-----
I arrive in NYC around 3pm. My friend is dealing with a work emergency and can't make it to pick me up at the airport, so I'm left to figure out how the fuck to get my backpack-wearing, luggage-toting ass to Manhattan. I know it involves first getting on the JFK AirBus, which has a station that connects to the subway. At this station, you have to both pay for the AirBus ride as well as a subway fare card. I do both.
As I enter the subway portion of the station, I go through the three-bar turnstyle and immediately get my luggage stuck. A turnstyle arm goes through the handle and locks into place. My luggage won't budge. Seriously, the first turnstyle of the city bests me. How embarassing.
Thankfully, there's a transit worker nearby. The giant, scornful-looking black man comes over, looks at me and my luggage and kind of shakes his head. He leans in, softly saying "Yo, you fucked up."
Long pause.
Suddenly, he laughs. Relief cascades over me. He slides his card and sets my bag free, telling me "Keep it straight. I won't always be around to save you."
-----
The show is packed, but amazingly, we're able to walk up front with ease, just a few rows of people between us and the stage. I'm in a fantastic mood, having just spent the last hour drinking tequila with fantastic company. We all wait for the headliner to come on, making silly small-talk. I'm glancing around the room when a woman catches my eye. Actually, her hair catches my eye. It's all shiny and girly-girl, which stands out in this damp, beanie-wearin' crowd.
She's right up front, a mere 15 feet away. She's facing the stage, so I can't see her face, but I know exactly who it is: Kim. After two and a half years of silence, our paths finally converge.
I watch closely, almost in disbelief, trying to catch a glimpse of her face. Eventually, she turns, laughing. Confirmed. Immediately, I'm awash in a heroic dose of adrenaline. My knees go weak. Pure instinct, fight-or-flight, so totally unanticipated.
I turn away, facing my friends, as not to be seen. Mind and heart racing, I'm figure I have two options:
_ relocate and try to avoid her
_ say hi
I realize the first option to be pretty lame. Additionally, I have the element of surprise on my side. Thusly, I opt for the later. I chill for a few minutes, regaining my composure. Turning, I take a deep breath, pushing through the crowd.
Coming up behind her, I lean in and whisper in her ear: "Remember that time you pooped your pants?"
She turns around, a look of awe in her eyes. And maybe a little panic. I give her a giant smile and say "Hey you."
"Shut-up," she says, giving me a shove and smiling back, "So this is where it happens," gesturing to the hordes of people all around us.
The emotional gravity of the situation is obvious, but we both play it cool. In that moment, I'm thankful for tequila-tempered nerves. We exchange niceties and laugh about the situation, both a bit amazed that it's taken so long for something like this to happen. It's obviously the wrong venue for anything beyond idle banter, so I keep it brief, telling her to enjoy the show.
She tries to shake my hand, I give her a hug instead.
Turning, I cut back through the crowd, past my friends, directly out the front door for some fresh air.
Deep breaths. Maintain composure. Holy fuck.
-----
One of my old coworkers, someone I'd met very early on in my career, started guitar lessons while we still worked together. Out of the blue, he invites me to his recital. Apparently, he's still taking lessons and there's an open show. I accept his invitation.
So, the day of the recital, I get directions to the venue. Turns out, it's at a random suburban bar, somewhat close to my house. I arrive around 9pm to find the parking lot completely full. Finding a spot on the street, I head inside.
A sea of teenagers. Kids too. In a bar. All holding guitars or basses or drumsticks. There's a stage in the back of the venue, and it looks like three teenage girls, one guitar, one bass, one drums is about to perform. They clumsily start into Blondie's "One Way or Another."
Looking around, I pieced it all together -- There are a whole bunch of students, who they break down into groups, forming one-off bands, each band playing a single song.
Now, imagine my friend Josh, middle-aged doughy computer dude, playing some Black Keys song with a bunch of awkward teenagers. Now, imagine him wailing a gnarley fuckin' solo, totally showing up everyone else in his band. Wayyy over the top. Imagine him totally lovin' every minute of it.
I fist-pump-yell 'awww yeah!'.
-----
A few days after the show, Kim sends me a nice, well-wishing e-mail. We exchange a few brief messages over the next week. I propose (ha!) that if we're to be 'cool,' we should probably talk about things in-person.
She obliges, meeting me in the dim corner of a quiet bar. In the days leading up to the meetup, I run countless scenarios in my head, but despite my efforts, have no idea how things are going to pan out. I procure us some whiskey and we dive right into it.
