6:15pm Saturday, March 9th, 2013. I’m sitting in a coffee shop just off Times Square. Still hungover. Let’s get started on how I got here. Yesterday.
Wrote, then went to Strand. Browsed for over two hours. Philosophy. I won’t buy anything. I don’t have the money. Browsing only.
Walk out with a freshly purchased Daniel Dennet book. Consciousness Explained.
It’s cold. Gene texts. He’s working tonight. 8pm-4am. Shit. I weigh my options. Trek to Times Square to pick up his keys and make the long trip back to Brooklyn in the middle of the night alone. Or. Not choose anything. I see a Trader Joes. Thought about buying food but the line was an hour long. Literally. They have people in line with big wooden signs that show how long the wait is from that spot. Went to the wine store section instead to browse. I buy a bottle of two buck chuck. Cheapest wine I could find.
Walk North. Toward Central Park. Dip into the Apple Store briefly. No way I’m going to go to back of house for a tour. Not looking and smelling like this. I take a quick stroll through and empty back out onto the street.
Head North again. Just walking to walk. Feet are freezing again. Cut through Central Park and head back South. I need to change these socks again. I’m getting blisters. Text Anthony to see if he’s doing anything. He gets off at 6pm but has to be in at 8am tomorrow. Says he can do something for a few minutes once he gets off. A few minutes.
I make it to Rockefeller Center and change my frozen socks in the bathroom. Anthony calls while I’m in there. Phone tag for ten minutes. Says to meet him outside his restaurant.
I jump on the F. There in 15 minutes. He’s standing outside. We head toward a bar. Tavern 29. Looks expensive. We go in for five minutes. Says he’s meeting a girl in a bit. I tell him to just say the word and I’ll disappear. He says it’s no problem. Not going to stay out late tonight anyway. We don’t even get to order a drink at this bar. We leave. Head toward his apartment. We get tacos on the way. His treat. Fucking delicious. That’s my first meal all day.
He lives in an old building above a fish market in Chinatown. It smells like it. We drop off our stuff. Have a beer. I pop open the wine and chug half. Getting warm. We head out to meet his girl at a bar. 200 Orchard. Order Brooklyn Lagers. Shoot the shit for ten minutes. Tessa shows up. Nice, Italian girl. Very sweet. Almost motherly sweet. We’re drinking. They’re very interested in me. The drinks continue. I share more and more. The drinks continue. They know my darkness. I’m comforted by their interest, regardless of it’s origin. They tell me to find a woman that likes me. Don’t settle. It sounds so obvious saying it. But there is a pain in there that terrifies me. Rip it like a bandage. They talk about going out Sunday night too. Going to find me a girl. I nod, laugh, agree, show excitement. But I know I’ll sabotage that for myself. I’m officially drunk.
Anthony suggests we step outside for a cigarette. Tessa stays inside.
Some guy walks up to Anthony. Anthony talks first.
“Hey, man. Let’s just do it right here.”
“There’s a lot of heat out here, man. Can we duck in the back?”
We all head inside and they both head to the back. I join Tessa again at the bar. I have a very comfortable connection with her as though she is my mother and I’m her son. Our conversation makes me feel as though she’s holding my head against her chest, scratching my back with long, manicured nails, kissing the top of my head and whispering words of affirmation and love and comfort and peace. Telling me everything is going to be okay.
Anthony returns from the back. We finish up our beers.
We go to another bar across the street. More of a restaurant. There’s an open table. There’s a blonde waitress. Not my type, but Anthony and Tessa tell me to go talk to her and ask if we can take one of the open tables. Alright. No hesitation.
“Hey, is it cool if we grab that table?”
“Yeah, you’ll just have to order your drinks through me.”
“That’s no problem.”
The fuck, Chase? That’s no problem? Why not something like “That’s what I was hoping for” or “Why else would I ask for that table?” Something suave or clever.
Whatever.
You fucking pathetic shit.
We sit down. They’re kind of shocked that I just did it without a second thought. So am I. We get beers. The conversation shifts into them giving me advice on how to be more confident. It doesn’t make me uncomfortable.
Things start to get really hazy from here. I’m very drunk. The chronological order of the next details is completely non-existent so I’ll just list them. We talk to the waitress. Anthony’s trying to get me her number. Spins my whole trip here into some badass, edgy, last minute plane ticket to New York to party hard story. She’s impressed more with him than me but I’m actually relieved by that. I don’t find her attractive at all. I don’t know why. Physically, she’s cute. I just have absolutely no interest. He tries to get her to convince the acoustic artist playing that night to let me play. No no no no no no no no no. I am too drunk. Luckily, that never happens. We’re drinking the entire time. I’m falling over sitting up. Another girl. Not physically as cute but somehow seems very cool and attractive. She’s sitting next to me. I don’t remember anything about the conversation. I think she wants to hang Sunday night. There is a number in my phone. That might be hers. Martha or something close to that. My arm’s around her. I’m being a confident guy. But very very very very drunk.
