Steps and Paths
A few weeks ago I met up with my old friend John for dinner and drinks. John and I used to swim together in adolescence; and by “swim together” I mean the kind of training that pushed homework and puberty to the side. We were in the pool for at least 3 hours a day, seven days a week and a 4-foot Michael Phelps was slapping people with a towel on the pool deck and giggling. At that time all eyes were on other teammates aiming for the Olympics or Nationals at the ripe age of 14.
John and I liked to compare our German vocabularies during interval breaks and make mix tapes with cursive handwriting. One New Year’s Eve my mom let me go over to his house with my friend Susie. We watched a movie in his parents' bed and ate fried wontons. Halloween 1992, John was Ross Perot and I was a flapper. During high school I gave up swimming in search of something closer to “normal.” And then it was off to college.
I hadn’t seen John in about 10 years but learned he was living in New York and somehow knew that those 10 years could easily be ignored. We met for drinks and it was if everything was exactly the same, plus alcohol. On our second date we had a burger at the Corner Bistro and then went to the bar where his boyfriend works.
It seems too often that I’m able to reconnect with people in this city, and too soon I lose them to another place. John is leaving to pursue a PhD on the west coast in the fall. And so, while talking it’s as if I want to fit in another 10 years. As his boyfriend poured me whiskey after whiskey I asked John if he reads any poetry and he remarked, only Baudelaire and Frank O’Hara. I had barely said the name of my favorite O’Hara poem, Steps, when John was responding with—
oh god it's wonderful
to get out of bed
and drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
and love you so much
An hour later we were singing along to Wilson Phillips with the rest of the lingering Monday crowd and a dance party followed until the wee morning hours. Though I was cursing myself on the subway the next morning, dehydrated and lightheaded, I simultaneously looked forward to making John a new mix tape.
John and I liked to compare our German vocabularies during interval breaks and make mix tapes with cursive handwriting. One New Year’s Eve my mom let me go over to his house with my friend Susie. We watched a movie in his parents' bed and ate fried wontons. Halloween 1992, John was Ross Perot and I was a flapper. During high school I gave up swimming in search of something closer to “normal.” And then it was off to college.
I hadn’t seen John in about 10 years but learned he was living in New York and somehow knew that those 10 years could easily be ignored. We met for drinks and it was if everything was exactly the same, plus alcohol. On our second date we had a burger at the Corner Bistro and then went to the bar where his boyfriend works.
It seems too often that I’m able to reconnect with people in this city, and too soon I lose them to another place. John is leaving to pursue a PhD on the west coast in the fall. And so, while talking it’s as if I want to fit in another 10 years. As his boyfriend poured me whiskey after whiskey I asked John if he reads any poetry and he remarked, only Baudelaire and Frank O’Hara. I had barely said the name of my favorite O’Hara poem, Steps, when John was responding with—
oh god it's wonderful
to get out of bed
and drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
and love you so much
An hour later we were singing along to Wilson Phillips with the rest of the lingering Monday crowd and a dance party followed until the wee morning hours. Though I was cursing myself on the subway the next morning, dehydrated and lightheaded, I simultaneously looked forward to making John a new mix tape.
posted by Rebecca at 12:34 PM
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