05 Jan Walking Through: Part I

I was taking a stroll along the boardwalk– the moon was rising in the distance; lovers were passing by, hand in hand propelling little whispers in one another’s ears. I watched the seagulls float into the explosions that cascaded the skyline. I stared long and hard at the rotation of the Ferris wheel, watched the lights grow large in my almost neurotic eyes and I thought to myself how could something so beautiful make me so miserable? Of course I wanted something good, something to make me happy–sweet little things like candlelit dinners in little cafes overlooking the streetlights and cars that screech to a halt at pedestrian-crossing xings or listening to  “Meant To Be” by Squirrel Nut Zippers and slow dancing in the arms of a hunk I’d only ever see from a lighted up screen. Reality is harsh sometimes, and sometimes you’ve just got so many questions to ask, so many questions that people just aren’t willing to answer (or you’re just too much of a coward to ask–rather quite the contrary, they won’t answer your phone calls.).

Life is a tricky, tricky thing but after a while we get used to the twists and turns and being picky creations of nature we often forget what we’re looking for. True love? Dream job? Money? So here I am, at Coney Island with this anchored look upon my face, my hands are wrist-deep into my empty pea coat pockets and I’m just standing there completely dumb-founded. I click the heels of my notorious “peter-pan” shoes together and shut my eyes and whisper “There’s no place like home,” with a convinced tone in my mind. By the time I open my eyes I see another fluffy couple walking towards me as clingy as dingle berries to a horse’s ass, I scoff as they walk by and blow vapor into the air. Classic is what I think to myself as I drag my feet aimlessly across the aged wood beneath me. Eventually I reach the subway station and trek down the few flights of stairs below until I reach the caverns of dirty and pissy-smelling corridors that seem to go on for forever. I plow my fingers even deeper into my pockets and hook my hip around the strap of my long purse so it almost hugs the inside of my thighs as I walk past mole people and women dressed for a “whore’s night out.” My head sinks further between my shoulders as “Feel It In My Bones” by DJ Tiёsto comes on, I instantly fear that if my head sinks any lower I’ll be having a late night dessert. My eyes angle at a slant as my eyebrows create a curvature of anger to my face fucking spectacular is what I think to myself as I huff and puff near the column reading “Coney Island” in Helvetica print. Now couldn’t have been a more perfect time to think of the man of my dreams who would be leaving me in six months, thinking about it made me teary-eyed as I stared off at the tracks in search of “a light at the end of the road.”

By time the F train came my saddened feeling had become magnified, I took a seat on the scarce car next to an empty seat and stared down at my shoes. I felt the few people who were on the train stare at me with demeaning looks but maybe; just maybe, for once I might have been wrong. If I would’ve looked up I might’ve seen sympathy? Compassion? Pity? Pure animosity towards whoever sent me into such an upset state of mind… but I never did look up, I simply rode the train with deep sighs until I reached West 4th street. I crawled up the stairs as languidly as possible, never in my mind did the thought pass that I would see so many promiscuous people at night– women dressed in sequin dresses that rose to their center areas, wearing 5″ stilettos that I could easily trip and break my neck in, and shivering their asses off while I strode by with a pitying look upon my face that clearly said I’m glad I’m not you. Is that really what men want? Is a question that asserted itself to me as I imagined what was underneath my jacket–a rabbit fur sweater with golden stripes, a pair of well-worn jeans which were appraised with overly large lint holes in the crotch region, accompanied by a pair of thick stockings, a black body-shaper and matching undergarments. Was I some under-fashioned sloth that crawled out of the forests of Timbuktu with a full grown uni-brow and mustache in hopes of marrying the most beautiful man the world had to offer? Or was I just a girl who was merely outgrowing her adolescence and slowly becoming a little less rock and a little more modern? It’s not to say that I haven’t always dreamed about kicking back on an overly cushioned, beige couch, with matching arm chairs, and footrest, in the arms of my husband and a bowl of popcorn before a big flat screen that played our favorite movie—“The Notebook,” while our kids snoozed in their rooms with rotating aquarium night lights. Man, that’s the life right? Fantasy. Never going to happen. I puffed myself up again and let out a long and dejected sigh once I reached the corner of 9th street right in front of a now closed Lenny’s. I crossed in front of the glaring headlights of a New York taxi and watched the dissipation of my shadow on the ground. I walked hopelessly down the double staircase in the Path station and tapped my Smartlink card on the turnstile and walked through casually. When I was say several strides in the Hoboken train pulled up all shiny and blue with a car full of strippers and male hookers ready to “Par-tay!” I stared into the windows of the train as it passed me by and I continued walking, catching the glance of few people–men and women of all shapes and sizes, obviously just as wide awake as I was… yet not as depressed. When I least expected it Squirrel Nut Zippers came on again and this time they brought with them “Wished For You,” and I shook my head in repression. I had been walking for a while now; it never usually took this long to reach my usual column– the one that Mom taught me about “It drops you off directly in front of the escalators.” I smiled at the thought and watched the plaques on the wall that read “9” in bold white paint looking for the one plaque that had “what” scratched horrendously into it; once I saw it I knew my post would be the following one.