Anthony takes me into the bathroom. Single stall. Breaks out the coke. I’m not even surprised or hesitant. He dips a key in for a bump and puts it up to my nose. I go in but accidentally blow it on the ground. Shit. That was a fucking expensive mistake. Round two. Bump. Success. Bump. Success. Don’t know how many of those we had.
We head back toward Anthony’s apartment. Tessa is in the middle, one of us on each arm. I don’t know if she knew about the coke. Probably not. I stumble the way there. Anthony throws the futon together for me to sleep in. I’m out instantly. Tessa stays there. He’s up at 7am. Leaves for work. Both of them. She’s a sweet girl. Good for him. He deserves it. I pass out again. Get up around 10am. Worst hangover I have ever experienced. I can’t even think. I have no idea where I am. How I got here. Memories light up my mind in scattershots. I realize something huge. I never paid a cent. Anthony bought every drink. Even the chicken tenders I embarrassingly ordered. Wow. I owe this guy more than I owe anybody else anything.
I gradually get up. Have a rinse in the shower but don’t use any soap or shampoo because I don’t know whose is whose and I don’t want to walk out smelling like the soap I just stole. So I just continue to smell like a pile of shit instead. Put the same clothes back on. I have my backpack but my clothes are still at Gene’s apartment. I got some other girl’s number at some point but think I threw the paper it was written on away or lost it. Whatever. I have no idea whose number that was anyway. I text Jen. Gonna go handle this hangover at Patiesserie Claude. She’s down. I’m showered and dressed. It’s sunny out. Warm enough for one jacket. I am still drunk. Sipped some wine when I woke up for some dog hair. I could use some more coke. My throat is swollen. Tonsils taste like a sour ashtray. I’m sweating Brooklyn Lager. My back is soaked. Get to the bakery. We get pastries and coffee to go. Take it over to Washington Square park. She’s not talking much. Far more awkward than yesterday’s meetup. No eye contact. None. Any attempts to have deep conversation is met with closed sentences or silence. I’m uncomfortable but I blame it on the hangover and coke comedown. It is awkward. We sit in mostly silence in Washington Square. She wants to head up to Central Park and walk around. I’m down. We hop on the subway. She’s walking extremely fast. I’m trying to keep up. My blisters are getting worse. She wants to walk through Central Park but it feels to me like we’re almost jogging. Holy shit, my shins are burning. My heart is pounding. Shoving through my rib cage and leaping toward my throat in panic. I’m sweating booze. I realize that between the walking, amphetamines, dehydration, lack of food, cocaine, and alcohol, there is a real chance that I may not make it. I am trying my damnedest to keep up. We’re going to the Chelsea Market. I’m down. I’m soaked in sweet, hoppy, whiskey-scented sweat. I see an opportunity. I speak.
“After Chelsea, I’ll probably roam down to Battery Park and write for a while.”
No real response from her, just a nod of agreement. I’m continuously slowing. This is hard. Still only small talk. She’s being extremely quiet. I feel like an intruder. We’re at Chelsea market. It’s a nice, underground strip mall with neat shops. Wine, cheese, cupcakes, peanut butter, books, clothes, trinkets. I see a book exchange.
The sign reads: “Take a book and leave one in it’s place: NO SHIT BOOKS.”
I take out my copy of Candide and grab A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking. Nice catch. I feel good about it. We roam the market for a few more minutes. There’s no way I can slow the pace with her. She’s decent company but I’m in too much of a physical blindspot to keep up. Say bye outside, we split.
I start walking South. Stay on Greenwich. That’ll pop me through the West Village and spit me out into Battery Park where I can grab a burger at Cucina Liberta where Ella and I had gone in the summer. The walk is long long long long long. Painful. My back kills. My feet kill. I need to eat soon. My chest pains are complimented by the stabbing pain in my shins. I see a used/rare/unique/obscure cookbook store. Tiny little hole. I walk in. One old lady with a laptop. I spoke first.
Weird stuff but nothing weird enough. I go to leave. I speak.
“Take care.”
“You’re welcome.”
What? She thought I said thank you. Why did that feel significant? It sticks with me as the hunger gnaws and the blisters rub and the shins stab and the tonsils swell and the depression sits down, settles in and filters any pleasant joys out of my experiences, replacing them instead with shadows of themselves. I am very alone.
Walking. Walking. Walking. I finally get down to Cucina Liberta. Doesn’t seem like the same place as last time. Empty, soulless, dirty. Buffet food seems a week old. Get a burger. I eat. Stuffed. One and a half Liter bottle of water. The bench Ella and I sat on last summer has been replaced by fencing and green tarp. I’m torn between disappointment and relief. I decide to head up to Times Square instead of sticking around the park. I needed to write this before I forgot. I jump on the 1. I’m up in no time. Quick train. I head to a coffee shop to start writing. Bathroom. Twice. Get walked in on. Twice. The door was locked from the inside. An employee had to provide the key. What do they think I’m doing in here?
It’s 8:13pm. In Times Square. Gene’s off work. We’re sipping some coffee down. Heading to Brooklyn for another adventure. No coke this time. I hope. I still want to die, but I popped an upper when I ate the burger so I’m sped again. Let’s do this.