We speak like old friends, a common reverence. Laughter, reminiscence, I spill my guts, she does some of the same.
Three hours later, we emerge. A warm embrace, then go our separate ways.
Getting into my car, I wait for it to warm up. I'm reeling, trying to process things. Shaking off the daze, I head off into the night. Halfway home, I realize that I'm smiling. I'm happy. I'm happy that she's doing well, that she's got her shit together, but mostly: I'm happy that she's happy.
My happiness confuses, overwhelms me. I don't understand. And then I realize, for the last few years, all I've been trying to tell myself is that I don't give a fuck about her. Which is so far from the truth. She's a giant part of my life and to try to deny it, well, seems a bit silly in retrospect.
At which point I pull the car to the side of the road. Breakdown.
-----
The only real goal I had in my trip to NYC was to explore the city and *not* see the statue of liberty with my own eyes. Mission accomplished.
-----
That bummer moment when the foxy girl that you've been talking up for the last half hour asks if you have any coke.
Shut it down.
-----
Thursday night, I get a call from my boss, informing me that the company partners had decided to promote me to Technical Director. I'll still be required to build big, intricate things, but I'll also be required to meet with clients, plan projects and manage a subset of the in-house development team. I've definitely been working towards this role, but I wasn't expecting it to happen for a while. It's a big job and completely scares the shit out of me, but I'm up for the challenge.
Friday, I awake to find an e-mail that explains that today is a team "fun day" as to celebrate the massive success of our last project. It tells us to dress "classy casual" and to meet at 10:00. Fuck yes.
It's a gorgeous day, and I'm at my desk by 7am, the first one in the office, trying to get as much done as possible before "fun day" starts. The next two hours are amazingly productive. I halve my lengthy TODO list.
Around 9am, my boss sends an e-mail to the entire company thanking me for my hard work and congratulating me on my promotion. A few minutes later, someone shouts "congrats Eric" from across the building. Then another, then another. Eventually, everyone starts clapping. Someone starts ringing a bell. I've never experienced anything like this. Incredible. Next, people start responding to the company-wide e-mail thread with congrats, embarassing stories and Doom II, Wu Tang gifs. Heartwarming.
10am hits and our executive producer gathers everyone up. We walk around the building to find a whiskey-stocked stretch Escalade limo to take us to wine country.
We spend the rest of the day drinking, lounging and eating fine-ass cheeses. Eventually, it's time to head back, but not before a stop at Dairy Queen.
Returning to the city, my evening is spent swapping stories with a beautiful, quick-witted woman.
What a goddamn great day.
-----
My second day in NYC, my friend find's out that her mother is in the hospital. Apparently she's got some infected kidney stones tearing through her. Gross, but nothing too serious. Early next morning, we get a call that her mother had fallen while trying to go to the bathroom, breaking both her ankles. A few hours later, she's delisional and trying to disrobe. Turns out there were some internal injuries. Now she's having problems breathing as is getting moved to the ICU.
At which point my friend books an emergency flight home, which leaves the following morning at 6:00am. She's shaken, but wants to keep her mind occupied, so with most of a day left, we set out exploring.
It's rainy and windy as we traverse the east side. I count 18 broken umbrellas just thrown in the gutter over the course of the day. Classy.
We end up at her favorite dive bar. I order some whiskey and the bartender gives me a little coupon and explains their buy-one-get-one special. I do the math -- $3 shots of Jameson + beerback. Oh shit. What a deal. They've got a curiously curated jukebox, but I'm able to find some jams. King Harvest permeates the place.
A few hours later, after redeeming way too many drink tickets, I get a bit brazen. Armed with a $5 bill, I play Alice in Chains' Jar of Flies in it's entirety, just to see what happens.
Results: everyone gets real bummed out.
I STAYYYYY AWAYYYYYYYY.
I find myself walking down the crowded sidewalk, deftly dodging pedestrians, despite my intoxication. I'm wholly unaware of time as a thing at this point, but we find our way to the subway station. Next, we're seated in a tiny, adorable Brooklyn restaurant, eating hardboiled eggs and porkchops. We discuss her impending departure and figure out a plan. She's going to pack when we get back to her place and just stay up, catching the Subway at 4:30am. I'll sleep in and do some more exploring tomorrow.
