In which I attempt, briefly, to have a life again.
New York City!
I get stuck in Denver on my way out because someone in Chicago set a communications tower ON FIRE after a suicide attempt. Go big or go home?
By the time I arrive, it's 1 in the morning. I get a cab, at the bleary instructions of my drunk friend with whom I'm supposed to be spending the night. He's at a punk rock show, not at home. My cab driver has a cleft palate and a speech impediment, so we are basically unable to communicate. Somehow, I reach my destination, about an hour after I should have. Everyone is serious, tattooed, and very drunk. In contrast, I am exultant, with pigtails and a huge backpack. It's great fun. I am not drunk but I enjoy being able to shriek and talk loudly about Gogol without anyone really noticing. I am periodically left alone with the beaten down bartender as everyone goes off to do coke. We don't leave until 6 a.m., at which point I inappropriately make out with someone inappropriate. Quite fun. Haven't done that since I stopped drinking! Which has to be some sort of victory, if not a moral one.
After three hours of sleep, I meet up with my friend, the visiting of whom was the point of the trip. We have a lovely time talking incessantly and eventually meeting her new baby. He has delightful eyebrows and a better sense of humor than anyone at the punk concert. We have ice cream late night in a part of Brooklyn full of yuppies. They would HATE to be described as yuppies - they think they are unique and artsy despite their chock full retirement accounts and identical hardwood floored apartments. Two are in line in front of us at the sort of ice cream shop that sells treats infused with Green Tea, Blood, and Anguish. This couple has three kids. They let the kids try roughly ... every flavor. Then they make the employees fetch flavors not on display from the back. It's been ten minutes. So, Renata starts to talk about anal sex loudly. I jump right in. "Is that when the PENIS goes into the ASSHOLE?" and so forth. It works. They flee. Victory again!
The next day, we meet my brother for a movie. He's come there in his truck. It's an elevated 1980-something pick-up, such as one would find in our hometown and nowhere in New York City. He ripped out the interior. So now he has no gas guage and the door is covered in a piece of rubber. But he has attached a fan to the dashboard. When I launch in (a serious athletic feat), I land on something very uncomfortable. It turns out to be an electric outlet. For the fan. And the electric blankets he uses in winter. We're tearing around in this and suddenly hit a wicked traffic jam. After sitting through two green lights, my brother loses his shit. He inches around cars in spaces only a Vespa would usually dare and pulls up next to the offending cab driver who isn't crossing the intersection. He rolls his window down. "Hey, buddy!" The guy slowly looks over. "Are you DEAD in there?? Because I really assumed you must have fucking PASSED OUT" Angry gestures are exchanged. My brother roars into the intersection and takes an illegal left that almost causes multiple deaths. He pulls over and declares that he is going home RIGHT NOW and we can either get out or go. We get out. Wow.
Renata and I have a pleasant dinner and I go back to my brother's place. His batshit wife is in the shower and as soon as we enter she starts making nasty remarks about the air mattress I'm going to stay on. It is very clear she does not want me there. She tears out of the shower in a ball of tiny Brazilian fury and says nothing to me. I spend much of the night crying and leave three days early. Sigh.
I get stuck in Denver on my way out because someone in Chicago set a communications tower ON FIRE after a suicide attempt. Go big or go home?
By the time I arrive, it's 1 in the morning. I get a cab, at the bleary instructions of my drunk friend with whom I'm supposed to be spending the night. He's at a punk rock show, not at home. My cab driver has a cleft palate and a speech impediment, so we are basically unable to communicate. Somehow, I reach my destination, about an hour after I should have. Everyone is serious, tattooed, and very drunk. In contrast, I am exultant, with pigtails and a huge backpack. It's great fun. I am not drunk but I enjoy being able to shriek and talk loudly about Gogol without anyone really noticing. I am periodically left alone with the beaten down bartender as everyone goes off to do coke. We don't leave until 6 a.m., at which point I inappropriately make out with someone inappropriate. Quite fun. Haven't done that since I stopped drinking! Which has to be some sort of victory, if not a moral one.
After three hours of sleep, I meet up with my friend, the visiting of whom was the point of the trip. We have a lovely time talking incessantly and eventually meeting her new baby. He has delightful eyebrows and a better sense of humor than anyone at the punk concert. We have ice cream late night in a part of Brooklyn full of yuppies. They would HATE to be described as yuppies - they think they are unique and artsy despite their chock full retirement accounts and identical hardwood floored apartments. Two are in line in front of us at the sort of ice cream shop that sells treats infused with Green Tea, Blood, and Anguish. This couple has three kids. They let the kids try roughly ... every flavor. Then they make the employees fetch flavors not on display from the back. It's been ten minutes. So, Renata starts to talk about anal sex loudly. I jump right in. "Is that when the PENIS goes into the ASSHOLE?" and so forth. It works. They flee. Victory again!
The next day, we meet my brother for a movie. He's come there in his truck. It's an elevated 1980-something pick-up, such as one would find in our hometown and nowhere in New York City. He ripped out the interior. So now he has no gas guage and the door is covered in a piece of rubber. But he has attached a fan to the dashboard. When I launch in (a serious athletic feat), I land on something very uncomfortable. It turns out to be an electric outlet. For the fan. And the electric blankets he uses in winter. We're tearing around in this and suddenly hit a wicked traffic jam. After sitting through two green lights, my brother loses his shit. He inches around cars in spaces only a Vespa would usually dare and pulls up next to the offending cab driver who isn't crossing the intersection. He rolls his window down. "Hey, buddy!" The guy slowly looks over. "Are you DEAD in there?? Because I really assumed you must have fucking PASSED OUT" Angry gestures are exchanged. My brother roars into the intersection and takes an illegal left that almost causes multiple deaths. He pulls over and declares that he is going home RIGHT NOW and we can either get out or go. We get out. Wow.
Renata and I have a pleasant dinner and I go back to my brother's place. His batshit wife is in the shower and as soon as we enter she starts making nasty remarks about the air mattress I'm going to stay on. It is very clear she does not want me there. She tears out of the shower in a ball of tiny Brazilian fury and says nothing to me. I spend much of the night crying and leave three days early. Sigh.
posted by Salt and Vodka at 1:23 PM
1 Comments:
I loved all of this until the very end, so sorry :(
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