I spend my days below 14th St. and generally above Canal. I’ve had girlfriends. I’ve been in love. I’ve had my heart ripped out and handed to me by numerous women. I’ve done my share of ripping too. These are stories of my New York.
Most women have rules about first dates. These rules are bullshit and always subject to circumstance, but they invent them nonetheless. We look at each other and clearly she wants to start breaking rules. We are heading south now and discussing the potential of a second date. I think about how things can go further, beyond the borders of our exchange on the stoop. I run with the idea and together we devise a plan. I’m scripting our movie, my rescue. I’ll wait outside while she changes, the separation and new outfit will be enough to qualify the next part of our evening as second date. More potential.
Night has fallen and we are walking south towards Tribeca; we are still going strong. Veronica is in jeans now, and a blue and white striped dress shirt with a strand of pearls. The shirt (something from the Donald Trump book of style) and the pearls create this look that’s one pair of glasses shy of naughty secretary. It’s not a Ludlow street kinda vibe but I’m liking it, and her. We keep talking, bridging the gap between our outer selves. When I was fourteen I’d have died to have someone. Someone who understands the urgency of discussing everything important and deep as soon as possible. Someone to tell all my secrets. Secrets are like a creased and faded ticket stub from a concert in junior high. In my wallet for years, just smudged paper now, disintegrating before my eyes. But I know what it said and I touch it and I’m there. And the secrets are old and weathered but they’re the same. And all I ever wanted was someone with the same ticket stub. And tonight isn’t that but it’s something. And I try to be open to possibility. And I try not to put expectations on her. And I try not to force her into some puddle of adolescence. And I’m just letting go and letting it be whatever it is.
Then Veronica asks something out of left field.
“Why does your lip look scarred like that?”
A wave of shame pushes me under and for a moment I’m disoriented. Embarrassment like salt water runs up my nose and my chest flutters. I’m fighting myself for air, for words.
“Well Um… Well when I was like 15… I had Like a uh… cold sore that was really fucked up and it ended up sorta scaring my lip. And it just, uh, looks like this. This was ages ago, I think it’s been eight years or more since I had a cold sore.”
God I felt so ashamed. So less. She changes the subject, and seems to not care that much. And here was someone that might accept. Another wave of shame crashes and I’m spinning again, thinking about shit that happened before. Before New York. And the shame is sating. And I’m not good enough. And there is proof. And we walk on. Second Date. Deep in Tribeca now, Everywhere are forgotten loading docks and bumpy black steel steps with little X’s rising for foot traction. It’s dark and lonely and I kinda understand why so may celebrities live down here, and I can’t contemplate why anyone else would. Veronica spots rats from across the street and freaks out.
“Oh My god Rats!”
“UH you live in New York, rats are every where who cares?”
“God I can’t look, get me away get me AWAY!!!”
I threaten to stir their nest and send them her way; she is not amused. And she’s that girl that’s afraid of rats. I don’t want her to have one as a pet, but some chick being scared of some rats in New York seems a little retarded. I push the envelope a little walking towards the rats. Like in a cartoon the rope that binds us is taut with a candle precariously close. Our copulation swings in danger on the end of the line. Every step I take towards the rats the candle’s flame burns brighter and a bit of rope fiber pops dramatically, revealing frayed ends. If I push on, actually fuck with the rats, the rope will snap and she’ll never see me again. I want to push it, to fuck with her, push the line to the limits of its test, then reel us back in hopefully unharmed. I’m moving towards the rats when I realize how bright the candle is burning and how close to peril I’m taking this. I let go of the rat thing and we walk on.
We head north north, satisfied with our survey of these outlands. I note to myself that Tribecca is hospitable territory and not for me, ill equipped twenty six year old. Coffee at a cafe near her house, and its getting late for her. We talk on anyway, finding common ground. A spit of sand between the oceans of our difference. I’m exploring; looking for fertility and mineral rich soil. Somewhere to start building together. It never occurs to me that she might not be doing the same. That maybe all that’s happened tonight is she’s decided to forget the night earlier in the week and not give this puppy back to the pound just yet. When we kiss goodnight that’s the end. We do not go back to her place even though it’s only two blocks away. On my walk home I consider turning around, sending a text, doing something large, something movie like. Let this night end perfect, with sex, the way it should end. I do nothing. Let’s not push it. I walk east across Bleeker filled with the anticipation of our future. I think that I’ve found someone.
