Three Years

Today I calmly marked my third year on Melrose Street. Three years ago Fritz and Luswin dropped me off with my two suitcases, a few boxes, and the green duffel bag I purloined from their laundry room. With Fritz's hand-me-down mattress strapped to the top of the SUV, we drove from New Jersey into this unexplored Bushwick. "Oh the stories this mattress could tell," he said, distant memories swirling through his mind. "This bed saw me through my final years in LA." I had already been sleeping on the bed for four months as their house guest. "Will I need penicillin before summer hits?" I asked.

Three years ago I was still uncertain what I was doing (is anyone ever certain what they are doing?). I had been working in NYC for just shy of two months, found the apartment through the recommendation of a casual friend and now neighbor. It was described as "raw" and had been vacant for quite a while. I don't think it was intended for anyone to occupy. The first time I saw it I didn't love anything about it. It had 1960s tiles in all the rooms, the living room was painted a hideous shade of orange that in the afternoons looked like Hell ablaze, and the glass on the French doors had been painted over. To make up for lack of closet space, plywood shelves had been installed in every room with suspension cables. What little charm the apartment had was bastardized by someone long before I was given the keys.

Three years in Brooklyn (and by extension the long hours each day and night in Manhattan) have brought me calm. I frequently say my happiest time as an adult has been in NYC. In these raw quarters I've furnished, painted, created, repainted, and recreated my living space. The move to France and then the move from France was marked by purging. I arrived on Melrose Street with one load of things. And then began the American dance of acquiring more things.

Tonight, the Boy in the Checkered Shirt invited two of his (our) friends over for dinner. I worked late and arrived as they were still on the first bottle of wine. It felt nice to come home to their friendly voices, the door cracked to let the smell of dinner waft downstairs. "Your home is beautiful" Hope said. "I like these touches" Mark said, pointing to the inlaid trim work on the living room walls.

I still joke that I worry some day I'll come home and discover that the kitchen has fallen off the back of the building. In truth, I simply hope that if it happens it be while I'm not in the apartment. Maybe that's a good metaphor for my life in NYC. I'm in a comfort I've created, but with the edgy fear that it could all crash down around me.

In which circumstance, I would just move on.

The Weekend

Celeste Diner

Jury duty. They gave us an hour for lunch so I wandered from the courthouse and found this familiar diner. Ordered a tuna salad sandwich with a side of potato salad and a cup of coffee. I was hoping the coffee would chase away the severe headache I developed from spending the morning under the fluorescent lights of the courtroom. It didn't. And the sandwich wasn't so good either.

Chilled in Lower Manhattan with the Boy and family visiting from Cincinnati.

Yakiniku West

After postponing and rescheduling many times we met up with A&B at this Japanese and Korean restaurant in the East Village. The Boy in the Checkered Shirt went the sushi route, A&B each ordered a Bibimbap, and I ordered chicken and spare ribs and vegetables from the ala carte menu.

The waitress came across as pleasant but tired. And she wasn't so interested in hearing A practice his Japanese.

San Loco

On St. Patrick's Day, after two bars and several beers, the Boy in the Checkered Shirt suggested we hit this East Village taqueria. Ariel and Zelina were game (others went home) and kept the woman at the table behind us entertained.

The next night, after the gym, the Boy and I went back so I could remember how it was.

The Weekend

In anticipation of St. Patrick's Day.

Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling,
From glen to glen and down the mountain side;
The summer's gone, and all the roses falling;
It's you, it's you must go, and I must bide.

But come ye back when summer's in the meadow,
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow;
I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow;
Danny boy, Oh Danny boy, I love you so.

But if ye come and all the flowers are dying,
If I am dead, as dead I well may be.
Ye'll come and find the place where I am lying,
And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.

And I will know, 'though soft ye tread around me,
And then my grave shall richer sweeter be,
Then you'll bend down and tell me that you love me,
And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.

The Weekend

We were supposed to watch the Boy in the Checkered Shirt's nephew this weekend. Plans changed. So we took upon ourselves to feel young.

Today on the L Train

I bought a pair of suede shoes online last week and had them delivered to the office. They arrived this afternoon. I put them on and showed them off. Martha said they looked nice. Taylor asked if they were comfortable. Simone said it was a mistake for me to buy suede shoes because I like to jump in puddles and run out in the rain and generally don't take care of my things. She basically called me childlike. Or a slob.

Feeling challenged, I wore the shoes the rest of the day. We had several inches of snow over the weekend and the temperature is now up in the forties. So the sidewalks are wet. But I felt confident that I could prove Simone wrong and demonstrate that I'm a responsible, orderly adult. I wore the shoes when I left the office, walking with my shoulders squared, taking pleasure in the near identical shades of brown in my shoes and jacket.

The sidewalks were damp, but had been shoveled of snow and therefore presented no challenge. I walked to the NQRW trains without incident. I found a seat in the front car, which would make my transfer at Union Square easier. Additionally graced by catching an express train, I was downtown in a moment.

At Union Square I exited the Q train and walked to the stairs to the L train platform. There was a crowd gathered on the stairs, not moving. I pivoted and craned to see what was causing the bottle-neck. On a landing of the staircase was an immense puddle of water. I couldn't tell what caused it. I use this staircase on almost every trip home and had never seen so much water there before. There wasn't a drain or a burst pipe in sight. A broom was laying in the puddle, an abandoned attempt by someone to disperse the wetness.

Two of those plastic "slippery when wet" signs had been folded and placed in the puddle to allow passengers to use as stepping stones across. I watched as one-by-one men and women hopped across the puddle, from a dry step to a moist landing. Some chose to leap wholly across while others quickly used the yellow signs.

I wavered in my thoughts. The quickest, most direct route to the L train was across this puddle. And the water wasn't so deep, was it? Would I get anything but the sole wet? I watched a man about my size jump the puddle. His left foot landed squarely in a couple inches water. A petite woman after him used the plastic signs, each one squishing under her weight and forcing a ripple of water to the sides.

I looked at my suede shoes, non-scuffed and consistent in brown. I decided to make a U-turn and head back up the stairs. I went the long way up to the concourse level and used a separate set of stairs to reach the L train. From my place on the platform I couldn't even see the stairs with the puddle. Or the wet feet of those who braved it.

And I thought, 'tomorrow, I'm wearing my rubber boots.'