Next, I wake up. The lights are still on. My air matress has mostly deflated. I look at the room -- her back is still unpacked. I grab my phone for a time check: 4:30am. I freak out a bit. Her bed is up on a loft. I climb the latter and find her asleep. Waking her, I realize that I'm intensely nautious. She wakes and starts freaking out, feverishly packing her bags. I'm drinking water, trying to quell the waves of discomfort I'm experiencing. It's not working.
"You're going to have to drive me."
"Fuck, you're right."
I feel pukey and am going to be driving a car. I don't gamble with vomit, so I go to the bathroom and force myself to throw up, which is never pleasant. I purge some awfulness and immediately feel better. I brush my teeth and rinse off my face, trying to regain some composure.
By the time I come back, she's almost done packing. I refill my water bottle, drinking deeply. We run down five flights of stairs and three blocks, until we find her car. She just inherited it from her recently-deceased aunt. Gold 2001 Camry. Teen mom car. I sit shotgun as she tears through the city in search of JFK.
Just a few minutes from her apartment, the nausea returns in overwhelming blasts. A bit panicked, I look around for a vomit vessel. I find an old Burger King bag and manage, despite my fear of puking all over her car, to give her shit for loving hamburgers so truly.
As we veer right, entering the highway, I lose it, puking my guts out. This continues for the next few minutes. The bag is losing structural integrity, so I'm forced to throw it out the window. I feel bad about that one.
I realize I'm sweating. Fuck! I drink some more water as we arrive at terminal 7 and breathe a little sigh of relief. Except she needs to be at terminal 1. Luckily, you can easily drive there. Unfortunately, to do so requires spending 10 minutes navigating the cloverleaf circles that make up the roads around JFK. More nausea. More panic and scrambling for a vessel. Opening the glovebox, I silently thank her dead Aunt for putting a plastic bag in there. More vomit.
We arrive at the terminal, she hops out of the car, we hug and I get in the car. A real sign of relief. I start driving towards the exit, realizing that I really have no idea where I'm going. I silently thank the physics and computing for turn-by-turn GPS as I plot a route. I only have to pull over twice to dry-heave uncontrollably.
Unlocking the door to her apartment, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Lying in her bed, drifting asleep, I picture myself, in a top down view, alone, on the shoulder of the Brooklyn-Queens expressway, heaving and spitting.
-----
VIP Big Boi and Flying Lotus tickets courtesy of a client. Baller.
-----
With my new position comes new responsibilities. Almost immediately after being promoted, I'm sent to San Francisco for two days of in-house research / planning with three other coworkers. It's a fairly straight-forward project, but deadlines are incredibly tight. If I didn't have an incredible crew, I'd estimate that this would take a team of six about a month. We needed to do it with four people, in two weeks, which would require semi-superhuman strength to accomplish. The big upsides being that we can charge (somewhat excessive) rush fees and really show off for a company that does great stuff.
Update:
We finish in the nick of time. The project is intended for release at E3, but ends up being revealed in a keynote at a much, much bigger event. Massive, massive success.
-----
People are perched around the fire. It's May and it's a bit too early to be camping. It's rainy and mostly miserable, but, we persist.
We'd all been drinking tequilla since sunset, so we're all a bit ridiculous. She drinks whiskey out of a tin cup, half grimacing / sneering. She's got a big jacket and a beanie on and she's spouting nonsense about Steinbeck. I mouth off, telling her she looks like a hobo. More grimacing / sneering. I give her the hobo title of "Beancan," to which she flips me off. We all laugh.
Later that night, we end up sharing a tent, along with two other people. We woke up in a giant pile, as the tent had been pitched on a slope. Up to that point, we'd always been friendly and jeering, but after drunken dogpiling, we were fast friends.
Fast-forward a year. I've just been promoted. I'm still figuring out how to do my new job, so I'm stressed and overworked. Beancan joins me for some boozey cocktails and lets me vent, which I do. Thoroughly. These last few months, I've felt increasingly stagnant, isolated in my personal life. We both agree that much of that stems from my current living situation, which I've resolved to change by the time I hit 30. She tells me to get my ass in gear.
It's her turn. She's just decided to move to Boston with her boyfriend. It's a huge thing for her to uproot so severely, so she spills her trepidations. She talks in circles of wether or not it's worth it. We both agree that it is. She talks about what she's going to miss about this city. She spouts a laundry list of items, her apartment being one of them.
A slot machine jackpot sound plays in my head. Both our eyes light up.
"You need to live in my apartment."
"Yes, yes I do."
Fast-forward a few months, I'm at work when I get a text message from her soon-to-be-ex landlord: "The place is yours."
Big changes ahead.