Necessary objects

There's not a lot of solid reasoning in the the kinds of things that I decide to hold on to, nor is there much organization involved. Things are stashed in drawers or boxes without much foresight as to whether I might eventually need to find them again. Not unlike the time that we accidentally closed up one of the cats in the sofa bed. Or maybe not like that at all, but anyway, fun with pets. As a matter of fact, I just opened my desk drawer and found not only the picture of myself in 7th grade that I had been looking for but also the pair of free socks that Virgin Atlantic gifted me on my flight three years ago. Point proven. And these are ugly socks.

When I was growing up, our house was fairly large with a basement and two storage rooms in the attic. Three, if you count my bedroom. Since we had the space, there was a tendency to keep stuff. I can't even say that it was because we are a highly sentimental family - "Oh, we simply can't throw away great-grandma's corrective shoes! It's like she's still here with us!" - since, really, we're not. There was a much larger air of pragmatism about the whole thing. Just because, well, you never know when you might need an adult-size pumpkin costume. Or the large, dead moth in a frame - this actually used to hang on the wall outside my room and the minute I found out that it was not made of feathers but had once indeed been a living, flying moth, it was banished. We kept things because, even though we might know in our heart of hearts that they were useless or inconvenient, we might need them someday.

In this grand tradition of practicality, I find myself downsizing how much stuff I have every time I move. One of the stone-cold facts about living in New York City is that you simply can't possess much more than the absolute bare minimum of shit. If you have two kids, you'll need to decide which of them you like more. This is the trade-off you make for living in the most glorious terrorist target on Earth. My last apartment was the approximate size of a handicapped bathroom stall, which meant that I had to make a lot of tough choices (for the curious, the framed moth didn't make the cut). In order to maximize space, I bought a trunk which I could use as a coffee table as well as storage for things that I felt like I needed to keep, except not in plain view of strangers. Just because, you know, they might come in handy. We'll visit the dubious logic of what those things were in a minute.

Although my current apartment is considerably larger, there are still plenty of storage issues, and I strongly suspect the layout was designed by people who don't own anything. As a result, we have our DVDs in the kitchen, the power tools under the sink, and my Calphalon skillet lives full-time in the broiler. You do what you gotta do. And often what you gotta do is get rid of something anytime that you buy something else.

Since I got home from visiting Mom for Christmas, I'm left with the thorny issue of what exactly to do with the four boxes of new stuff I ended up with. I spent a full minute seriously considering whether I could put the electric grill on top of the entertainment center and pass it off as modern art. I already had to beg her not to give me any more dish towels before they stage a revolution and secede the kitchen from the rest of the apartment. Unless I threw out my ironing board and two pairs of cowboy boots, I was going to have to put some more stuff in the trunk.

The trunk. What in the hell do I keep in there anyway? Ostensibly it's a weird kind of hope chest where I put things of value to be treasured by future generations. In addition to 15 years worth of journals and my clean bedding, I also found the following items in the trunk:

• miso soup bowl and spoon
• 8th grade salutatorian award plaque
• dice
• VHS tape of my 1st year film projects
• sheriff badge with the name "Wayne"

I just put the Virgin Atlantic socks back in there as well - I might need them.

Things that happened, Part 1

...from Saturday: September 16, 2000

Trish and I were sitting in Dojo's at about 10pm last night. She glanced at me over her plate of yakisoba. "Are you OK?" she said.

"No," I said, smiling back. "I'm freaking out." I took a deep breath. "You know what it is? If we get there and his girlfriend isn't there, I'll be fine. That's what's making me crazy right now, not knowing."

We got the check, left and started the walk to Bleeker St. It was cold out, and I shivered under my sweater. When we got to the corner before the club, the thought that maybe we wouldn't find him at all in the horde of people (the band that was playing at that particular moment seemed to have a pretty large following) vaguely crossed my mind. "I take it back," I thought frantically, "I don't want to see him at all. I want to go home."

I felt like the guy manning the door at the club ought to remember us, but I said, "I'm on the list," pointing to my name.

"What's your name?" he hollered at me.

I told him.

I didn't even go through the entrance before I was faced with him. His buzz cut had grown out into a crop, and I realized that he really was completely gray. It looked like he hadn't shaved in a few days.

"Hey!" he beamed before I even had a chance to process what was happening.

From behind me, I heard Trish saying "Must he him."

I turned. "Yeah. Must be."

Sitting in the corner by the door was his friend Darren with my CDs and assorted other things I haven't even looked at yet. The fact that he himself was pretty much staying by the bar and not with Darren suddenly set off an alarm in my head. He didn't... He wouldn't and not tell me... There were so many people around that it was hard to get a sense of what was going on. I turned and said something to Darren, and when I looked back, I saw him sitting next to a dark-haired woman in her 30s. His girlfriend.

A wash of hollowness ran through me. I felt totally numb. "I'll be right back," I said to Trish. "I'm going to put the CDs in the car."

