IT’S 98 DEGREES IN BROOKLYN.
I MADE A LIST OF THINGS I NEEDED TO COMPLETE IN ORDER TO BE DEEMED PRODUCTIVE. THE LIST GOES UNTOUCHED AS I LAY ON MY BACK ON THE KITCHEN FLOOR. THE TILES ARE NOT AS COOL AS MANY LITERARIES INSIST THEY ARE ON HOT DAYS. MY TUBE TOP IS BELOW MY BREASTS, BUNCHED UP AROUND MY BELLY. MY PANTS ARE PULLED UP TO JUST BELOW MY KNEECAPS. THERE IS SWEAT POOLING BETWEEN MY LOWER BACK AND THE TILES.
I’M STARING UP AT THE CEILING OF MY APARTMENT. IT LOOKS CLEANER UP THERE, ON THE CEILING. LIKE MY LIFE FLIPPED UPSIDE DOWN - EXCEPT PRISTINE. FROM THIS ANGLE, I CAN’T SEE THE STACKS OF DIRTY DISHES LINING MY LINOLEUM COUNTER, MY SHALLOW SINK, MY DINING TABLE. FROM THIS ANGLE, I CAN’T SEE THE CLOTHES STREWN THROUGHOUT THE APARTMENT - DIRTY UNDERWEAR ON THE PEACOCK CHAIR, THE WOOD FLOOR, THE TUFTED CHAIR IN MY BEDROOM. FROM THIS ANGLE I CAN’T SEE THE EMPTY PIZZA BOXES, THE EMPTY TEQUILA BOTTLES, THE YELLOW WIG TANGLED IN A HEAP ON THE DRESSER. FROM THIS ANGLE, THINGS SEEM FINE.
JOEL PASSED AWAY AND THEN THINGS MOVED RATHER QUICKLY. I TURNED DOWN THE OFFER TO MOVE TO LONDON. I DIDN'T FEEL STABLE ENOUGH TO MAKE SUCH A HUGE LIFE DECISION. I TURNED DOWN THE OFFER TO MOVE TO SAN FRANCISCO. I REALLY HATE THAT CITY. MY SISTER GAVE BIRTH TO A BEAUTIFUL BABY GIRL, AND THEN ANOTHER WITHIN A YEAR. I MOVED INTO AN APARTMENT ON MY OWN. A TRUE ONE BEDROOM IN THE SMELLY ARMPIT THAT LINKS SOUTH WILLIAMSBURG, BED-STUY, AND BUSHWICK. AS SOON AS I WALKED IN, I KNEW THE PLACE WAS MEANT TO BE MINE. ORIGINAL WOOD FLOORS, BIG BRIGHT WINDOWS, A GIANT ARCHWAY BETWEEN THE KITCHEN AND THE LIVING ROOM - A SEPARATE BEDROOM WITH A DOOR! I SIGNED THE LEASE THAT DAY - IN A PANIC - UNSURE IF I COULD MAKE THE ASTRONOMICAL PRICE OF $1,800 A MONTH WORK WITH MY CURRENT LIFESTYLE. I WAS WORRIED I’D GET LONELY, MISS HAVING A ROOMMATE, GET LOST IN MY DEPRESSION.
TURNS OUT, I LOVE LIVING ALONE - BEING ALONE. EVERYTHING IN THE APARTMENT IS MINE, MY RESPONSIBILITY. I AM MESSY, NEVER DOING MY DISHES IMMEDIATELY. THE BRITTA NEVER HAS WATER IN IT. I LET THE RECYCLING PILE UP. I LEAVE THINGS THROUGHOUT MY APARTMENT LIKE A TREASURE HUNT - LIPSTICK IN THE UNDERWEAR DRAWER. JEWELRY IN THE KEY CATCHALL. HAIR DYE MIXED IN WITH THE CLEANING SUPPLIES. BUT IT’S ALL MINE - AND IT FEELS GOOD.
SIX MONTHS AFTER MOVING IN, I ADOPTED WHAT MY LANDLORD REQUESTED BE A “VERY SMALL DOG” AND TURNED OUT TO BE A FIFTY-FIVE POUND, FOUR-YEAR-OLD PITBULL MIX. ALL WHITE, WITH A SPLASH OF BROWN INK ON HER BUTT. LIGHT PINK AROUND HER EYES, HER EARS, HER SWEET LITTLE MILK CHOCOLATE NOSE.
