Keep a Place for Me
I left New York City exactly a year ago today; Sunday 28th August, 2016. I remember this day because it’s hard to forget, also because www.itstherub.com. I believe I had the quintessential last night in Brooklyn. It started out where most of our nights started — The Commodore. As always, we hustled a table in the back patio, because they obviously don’t take reservations, it is a dive-bar after all. Piña coladas, nachos, fried chicken, more piñas; another table, another piña; more friends, their friends, mosquitos, piñas, snacks from Whole Foods, beers, hugs and tears.
Then, a rooftop party two blocks away. The party was well into its flow — we hiked up the narrow staircase and landed on a roof that was not built to withstand 100+ people. The “dance floor” felt like was about to collapse, but no one seemed to care. Safety, a loosely defined concept; it was either a center that you could fall through, or an edge you could fall off.
We danced to funky-disco house mixed with some old Latino stuff; the music was good, inconsistent and unexpected — but we were just warming up. An hour later I found my friends had started another party in the apartment downstairs — consistently good hip-hop. We danced around the living room table as if we were at a club and this was table service. I saw a bedroom door unhinged, leaning on a wall; and a lot of messiness, in all sense of the word. It was time to go to The Rub.
The Rub is a no-fuss monthly old school / new school hip-hop party in Gowanus. We walked into The Bell House munching on bags of chips — Pirate’s Booty — to be exact, and went straight to the bar to refuel. A few hours of dancing ensued, with friends and strangers alike. Our dance group expanded and contracted following only the rhyme and rhythm of the night. When the party was over, everyone headed back to our place; with a 4am pitstop at the deli, naturally. My sandwich was called ‘Who Killed Gertrude Stein’, other hilarious names were the ‘Kanye Interrupt’ and ‘Still A Vegan’. The night was perfectly capped with snacks, smokes and naps.

The next morning, my roommate Christa and I went for a our last friendship walk around the neighborhood, and had brunch at the Lighthouse. I left NY when Frank Ocean had finally released Blonde. Mr Ocean has a magical way of making you feel his music is written with you in mind. I listened to the album religiously (skipping the skits), as I biked through the streets one last time. I genuinely believed that Ivy was a heartbroken love song for me and the city; “I thought that I was dreaming when you said you loved me”.
Exit songs were crucial elements of me and Christa’s mornings before heading to work. My final exit song was the saddest of all — “keep a place for me, for me”. (That’s why I left her my mattress).