She stared at me. "You're going back to the car? By yourself?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine." And I stepped outside into the air. The entire episode had taken maybe three minutes.

During the fifteen minute walk to the car and back, I kept waiting for the surge of emotion to hit me. I didn't know what it was going to be - anger, depression, embarrassment - but I figured that something had to come. But by the time I got back inside, nothing had. I still felt that horrible deadness.

As Trish and I made our way past the bar towards the stage, I got as good a look at his girlfriend as I could without calling attention to myself. She's in her mid-30s, rather plain-looking, much thinner and shorter than me. She didn't really look or seem all that impressive, and she was wearing possibly the ugliest floral pants in the tri-state area. The oddness of not knowing her name really hit me, and I looked away before I got caught gawking.

We ended up getting a table right next to the left side of the stage. Darren came and sat down next to me. I think he sensed that I was not happy for some reason, and I felt badly since he has no idea what's going on. He's a nice guy, I like him. Thank God for him making me laugh during the night or I really would have been a mess. Halfway through the set of the band that was currently onstage, Darren leaned in and said, "Let me tell my boy you guys got a table. His girlfriend would love to sit up front. Is that cool?"

Under the table, Trish squeezed my hand.

"Yeah, that's fine," I said weakly.

"Cool!" Darren grabbed his beer and got up. "I'll go tell them, I'll be right back."

As soon as he walked away, I turned to Trish and said only half-jokingly, "If there is a God, they will stay at the bar."

They stayed at the bar. A few times, he walked past us to go to the back where the band he worked for was waiting to go on. I didn't talk to him - there was nothing I could think of to say. I barely even looked at him. At one point he stopped to say something to Darren, and as he walked past me, I suddenly felt a sting in the middle of my back.

"He just hit me, didn't he?" I said to Trish.

She nodded. "Well, you gave him a look."

I had flinched when he flicked at my back, but I didn't turn or otherwise respond. It was also apparent that every time he came past our table, he did so alone. I'm not sure what the deal was - he thought I would act out or he didn't trust himself, whatever. But he never came near me with his girlfriend.

The band we were there to see did an OK set. It was late, the place was only 3/4 full. The crowd reaction was pretty mediocre. I got as good a video as I could considering that I couldn't use the tripod and had to shoot the whole thing handheld. After the set was over, Darren wandered off to talk to the band, and Trish decided to go to the bathroom. I was alone at the table, and this is the moment I regret the most. It was the make-or-break 30 seconds of the evening, and I managed to shatter everything.

I was fairly intoxicated at this point (damn that drink minimum), and I was staring off at nothing in particular when I felt a nudge on my arm. I looked up, and he was standing over me. He waved in the general direction of the camera, which was sitting on the table. "Good footage?" he said, his voice a little tense.

I nodded imperceptibly. I just stared at him. He was wearing the same kind of outfit he had the last time I'd seen him: jeans and a t-shirt and an open button-front shirt over that. He seemed much taller when I was sitting down. His eyes really are very blue. The short hair suited him. He looked good.

"He's an attractive man," Trish had shrugged earlier.

"You really think so?" I had said, relieved.

"Yeah, he's good-looking."

But as I looked up at him, I wasn't thinking that he was a good-looking man or even that I thought I loved him - my mind was blank. I felt so much that my heart couldn't bear it and just stopped feeling everything. I guess my face had automatically slid into that calculated expression of angry hurt that I hadn't really used in quite some time.

"What's the look for?" he said, sounding irritated and uncomfortable.

My expression didn't change. I shrugged ever so slightly and turned my attention back to my drink.

He walked away and didn't come near me again for the rest of the night. But I watched him - it wasn't that hard, the place had pretty much emptied out at that point. Maybe it's wishful thinking, but there didn't seem to be an especially affectionate dynamic between him and his girlfriend. They didn't touch each other or even stand all that close together. Trish mentioned that his girlfriend seemed disinterested and sour-looking the entire night.

We cashed out our tab and decided to go home. Darren, who seemed painfully confused by what was going on, said haltingly, "Uh, well, my ride's leaving. I gotta go." By the time we paid our check and got outside, the three of them were already gone. It was over.

Mercifully, I was pretty fucked up at that point and managed to stumble to Trish's car, raving the entire way and swinging the tripod dramatically for emphasis. She laughed at me, and I laughed at myself. I was glad I was drunk because I didn't cry. I didn't want to cry.

When I got back to my apartment, I drank a wine cooler and waited to see if I was going to be subject to a great rush of bitter tears and hysteria. Nothing came. I took off my clothes and went to bed for six hours of restless sleep. It was over.

I never did cry over it. Not even the next day after I had sobered up. I guess there really is nothing left to cry about.

Welcome to the holiday season!

The bars are wide open, and - half a bottle of Dewar's into the evening - I almost tackled a very slight woman in a bowtie for some cold meat on a cracker.

What can I say: I like living on the razor's edge of personal and professional humiliation.