I laid my back against the scuffed up cavalcade and slid down it ’till my derriere reached the even dirtier subway floor tile and I released my legs. It was a Sunday night and I was alone, alone in the city and possibly alone for the rest of my life, sure I’m being dramatic… but I’ve never known love until now, I’ve only ever dreamt of it as a reality and well now I have it and it’s just not “meant to be.” Or maybe I’m wrong. So here it was, the light at the end of the tracks, my savior, the Journal Square train, the train that would take me out of the miserable position that I was in. I stood up and waited for the train to stop like a princess waiting for her butlers to roll out the red carpet for her big “coming out” party. And then it stopped, the doors were about to open and a twenty-something man was standing in the window with raging brown eyes, spiked up black hair, delectable lips, a pair of wire glasses, a black blazer, an undone tie, a partially buttoned white-collar shirt, black slacks, black crocodile loafers, black belt, silver watch, a black pea coat which hung over his bulging left forearm and a leather suitcase that was clenched tightly in his right hand. He was beautiful, he was tall, I was satisfied, and I was also lying. This guy was in his mid-thirties and looked nothing like this but instead he had blue eyes and was looking at me. So I turned to the side and let him pass me and watched him as he turned back to glance at me and just as I got on the train and the doors closed “Sleep Together” by Garbage came on and harassed my repressed ears. I took a seat next to a plump woman who reeked of too much perfume and sex, really? Her? Is what I snickered to myself as my eyes threw me into a daze and I listened to the train run on air. All I wanted to do was get home and go to sleep and for once not be reminded of him, a chance to let go and breathe for a little bit without getting teary-eyed and thinking that I did something wrong. And then it hit me, like a bat out of hell—“This stop is Christopher Street.” straight to the fucking skull that went, yeah, I feel you in my bones; I couldn’t have been more heated, more irritated… more in love with this beautiful creature that I’d probably never meet. This man who I’ve been dating “secretly” (from my family, everyone except my grandmother and aunt,) for oh look at that, six months, fuck me. He’s the best goddamn man in the world you know? Makes me cry every time I think about how goddamn wonderful he is and how I crave his attention but get a bunch of phone calls and texts that are conveniently ignored for days or weeks at a time and then eventually hit with a spatula of sarcasm in a text that says “Yeah, I’m not dead.” Well fucking hello to you to!  But I can’t be pissed, I can’t hate him, I can’t wish him away because he’s all I’ve ever wanted. I’ll tell you one thing though–I can say that I miss him, I miss the constant array of attention and the knowledge of being needed, I miss it when he used to call me at night and send me lovey text messages and well when he actually used to respond to me no matter what he was doing…the roles have obviously been switched. And I’m here sitting on the late night Journal Square train back to Jersey City with this lump in my throat and eyes that are ready to burst before me and the tub of lard sitting next to me. And then to make matters worse Kimbra’s “The Build Up” comes on to my headphones, my once pristine iPhone headphones that Mom found while we were at work, headphones that will never be with their soul mate– the iPhone rather they are with the runner up–a 2nd Gen. iPod Touch. “This Stop is Journal Square, this train is now out of service.” announced the intercom and I was brought back to reality, I got off the train to look across at the Newark / WTC train that waited patiently for passengers on the other side of the track.

