Characters, or, Accidentally On Purpose

Six Acts of Faith

On the 4 express train heading into Manhattan from the very end of the line. I was doing the AM New York crossword, same as every morning. It gave me something to do for an hour and fifteen minutes every day on my way to Midtown East, and every day I tried to finish it before I got off at 59th. I spotted a gorgeous guy in jeans that really knew what they were doing, and noticed he was also doing the crossword. I knew what I had to do — I tapped his shoulder, and his brain.

Was this the streetcar named Desire?

“Did you figure out fourteen down? The clue is ‘Hollywood’.”

“Yeah, TINSELTOWN.”

(I knew it was Tinseltown.)

“Thanks.”

I’d made the first move and was hoping a natural flow of conversation would begin, but he didn’t bite. I was relying on him to continue our rapport.

Like Blanche Dubois, I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers.

In my bed next to a boy with a handsome face and enviable body. My familiarity with him included his name and what he wanted me to do to him. The light streamed into the room through the leaves of a tree whose home was directly outside my window.

Was this the tree that grows in Brooklyn?

We were doing the hanging-out-naked thing that lazy lovers do. He’d never seen “Clueless”, so there we were, queuing up a movie and ordering pad thai. A boy, a movie, and an early dinner delivered to me without my having to speak to anyone. Technology is simply amazing.

“The fashion in 1995 was so excellent,” I said, as Dionne arrived at the Val party in a floral long-sleeved crop top and black A-line skirt, flanked by Cher in her classic Calvin Klein.

“Oh, the year I was born,” he commented offhandedly.

Like Francie Nolan, I understood the magic of learning things.

In a stranger’s bedroom at 2pm on a Saturday. My familiarity with him included his name and what he wanted to do to me. He was also John, but his beard, tattoos and muscles made us a study in contrasts. I normally don’t go for guys who I read as unattainable as a means of self-preservation, but I took a chance and here I was.

Was this the year of magical thinking?

“I have house guests,” he whispered. “So we have to be quiet.”

“Sure,” I sighed, looking around his apartment.

I forgot about the quiet rule or, more likely, didn’t care about it in the first place. His aesthetics led me to believe he would be more aggressive, but that wasn’t the case. His passivity was unexpected but, I mean, not entirely unwelcome. Afterward, we chatted about the art that papered his walls for a couple minutes before I hurried out. On the short train ride home, I considered what they say about books and covers. I guess I shouldn’t assume people’s sexual proclivities right off the bat, but

like Joan Didion, imagining what someone would say or do comes to me as naturally as breathing.

At a fashion week after-party chatting with a PR rep for the designer whose show we were celebrating.

“I’m, like, sooooo busy this week,” he lamented. “I’ve been working such long days, thank god for coke amirite?”

In PR, busy-ness is the default barometer for success. This was unbearably New York, but when in Rome:

“Can I have a bump?”

We went to the bathroom.

Was this nineteen eighty-four?

Everybody always going-going-going as if they had somewhere new to be when they were just moving around in the same circles. We drank too many of the bar’s complimentary custom cocktails and took the train together back to his apartment.

He wouldn’t sleep with me unless we went on a proper date. I guess we all have our small rules. Sure I was blindsided, but respectful. I just wished he had told me sooner than when we were in bed.

“We’ll go for dinner some time,” I told him as we fell asleep.

I never called.

Like Julia, I believed if you kept the small rules, you could break the big ones.

Twenty minutes early for a date with a guy I had a silent workplace crush on for two years, but who I always thought was straight. He was older, and I was anxious. I showed up at the place where we were meeting ahead of time in order to take exactly two shots of Jameson to calm my nerves.

“I’m meeting someone here for a date and he’ll be here soon,” I blurted out to the bartender. “This never happened and we’ve never spoken.” The liquid courage burned and I wondered if I was doing the right thing.

Was this Fahrenheit 451?

The date was good, but he disclosed halfway through that he was moving to Pittsburgh. At the end of our date we kissed and parted ways.

“I’ll never see this dude again in my life,” I accepted.

Aaaaaand a year later I would take a Megabus to Pittsburgh to spend the weekend. We slept together, smoked too much weed, and watched “To Wong Foo Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar” three times in one day.

I knew there was no potential for us, so I let him down easy. For years and to this day he still hits me up everywhere from Facebook to LinkedIn, including the occasional “in BK u around?” text. But there’s no reason to continue something with a guy long-distance if nothing significant was being worked toward.

Like Professor Faber, I figured that those who don’t build must burn.

At a bar in the East Village.

Them: a handsome couple.

Me: into it.

After shooting the shit for a couple hours, slowly getting less lucid, we all went back to their place.

Were they the sirens of titan?

I’m usually very good at picking up on signs, but none I had seen that night pointed to one of the guys going straight to bed as soon as we got there.

“It is what it is, I guess,” I thought to myself. “I’m already here, it’s 5am, and my phone’s dead.”

The next day I woke up hungover and went home.

“Shit!”

I forgot my phone at their place.

“Get it together,” I instructed myself.

I found a way to meet up with Sleeping Beauty to retrieve my belongings. It wasn’t until the next day that I realized I’d also left my favorite hat at their place. I was so over this situation. Consider it a sacrifice to the one-night stand goddesses.

Like Malachi Constant, I was a victim of a series of accidents, as are we all.

This piece was originally read at Potluck Magazine’s Issue 1 release party (you should check them out, they’re great people). It has been edited.

Header: a wonderful rendering of Salo from “Sirens of Titan” I found on this Geocities page.