July 21, 2019
Dear M,
It's been an unusual day, which is
pretty normal for a guy without a job and not an awful amount of money.
I woke up at about 8 in the
morning. The sun was already dripping its golden fluids with the generosity of
a pregnant woman. I had breakfast, which, in my case, meant having a black
coffee with a little bit of oat milk. This combination certainly brings out the
non-existent richness of the cheap Nescafe flavor I bought months ago on sale.
Then I wisely decided it was too early to continue watching Guadagnino's
"Suspiria" (certain movies demand to be watched at night, in an empty
room, on an empty stomach for full effect). So I did what any reasonable
gentleman would do - I kicked off my oversized boxers and jumped under the
covers. By now, my bed was pleasantly cool (thanks to our central air).
I napped in and out and back in
again (and that's not some weird sexual innuendo) for about three hours,
listening to Shostakovich and dreaming about "Eyes Wide Shut".
When I finally decided it was time
to get up and go on with my usual unemployed shit, it was well past noon. And I
had lost every intention to be productive in my aimless, nevertheless necessary
job search.
I decided to stretch and try to do
more than 10 pull-ups, but I was still too sore from last night's yoga. And
honestly, what's the point of doing pull-ups when you're never going to look
like one of those young recruits from "Postcards from London" who
clearly have a wonderful, god-given talent for being visually pleasing? I mean,
one can only do so much with one's genetics. Ironically, I decide when I want
to believe in my ultimate self and extraterrestrial heavenly powers. And that's
mostly when it comes to physical activities. And my beliefs usually manifest in
complaints, such as: "WTF, why am I less flexible than a dead
horse?", "WTF, why are my hips made out of cheap cement?", and
"WTF, why do I sweat like a molested kid hearing floors crack behind his
bedroom door?" (not pretty, I agree).
Much like everything else, I fall
in and out of my beliefs, like my weird accent when I'm too buzzed to pursue my
less controversial American one (accent that is).
Needless to say, I soon managed to
rewatch 4 episodes of Schitt's Creek, after which I made up my mind: I needed
to get my Schitt together and claim the success I was destined to achieve! So I
hit the bathroom and spent 20 minutes in the shower while scrolling Instagram
and looking at my old photos for motivation. You know you're fucked when you
seek motivation in the dark days of your past. But I guess everything might
have its quirky appeal if you care to adjust your perspective: old photos - younger
(and skinnier!) me. I briefly consider the idea of going for a run in Central
Park before remembering that while running, I look too much like a horny deer,
scared Schittless, chasing a much bigger horse. (Very specific!)
Also, New York is currently experiencing
a heatwave. While everyone else seems to be frying on the beach - my lesbian
friends, my gay friends, my gender-fluid friends, and of course, my sexually
boring friends too - all I'm experiencing is a desperate need for fewer edibles
and a little more self-control. The rest of the world is trying to "make
the most of the summer" while I willfully stew in my sweat and laziness.
Speaking of sweat... I shower. Not because I need to, but because I'm freezing!
After two years of living in New York, I still passionately hate the idea of AC
on both mental and physical levels! Oh, and what's even worse, I'm not allowed
to keep my own windows open while the central air silently disables my bones.
My landlord says he'll fine me, and as much as I'd like to be punished (because
I'm a bad, BAD boy), I can't exactly afford it right now.
American society is divided by
issues concerning racism and sexuality, but nearly everyone seems to be in
agreement when it comes to maintaining sub-arctic temperatures indoors while
climate change seems to be in full swing outside. And let me say this, subways
are simply unfriendly to tropical birds like myself. Peculiar country.
I get to Think Coffee at 5.
They're closing at 7. Why does no one drink coffee after 7?
Given the fact that I'm still
looking for that job thingy, I've decided not to tip a barista if my order is
just below 5 dollars - a rule I break every fucking time she smiles and says in
her Eastern European accent, "Here you go, Sir! Enjoy the rest of the evening!"
Oh well, you know what I always say: cheap is cheap. I leave a dollar and
promise myself to man up and not do it again. Well, maybe except tomorrow
because I'm meeting a friend tomorrow and I don't want to be the guy who spends
9 dollars on a coffee and pockets a dollar in change. Monday it is then! On
Monday, I tip NOTHING!
I spend an hour gazing into space
- an incredibly revered and by far the most time-consuming form of art. I am
alone in the backyard. Inside the coffee shop is packed with bespectacled
hipsters and young, unsuccessful entrepreneurs. "Young" because I've
almost hit 30, and everyone in their 20s seems unbearably young.
"Unsuccessful" because what kind of loser would spend an excessively
sunny Saturday in a cramped, freezing coffee shop in a not-so-hot part of
Williamsburg instead of going to a beach? God forbid they experience what our
planet does - extensive heat and unfortunate discomfort.
I refuse to include myself among
the coffee shop nerds. In my humble opinion, I qualify more as a reasonably
sophisticated guy who's too cool for mainstream shit like Riis or Rockaway or
even worse, Fire-Fucking-Island. I'm that mysterious yet charming European
who's always too interesting to slip your mind but too intimidating to actually
befriend. My self-esteem is under a lot of stress right now (being rejected
even by TD Bank). So I have to dig deep into my imagination to remain a
functional human. Well, almost-functional.
At 6:40 pm, I toss my coffee cup
into the bin. The shop is still in full buzz. These fucking millennials never
quit, do they?
The night is still young. I'm
living that la vida loca! So I put on Vince Giordano's Nighthawks and start
walking with the enthusiasm of Buster Keaton. I can feel someone recording me
from behind. (Could I be MORE paranoid?!) If I had left my stuffed backpack at
home, perhaps they would have enjoyed a better view of my perky and
unintentionally mouth-watering butt. I am Naomi with the BDE (100%, that
bitch), and dusty old Metropolitan Avenue is my Versace runway. I got legs for
days!
I always envision the smooth walk
of a sleek jungle cat when I want to walk sexy. Still, it usually qualifies as
a Buster Keaton walk.
I get to the banks of the East
River. A ferry is leaving in 10 minutes. I find a secluded (!) spot and wait
for the sunset while reading the last pages of "Gentleman in Moscow".
Not exactly ideal for the occasion, but I'm almost out of internet data, so it
will have to do.
The sunset arrives at about 8:15.
I've lost track of time. I listen to Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue"
while a nutritious, bright yellow ball of butter sets behind what I imagine to
be the East Village. I think of Stina, who would enjoy watching it with me in
silence while plotting scenes for our documentary. Did you know that some
people can just shut up and stay in the moment without experiencing an
insufferable need to escape into their perception?!
I'm starting to sound like a
pretentious old New Yorker who's now too witty for the city. Should I move to
Paris for a month?
I think about my favorite spots on
my way back. Not necessarily my favorite, but more like spots where I've
imprinted my emotional intelligence. The entrance to the Metropolitan Avenue
G-train station is one of those spots. Contrary to general objection (mostly
from my friends), I call it my "G-spot".
A 20-something skater guy is
sitting in front of me. He wears round glasses, is cross-legged, and keeps his
bottom foot on a skateboard while reading the New Yorker.
I fucking love this city.
___________________________________________________________
P.S. I wrote this whole piece
without a drop of gin in my system. Would you believe it?
Ever thine,
me.
