Classic NYC Story

Do you know what happens when it snows in NYC? Oh, I’ll tell you… what happens is that every mode of transportation that leads out of Queens becomes unusable…

I called and left a message for my sister (Gemini), my friend in Boston (Taurus), and my ex husband (Aquarius) wishing them all “happy birthday.” I went around all day telling people “happy birthday” whose birthday it was not.

He doesn’t appreciate reciprocity. He told me that he was intimidated by me, that he was almost scared to say what he wanted to say. In so many words, he accused me of forcing him to (wait for it… ) think before he speaks. That’s an accusation I can wear as a badge of honor.

[...] I turn up your stereo as
the near-silence grows eerie.
Wes Montgomery is playing the guitar.
I am tired. Your voice is like jazz. [...]

I think I’m not ready yet to talk about Saturday and the series of bizarre events that led up to Saturday. It burns the inside of my chest when I think about it. It agitates me. It makes me tense up and pace and it makes my muscles and brain hurt.

“You should have told the monkey to make a quick stop in Queens and bring your father back his railroad pass!”
“Okay, mother. Okay.”

I attempted to leave the house today. I promise that I did. I got all showered and dressed and everything… but after missing two trains I’m starting to think that the universe wants me to stay in my borough today. So now here I am, sipping on a ginger-and-cinnamon brandy alexander and eating some black cake I got from the Jamaican store down the street with money I really had no cause to be spending. Fuck it, my family will be home soon and I choose to enjoy this moment.

While I was singing, a gentleman (most probably more drunk than I) approached the stage and stood inches from my face to call-and-response the lyrics: “How sweet is he, baby? How sweet is he? Talk about your sugar!” So I looked him in his eyes and sang it to him as though he were my ex-husband… as though he were my husband. I got just a little bit dirty. I growled just a little bit. “Like sugar and spice and everything nice, he’s sugar to me…”

I got in at just about seven am, still reeling from a bit too much rum at a time when everyone else in my God-fearing pseudo-suburbia neighborhood was chasing down the Penn-station-bound railroad while clutching to a thermos of caffeine, probably wondering whether I had been fucking Prince Charles last night.

They were both delighted when the train arrived in Penn Station. Delighted that they had met. Delighted that they had made a connection. And that they were back in the city.