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.
Veronica leaves for a weekend in Nantucket the next day; extended family foots the bill for her summering. My hopes for a storybook whirlwind are dashed by thoughts of her sucking off some fair haired lacrosse captain. My mind sees him, sandy blond, horse cock spilling out of red chinos. Christ, what am I doing making this girl the answer. While she’s gone I go out to my usual spots but I’m removed. I’ve decided I want nothing to do with any other girls, that she will be my girlfriend and I will not touch anyone else now that we’ve found each other. At Black and White, the popular bar on 10th street, my new found resolve is fully tested.
“I liked that t-shirt, I saw you skating at Tompkins, you have such a cute style.”
Holy shit. The girl I’d always wanted to fuck was putting her hand under my shirt and touching my belly as she complements me on my anything but stylish skateboarding, and ironic Bush/Cheney T-shirt. Blood rushes south as I reply with an awkward thank you.
Get out of here now.
“Good to see you again, I’ve got to run, see you soon.”
I grab my board and head for the door. Fuck that was close, I think to myself. I have to not do anything now that I’ve found Veronica. When I call a friend and explain what happened, he says I’m an idiot and to go back and take it down. I consider this suggestion, but skate home instead. Rolling down Second Avenue I pass Lit and think of the Fridays I used to spend there before I had someone. I’m filled with righteousness and anticipation as I round Houston caddy corner from where Whole Foods will open 4 years later.
“I want to spend as much time with you as I can, before I go away.”
I’ve done nothing all month and I need money, Bad. I’m freelancing, doing some work out of town the last week of August. Veronica is still doing her beach thing on weekends so we’ve barely seen each other. She always has something to do. This party, that party, it all sounds like bullshit to me but I don’t care I’m the dog, I’ll take the scraps, and the crumbs, anything. One night she is hits me up late and invites me to meet her at Joe’s Pizza, still on Bleeker and Carmine at this point. There is no hint of sex or anything of that sort, just an offering of discarded time. She is drunk probably, and I’m pathetic when I say yes. I go and just like I thought she is a little wasted. We are back at her place and she is ashamed about eating all this pizza late at night. And the entire situation is little bits of chaos. And I’m lying next to her and she’s a fucking wreck. And I’m not getting any anything I want. And I’m just lying there trying to pretend like this is enough to be here, while she decides to go to sleep. Enough to share forgettable times. And I put my hand around her hoping for some satisfaction, some recognition of what I feel transpiring between us. And she pushes it away and says she does not feel sexual. And as pathetic as I am, I get up and go home, cause I have a line, and I’m way past it now, and this is just insane.
It’s as close to heaven as New York can get. Tompkins Square Park on a mild August day, not a cloud in the sky. Veronica and I are still seeing each other and things have snailed forward. She is only in town for one day before I go away for the last week of August. I assume we are spending it together. I’m relaxing on the benches that line the path that funnels into 9th Street. During my little break from skating, I decide to call her. She wants to go to some party. Without me. I guess my assumptions about our only night were wrong. Christ. It’s not just some party, It’s some fucking Young Republican fundraiser shit that sounds like my own personal hell. I’m sick as she explains the scenario to me, and for a little while I hate her fucking guts. This is the one day we have before I go away. She’s played off the script the entire time we’ve been courting. And this is a pivotal scene, it has to be right, it has to be perfect. She is supposed to say fuck you to some lame party and be with me, this is our only night for more than a week. It’s not just that it’s a party, but for Young Republicans. What the fuck, how far from home am I venturing? This goes against the core of sullen liberalism that I was raised on; BMW’s are for yuppies and Republicans are evil, and such sentiments ad infinitum. What the hell is wrong with me that I’m even considering anyone that would choose Young Republicans over me. I reach out to friends for answers. I want someone to say, fuck this idiot bitch, and to tell me to tell her to go fuck herself. For whatever reason I call only sensible people and no one is eager to placate my supposedly justified anger. Call after call and everyone explains that I’m over reacting and that I sound a little insane. Fine maybe I am, but it fucking stings. I’ve made her an answer and I’m a fucking afterthought. I wait for her to realize her mistake, to finally see me. She never does, and something like the pizza incident replays itself late at night after her fabulous party.
