I left my heart …
Photo: Christopher Scalzi @christopher.scalzi
Sometimes I treat New York City like a boyfriend. A boyfriend I’m tired of. A boyfriend I take for granted. A boyfriend I treat like shit.
I mean — not all of the time. What’s the fun of that?
But I get fed up — I get blasé. I get bored with the antics …
And then. Everything shifted.
You turned on me. What I thought would always be there was suddenly so very not.
What I'm missing are all the little things … the little things between you and me.
Having the touchstones of my existence vanish overnight makes this “pause” – this “passage” — this — cruel premature ending for — who knows how long — so mean — so heartless.
How could you?
Like — Broadway — I thrived on the tradition of those nights … not the must-see show, the razzle dazzle. I'm talking scoring the right table at Joe Allen’s after curtain and milking the martinis — or better yet — squatting ourselves at the bar, swapping boozy critiques — did Ben get it right — was it overhyped — did it transform you — even for a moment — keeping our eyes peeled for the “stahs” swannin’ in and out of the always drafty doors — having hilarious exchanges with the drunken regulars — actors, wannabe actors, playwrights, wannabe playwrights, who held court in the coveted corner.
I miss this about us.
And the West Village, where you and I were so in love. It is a bubble, yes, but it was our bubble.
Getting an overpriced juice at Sam’s, the local deli, having a laugh and a flirt with a few hot Mexican guys way below appropriate age. Sometimes – when feeling flush and “continental” — sitting outside for an espresso at Sant Ambroeus — putting off my workout, putting off my work. The screech of the garbage trucks competing with those fucking jack hammers trying to interrupt my journaling or reading — but —
I wouldn’t let them. Paying 36 bucks for avocado toast to sit on the corner, smelling frequent wafts of piss... I love that corner. But you know that.
Or grabbing myself the best cappuccino in town — and a daily chitchat session with an actor buddy — WHAT DOES ONE HAVE TO SEE – what’d I miss — what will you be in? A 10 minute highly caffeinated exchange before running off to our respective gyms — our respective communities. He — the posh Equinox. Me — the McBurney Y on West 14th.
And oh that Y… the old timers bullshitting around their table, overseeing the babes over 60 at the pool for hours. Never ever lifting an arm, much less a weight. And the girls! Retro bathing suits (and trust me, this retro hasn't come back around) lined up outside the sauna. All of them looking like my mom’s in the 50’s. And the ones who did pump their stuff regularly at 90, putting my ass to shame. What has happened to them? Where do they go now for laughs? For camaraderie? This keeps me up at night.
I thought all of this would always be there. Who knew this would all just — end.
What happened to always jolly Ali working the newsstand on 12th and Eighth? It’s open I know — but to one at a time. Wha? I miss being there crammed with fashionistas on the hunt — begging Ali for his latest gets, walking out with $75 worth of magical stuff I maybe really didn’t need.
Peeling out on my bike wheeling into the Hudson Park like the 12-year-old tomboy I still am. Navigating the impossible potholes that will surely kill you if another biker does not — nothing has changed here. Except everybody looks like the mummy. Mummies with helmets. And when you zip down Bleecker where I was never a shopper but one who’d chuckle at the outlandish prices, well, now it’s a ghost land. It was on its way. But it’s official.
There is a sadness with you, New York, that I just can’t shake.
People tell me to wait for you. To be patient with you. That you’ll return. To give you another chance.
But we both know I’m no longer 30. I don’t know If I have it in me.
Of course, there'll be a new young love to enter the picture and give it a try with you — isn't this always the way? And that might be good. Someone who is sweet, fevered, who can laugh at your jokes I am now so tired of. She will fawn over you —and work with you on the dream you might be. Again. She will take the parade of ghostliness as a challenge for change — and maybe having a meal under $100 and see a piece of theatre under $200. And an apartment for less than a gazillion dollars a square foot. Sounds like a beautiful fresh start.
As for me. I’m weary. I miss what we were. I think you and I may be burnt out, my love.
But what a glorious romance we had. No?