piece or you just don’t want to make a fool of yourself. There aren’t the same limitations when you are sitting on your couch.
     The three drinks you’d have each night at the bar soon become six when you have them at home. Heather even joins you sometimes. She has her wine and you have your supersized rum and coke. You sit close to each other on the couch, playing footsies in Milo’s soft belly fur as he sleeps.
     You talk about the stupid little annoyances in your life and she shares hers.  Together you mock the people you dislike and praise the ones you do. You daydream out loud and make great plans. Just when you think you can talk all night you run out of words. In the silence you kiss and Heather lets you know the night is over, but you have one more thing to say.
     “I couldn’t do this without you.”
     She buries her head in the nape of your neck. You keep talking.
     “I have been through so much the last couple of months. You don’t even know. I never thought it was going to be like this. You are the one thing in my life that is any good. I love you so much.”
     She murmurs, “I love you, too.”
     “I hope our whole life we are as in love as we are right now.”
     She gives you a wry grin and says, “We will be. Let’s go to bed.”
     She stands up, straddling you on the couch and you say, “Let me finish my drink. I’ll be right there.”
     She replies, “Don’t be long.” And proceeds to the bedroom.
     You sit on the couch and drink your cocktail, alone with your thoughts. When it’s gone you have another. In the morning you wake up on the couch while Heather makes breakfast in the kitchen. You try to laugh at how drunk you were. You say that you couldn’t resist Milo’s hairy yellow butt so you had sex with the dog instead. Heather doesn’t laugh or smile or acknowledge your attempts at humor. She gives you a little peck on the cheek and, as she leaves for work, reminds you not to be late for your own job.
     That is what insidious is. It is something that seems trivial, but can have a grievous affect. Half the day goes by before you realize that you screwed up. You know you better not pass out on the couch anymore or you’ll be staying there. Even so, it doesn’t stop you from drinking.

A Great Whatever (blog story) 19

     Rich people who say they were happier when they were poor are idiots and liars. Nothing compares to the stress of wondering whether or not you can afford a two dollar gas station hot dog.
     Every day you are tasked with picking up the lunches for your co-workers. It takes an hour or so to gather their twelve dollar cobb salads and thirteen dollar lobster rolls and fourteen dollar Peking duck lunch specials. You always managed to get something for yourself along the way. Not anymore. It isn’t in your budget.
     Most revolutions arise from hunger. The smartest thing any government can do is to make sure that, if they do nothing else, they keep their citizens well feed. Driving in your car, filled with to-go boxes, listening to your stomach growl, you begin to understand Karl Marx. You lament a world so awash in consumerism and greed. You long for a world where people only took what they needed and made sure no one went without. You imagine yourself as Che’ Mark, with a little moustache and a Spanish accent.
     Of course, communism is stupid. You are a part of the capitalist world. Hell, you went to school and majored in capitalism. It’s not the damn world’s fault you’re hungry. Then again, it doesn’t help that they treat you like shit at the office. You could afford grilled tuna steak for lunch if they paid you a living wage.
     On the way back you stop at a liquor store and buy a cheap bottle of vodka and some breath mints. In the parking lot you strategically steal a bite from each meal and wash it down with New Jersey’s version of Russia’s finest. At the office nobody notices that their lunches have been tampered with. You go to your desk, which you aren’t supposed to sit at, take out your laptop and log on to Facebook. No one bothers you the rest of the day. Hooray for the little guy.