I recall getting on that train one day, in the highest hopes of meeting my love, it was in October, and it had been a while since he’d asked me out. I was so happy, so peppy; I dressed up and put on a shit-load of make-up, made myself smell good–everywhere and I darted to Journal Square. I waited at the WTC for five hours. I know, I know, it was my fault for acting on impulse but what the hell? When you’re in love you’ll do anything won’t you? Il n’y qu’un bonheur dans la vie, c’est d’aimer et d’etre aime. I’d do anything for him at that point; wait for days even if it meant I’d have tear stains running down my face. Hell I’d do anything now, a lot of things that make me seem stupid and that a movie script writer could probably make a good buck off of for a new romantic-block buster hit. Apparently he had lost his phone and didn’t even call to tell me that he did (with another phone of course… yes I’ve memorized his number), let alone text me… I called him at least 20 times before his phone shut off, I even texted him. Hell I even had a stranger call him from her phone for me in hopes that maybe he was just blocking my number. I was thrown back into reality again when a woman dressed in a floral dress covered by a faux fur coat bumped into me in a rush down the stairs, she paused to suck her teeth and roll her eyes, fuck you too is what I thought as I continued on my venture home. “Home” it sounded like a nice place to be, a nice place to climb up the ladder to my tower, crawl under covers and prop my laptop on my lap… and think of him all over again. “Rose” by Zazie came on and I scowled… for my Women’s and Gender Studies class I researched the lyrics and presented my own interpretation on them (with no one in particular in mind). Is it really possible to love someone who will never see the true you? Is what I pondered in my ‘Carrie Bradshaw’ voice as I stared at my surroundings. I was home, well as close as I’d be to it for now; it was cold and I was walking again, alone. Watching couples who held on for dear life to one another as if the wind was threatening to take them away to some place terrible. It was now officially 12:00, I pulled my phone out of my purse which I usually leave on silent unless… no there is no unless it’s always on silent. My heart began to race when I saw the blinking red light on the corner of my screen, I held my breath in hopes that it was him, took a moment, inhaled and clicked the toggle button on the top. Missed Alerts “Pop,” “Mom,” “Alyce” “Whore,” “Lizzy,” but absolutely nothing from him… how typical is what I thought as I rolled my eyes and checked my missed calls and texts… nothing important though, just casual conversation and worrying parents wondering where I was and what time I’d be home. Right about now, instead of being in the blistering cold of a late January night I’d love to be in his arms, under his covers, and sleeping soundly knowing that I’ll wake up and not have tears running down my face or that I’ll know that he’ll be there in the morning maybe with a strawberry crepe on a bed tray with a single rose in a skinny vase and an 8 oz. glass of orange juice. And I’d smile, I’d smile and cry anyways ’cause I’d be the happiest girl in the world at this point and he’d be sympathetic more sympathetic than he’s ever been like that time when I went to the Bronx Zoo and my phone died and he called me a thousand times and when I charged my phone his call finally got through and he told me he “was worried sick!” about me. Never in my time with him did I think I’d be this miserable without him. What did I do wrong? Was I too close? Was I too caring? Was I too selfish? And then I stood there in front of my building staring up at the sky looking for the Big Dipper like I usually did when he called on cold nights and I went outside for a bit of privacy. My keys jingled as I retrieved them from my purse, I took slow steps up the staircase to my building and kicked open the door with light force opening it just enough to let me through. I put my keys into the lock of the second door and opened it with ease, walked to my door which held the slanted sticker that read 1 and a tacky door accessory that was a month too early for Valentine’s Day, don’t remind me. Is what I thought as I listened to Kimbra’s “Withdraw” as it reached the climax of the song and I plugged my keys in the sockets and turned the locks one by one. And I opened the door, took off my shoes, without saying “hello” to anyone that was awake I simply walked through with my head down.

Hi, my name is Jonsey; I’m going to be 19 in June. I am a brunette with brown eyes, a large bust and I’m an aspiring author and artist. I work in New York as a part-time intern at Elle; I am striving to one day be an editor here and face the world with a new set of eyes. I am a sister, a daughter, a friend, and a lover; I love macaroni and cheese, and I am intrigued by the French culture. My dreams are to one day travel around the world (and to Paris) and to own houses in several of these places, also to marry a man and have three children–two girls and one boy– I plan to name them Emily, Rose, and Dorian. Oh and I forgot to tell you, I’m in love with a Portuguese / French man that I probably won’t ever meet but it’s nice to know that I love him. Stop lying, you’re being too dramatic. You’ll see him… but the only disadvantage you’ll have is that you’ll never let go.

And then “Closer” by Nine-Inch Nails came on and I was shaken abruptly to reality. I stared wide-eyed at my laptop screen and snickered at what I had just written, Flawless is what I thought to myself; this story would never make the cut. Is what I assured myself as I hit the ‘Close’ button on my browser screen, I can’t write something good if don’t tell the truth, Jonsey would never make it in the real world. I laughed and then shut down my laptop. Goodnight. And then “Last Christmas” by Wham! came on and I tried not to cry.