THE MEN I HAVE BEEN HUNG UP ON NO LONGER PLAGUE MY MIND WITH PAIN. ONE HAS A NEW GIRLFRIEND OF OVER A YEAR. SHE LOOKS SWEET, KIND - THE OPPOSITE OF ME. I CAN’T BE JEALOUS BECAUSE THERE IS NO COMING CLOSE TO HER - OOZING NAIVETY, ANGELIC INNOCENCE, A TENDER SMILE.
THE SECOND NEVER DESERVED MY ADMIRATION. THE SEX GOT STALE AND SO DID HIS CASUAL MISOGYNY. I NO LONGER FALL VICTIM TO HIS GASLIGHTING - MAKING ME FEEL STUPID. FAT. POOR. INFERIOR.
FOR THE FIRST TIME, I FEEL DEVOID OF ANY REAL PURPOSE. I REPEAT A DAILY ROUTINE THAT IS WEARING ME THIN. SEVEN IN THE MORNING - WALK THE DOG. SHOWER. EAT BREAKFAST. GET READY FOR WORK. WORK. GO HOME. WALK THE DOG. EAT DINNER. WATCH NETFLIX. REPEAT. REPEAT. REPEAT.
WHILE NOTHING IS PARTICULARLY WRONG, I CAN’T PUT MY FINGER ON A THING THAT IS EXACTLY RIGHT. I DREAM ABOUT A YARD WITH GREEN GRASS - A FENCE, A DOGGY DOOR. I CRAVE SOMETHING SIMPLER, SOMETHING QUIET, SOMETHING QUAINT. I SPY WITH MY LITTLE EYE ... SOMETHING OUTSIDE OF NEW YORK CITY.
THERE IS A WEAKNESS THAT COMES ALONG WITH LEAVING THE CITY. SOMETHING SILENT THAT SCREAMS: SHE COULDN’T LIVE UP TO THE CONSTANT DEMAND FOR PERFECTION. SHE FAILED. SHE GOT TIRED. SHE BURNT OUT. SHE FELL HARD. SHE LOST HERSELF. HER AMBITION FLAT-LINED. SHE COULDN’T LIVE UP TO THE EXPECTATIONS. HER TEENAGE IDOLS TURNED OUT TO BE PSYCHOPATHS. EVERYWHERE SHE IMAGINED HERSELF WAS STARTING TO BECOME TRANSPARENT. SHE REACHED FOR TRUE MEANING. SHE FOUND ONLY THE STENCH OF POLLUTION IN THE HOT SUMMERTIME - RATS SCAMPERING FROM ONE OVERFLOWING TRASH CAN TO THE NEXT. CHICKEN BONES BARE ON THE SIDEWALK. NEEDLES OUTSIDE OF THE PLAYGROUND. ‘WANTED FOR MURDER’ POSTERS TACKED TO TREES OUTSIDE OF THE ELDERLY CARE FACILITY. A MILITARY-STYLE MURDER IN THE PROJECTS ADJACENT TO YOUR APARTMENT. DID YOU KNOW THAT'S WHERE JAY-Z GREW UP? THERE IS A POOL, LOTS OF GREEN GRASS. HANDS TIED BEHIND THEIR BACKS - SHOTS TO THE BACK OF THE HEAD.
ALL THIS TIME - MOVING TOWARDS THE GOAL OF SUCCESS, OF FINANCIAL COMFORT. OF A FLAMBOYANT LIFESTYLE RICH WITH DESIGNER HANDBAGS, MULTI-COURSE MEALS, PHILANTHROPIC EVENTS - ONLY TO FIND THE WORLD MOVING IN REVERSE.
MAYBE IT’S TIME TO GIVE IN - TO MOVE FORWARD. TO ABANDON THE DREAMS THAT FIND THEMSELVES DYING IN MIDAIR.
I PEEL MYSELF OFF THE KITCHEN FLOOR. PULL THE TOP OVER MY CHEST AND SIT - HUNCHBACKED. MY DOG IS ALERT AT THE SOUND OF MY MOVEMENT - SHE LOOKS UP AT ME. SHE IS ALWAYS WONDERING WHERE I WILL GO NEXT. I WISH SHE WOULD TELL ME, SO WE COULD GO TOGETHER.