A Great Whatever (blog story) 18

     At the end of the month, the thousand dollars your father placed in your bank account was much less than the half he said it would be. It wasn’t even enough to cover rent. Heather was helping a little, but there no way you were going to ask for more. When added to your monthly paycheck you were bringing in twenty five hundred dollars. It is a lot for some. You were used to getting four grand a month.
     You felt irresponsible for not saving more money in the past. It never seemed to matter. You bought things you didn’t need. Things you didn’t really want. Now you were slowly draining what little money you had in the bank. It began to gnaw at you.
     Heather kept her word and learned how to cook. She relished in it. Every day would be a new concoction and often they were good. Cooking became a hobby, bordering on an obsession. You thought eating at home would be an economical way to save money, but Heather did not make casseroles and meatloaf. Everything she made she got from cooking shows where they made fine meals with expensive ingredients.  
     Once, in a grocery store while Heather filled up your basket with rare and exotic ingredients, you broke out into a sweat. You thought to yourself that you could eat mac and cheese. Not the homemade stuff with four types of cheeses and pieces of lobster. You could eat the stuff that comes in a box. Toss in a can of tuna and maybe some peas. That’s all you needed. You wondered what truffle oil is for and if it wasn’t there would it even be missed. The deal was she took care of the cooking and you took care of the food.  You got the bad end of that one.
     You wanted to call your father and ask for more money. How could he cut your allowance like that? How were you supposed to live? You passed time trying to devise the perfect argument, it couldn’t be done. There was a reason he only gave you what he did and as far he was concerned it was a good one. You can’t change a mind made up. Besides, you were a man.
     It was work you resented. You make less money that a taxi driver and you have a business degree. It was unfair. You decided you needed to find a new job. Of course, the first thing you were going to do is let the anger fester. That’s how people change. They make themselves sick.
     Sitting at the table watching Milo dig into his bowl of kibble you consider yourself lucky that he doesn’t eat swordfish. You sure wish you didn’t.

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     The idea that no news is good news is nonsense. Good news is good news. The lack of news just means things are the same. You were relieved though that when you and Heather went to spend a Saturday with your parents your mother looked fine and didn’t act sick at all. No one broached the subject and you didn’t ask, but still you had some lingering suspicions.
     Whether or not your mother was well did not seem to have an impact on your money situation. It did not seem to make as much difference as your living situation. You felt wholly justified in wondering why Heather had to have her own place. It made sense that if the two of you were going to get married you should combine your resources. You waited till you were alone at diner to discuss the subject.
     “I want us to move in together.”
     She gives you a quizzical look. “We do live together."
      “I mean really. I think we should just have one place together. Not you with your place and me with mine. We share my place, but you still have your place on the side. If you got rid of your place we could live together in our place.”
     “Are you trying to confuse me?”
     “No. I just feel like if we’re in this together then we should be all in. Having your own place means you still have a foot out the door.” You wonder if you should have said that. It seems like the kind of thing that could backfire. Fortunately, she interprets it as vulnerability, which it primarily is.
     “I live with you all day, every day. I’m not going anywhere. I have to keep my own place. My parents insist I have it. I don’t know why, but they’re paying for it. We can use it as a storage locker with a view.”
     This does make you feel better even if it only solves half of your problem. You decide to put all your cards on the table. “I might need help with rent.”
     “Why?”
     “My dad. He didn’t cut me off. He cut me back. Work doesn’t really pay me much. I have enough to cover everything important, but not for anything else. I figured if we split some of the costs I’d have a little more wiggle room.”
     She begins to suspect that what she thought was you exposing your feelings may be just an excuse to ask her for money. “Are you broke?”
     “No. But, take for example this diner in a nice restaurant is going to cost about eighty dollars. I can do this. We eat out like three, four times a week. I should really only do this once a week or maybe every two weeks.”
     You are losing badly. You struggle to find a way to save the conversation. “I kinda hoped that if we were together and shared everything I wouldn’t have to tell you. I don’t want to make you stay at home because I can’t go out.” You hang your head a little bit for affect and think, well played.
     “Oh, Mark. It’s alright. We go out way too much. We need to stay at home more. And, I can start helping out with the bills. I’ll learn to cook.”
     You give her a smile. “Better you than me.” It worked.
     That night instead of coming home with you she decided to go to her place and pack up more stuff to bring over. Lying alone in bed with the dog you felt the self-satisfaction of a man who got what he wanted. Then again, you were alone, so it was more like a partial victory.

