The Apartment.

Saturday, April 23, 2011

I’m a masochist,” I said into the empty space.

I was looking at her backpacks, the ones I should save “in case of fire,” she said. They were leaning against the wall in the long hallway of the apartment. “Why here?” I thought to myself. “Of all places available in this damn city, I chose to move into hers, so I have to face her every day. All day.”

The mute backpacks offered no answer. Neither did her shoes and sandals, (what is it with girls and shoes anyway?) nor her silent DVD player and TV, now disconnected and certain to be left unused. Her coats did answer, however. The fragrant of Herbal Essences mixed with a certain perfume, sneaking out of the closet toward my nose...

ENOUGH.

I’d already ran the Williamsburg Bridge, saw the graffiti that no driver sees, noticed the consistent “nightowl” graffiti on the way back toward Brooklyn. Under the bridge, a ship ripped the water into foamy waves. How many times did she run across...?

Because you’re nuts. You’re fucked up. That’s why. Because you have to earn your way. Because you have to prove to yourself you can do it. GET UP.

The move the previous night wasn’t easy. I managed to almost rip my nails out helping my roommate pull up a queen size mattress up four flights of stairs, driving him mad. I had him help me carry my own things the same way up until one in the morning. Kittycake did not get to sleep as early as she’d intended either. She wanted me to go back and not wake her even later, when I was to return for the final move. “Fine,” was all I said, ignoring both her and the roommate, aggression’s red fog clouded my sympathy toward everyone and everything. I knew my bed was not even set up. I knew I would be too exhausted to try and put it together that night. For all I cared, I was ready to sleep on the subway.

Eat. Get food in your system.

The room started to find shape the next day. Things turned out alright, and I got all the help that I needed at the end, even more than I expected. Kittycake gave me her keys, and I ended up sneaking in without waking her up. My roommate did not bail on me, until the very last minute, shortly before 2 am when he had to return the trailer to U-Haul. My other friend helped me at noon, coming especially from New Jersey, and stayed until after midnight. Slowly, what was once her living room turned into my bedroom. This was where her stand was... This was where her books were... This was where the futon was, where we started drinking beer and my hand....

Sneakers. Fresh Socks. You can use the same shirt for the workout, take your jeans. Earphones.

I saw a picture frame leaning against the wall. I thought it would be one of her art pieces or another photo of some unknown location, one of many decorating her walls. When I turned it over, I saw that it was her looking back at me. The Catalyst.

Earn it. Feel it. Go through it, not around it. Own it. MOVE IT. LEAVE.

“I’m a fucking masochist,” I told the door as I locked it. I took its silence as agreement. Gym was waiting. It was time for my punishment.