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     Once Heather got what she wanted she could not be happier. Overnight she changed into the caricature of a Disney maiden. You even caught her singing and dancing with Milo. It was adorable how she held his little puppy hands as they clumsily sashayed around the room. You couldn’t help but be overwhelmed at how perfect everything seemed to be.
     Even work was not such a bother anymore. You did what you were told and stayed out of everyone’s way, which is how they liked it. You didn’t even care if they kept you on or not. The future seemed a very long ways away. Right now life was good.
     When your father called to tell you that your mother was sick it blindsided you. He didn’t want to go into details. That only made it worse as imagination is often more sinister than reality. You wanted to press him but thought better of it. People need to come to terms with things in their own minds before they can present them to someone else.
     He needed to cut your allowance in half. He’d been missing work. The markets weren’t doing so well. He had his own bills to pay. He just forked over a boat load of money for a ring. They were all absolutely legitimate reasons. The truth was that something was very wrong.
     You took it in stride. You were a twenty two year old man, almost twenty three, and you were still receiving a monthly check from your parents like a teenager. That ship was bound to sail sooner or later. The only thing you felt was concern for your mother.
     Afterwards, a part of you desperately wanted to talk Heather. You needed someone to listen as you worked it all out. Another part wanted nothing to damper what had been two of the happiest months of your life. You were sure she’d understand and give you all the support you needed. Watching her and Milo play tug of war with an old shirt of yours made you realize that there were some things you needed to figure out first.
     You just didn’t want to worry her until you knew more. She had really warmed up to your mother and vice versa. They talked a lot more than you and your mother did, but it was obvious she didn’t know anything. Sadness can bring two people closer together, but there is always the danger that it replaces everything else until all two people have is a joint sense of misery. You didn’t want to bring that into the relationship unless you had no choice.
     In the meantime, changes would need to be made. If she lived with you, and seven days a week is living together, then she should get rid of her apartment. The two of you could split some of the bills. Right now you were paying for everything and she made more money than you. You didn’t need half but anything would help.
     As you tried to figure out your budget in your head you suddenly became grateful that she had not yet set a wedding date. It was an expense you couldn’t cope with right now. Then the more you thought about it you began to wonder why she hadn’t. She’s already decided the font for the invitations, but not the date. You guessed that everyone has some things they need to reconcile before they can move forward.

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     With the engagement officially on Heather wasted no time telling everybody. She even went around showing off the ring she didn’t like, but made sure to point out that it wasn’t the real ring. You winced every time she said that and when she chose the one she did want the price made you do so as well.
     You had led a privileged life so far. Your parents made sure that you got anything you wanted, for the most part. Even so, it had not made you spoiled and you knew better than to take advantage of their generosity. You may have grown up to be glib and cynical, but you were always respectful.
     Meeting your father to give him back the ring was not something you wanted to do. You didn’t want to hurt your mother’s feelings or your father’s. You certainly didn’t want to ask him for the money to buy a new one although you knew he would give it to you. You began with some small talk and nonsense about the weather, but he was a perceptive man and he wasted no time asking what was bothering you.
     “She doesn’t like the ring.”
     He gives you a concerned look as if to wonder whether the engagement off. You feel like you’ve misspoke.
     “I mean, she likes the ring and wants to get married. She just wants her own ring.”
     He pauses to gather what you’re saying then gives out an elongated, “Oh.”
     “She thought it was very pretty, it’s beautiful,  and she’s been shoving it under everyone’s noses saying ‘Look I’m engaged’, but she doesn’t want to take mom’s ring from her, it would make her feel bad and she wants something that has her own history, our history, something that’s just between us.” You’re rambling and need to take a breath. “So, I have to give it back.”
     He knows this is difficult for you and puts one of his big hands on your shoulder. “It’s alright. I understand.”
     “Will mom?”
     “She’ll be okay too.”
     “Are you sure?”
     “Honestly, I think she missed it the moment she took it off her hand.”
     “I guess you know I’m going to need to ask you for money to buy a new one.”
     He takes his hand back and makes a grimace same as when the doctor says you’re going to feel a little prick, but then it stings like hell. “How much?”
     “Twelve grand.”
     This stuns him. “That’s a lot of money.”
     “I know. It’s what she wants.”
     “She wants a lot.” He tries to shake it off. “Is she a movie star?”
     “Nope.”
     “Are you?”
     “Not yet.”
     He gets serious. “How much money do you have?”
     “Not very much.”
     “What about the job?”
     “They aren’t really paying me anything.”
     “They will. Just hang in there.” He succumbs to the realization that there is no way out of this. “When do you need it?”
     “Soon.”
     “I’ll wire the money to your account by the end of the week.”
     “I can’t thank you enough.”
     “No, you can’t.” He gives you a warm smile. “Your future, your happiness is everything to your mother and me.”
     Before he leaves he reminds you of a previous conversation. “Make sure things work out for you at 3B Marketing. Be a go getter. They will pay you what you’re worth. I am going to need you to help pick up the slack. You aren’t cheap. Especially after today.”
     You want to tell him the job sucks and you want to quit. This isn’t the time.