chapter 23: the plastic clock

I am writing to you from a train on my way back from Baltimore to New York.

Since the unexpected and unwarranted promotion happened, I’ve been taking on more clients, all the while wondering when everyone will finally figure out that I have no idea what I’m doing.

On Friday night I got to stay at the Marriott and get a $50 stipend for breakfast alone. So yeah, I went ahead and ordered the biscuits and the coffee and the smoked bacon and the steak and eggs, and ate them in my queen-sized bed overlooking a parking lot.

On Saturday night, I got to see Lucas and stay with him and his wife Sharon and their 1-year-old Cody for a night.

When Lucas first met Sharon, I knew he was a goner. Maybe it’s because before they met, he had spent a year and a half recovering from a bad break-up by hooking up with OKCupid matches and relapsing on cigarettes. Or maybe it’s because Sharon saw the considerate guy behind his cocky facade.

But when he told me he asked her out for a second date while still on their first, I knew he was hooked, and I’d need to find someone else to play squash with.

Normally, being the third wheel sucks – you sense the bond between the two other people and you feel lightyears away from also having something with such intensity. But with Lucas and Sharon, I don’t feel deficient and down at all. I actually like to watch them together, because it gives me hope that if Lucas can find it – well, damn – so can I eventually, right?

That night, after Cody was put to bed, the three of us rented a movie and Sharon cooked chili and we all just caught up. Around midnight, they offered me sheets and a quilt and pillows to make a bed on the sofa, we said goodnight.

Closing my eyes, I could hear all the sounds of their home – the creaks and the charged refrigerator and the tick of a plastic clock down the hall. In their bedroom just a couple of feet away, I could hear their quiet conversation.

They talked about little things, like the food they have to get Cody and where Lucas’ pajama pants are and if they should wash the pillowcases tomorrow.

But I could feel the comfort in their words, the closeness that just blanketed all these trivial little nothings and made them into very mighty somethings.

And I lied awake thinking how they lucky they are, how immense it is to find the one person out of billions who you can speak with in such a quiet, little, nothing-but-something way before bed.

I forgot what it was like.

I’ve always told myself that, only when my life gets figured out, can I finally really be with someone. Because how can I provide and give them a good life and really be emotionally there for them if my career isn’t completely on track?

But maybe that’s the kind of thinking that lands you, at the age of 40, lying on a couch in your best friend’s house in Baltimore, suddenly remembering what it’s like to love someone and feel secure.

We’re all confused and messed up and unsure of our way, but maybe it could be more fun having a partner to jostle around with through these ups and downs, instead of just you bumping up against your own crazy, morning and night after morning and night.

I want what they have. I want the house and the talk and the love and the kid and the plastic clock and the chili. And I’ve never really wanted that before.

I guess you could call this “growing up.”

Or maybe it’s simply clarity.

this is my 22nd chapter

When my 50something neighbor invited herself to my co-worker’s Valentine’s Day party, I didn’t have high expectations.

Honestly, we hardly knew each other, I hardly knew Gary, and we both would be, by far, the oldest guests at the party. So I figured we’d get some strange looks and leave after an hour.

But when we didn’t get home until 2am, and three guys at the party asked for Donna’s number, and I ripped my pants from dancing, I remembered how surprising life can really be.

Maybe it’s because we were nearly 10-30 years older than most of the people at the party, or that we were the two wearing red in a crowd of 20-30somethings dressed in black. Or maybe it’s because Gary and Jane (her stage name, she revealed, is Donna), had everyone dancing within the first hour – but the party became about us.

Most of all, it became about Jane.

I didn’t know she’s an actress, but she took hold of the dance floor like a concert stage, twirling and dragging any person lining the perimeter of the living room into her own, tiny circle of uninhibitedness. She was sweating and laughing, amused by my own attempt to move my legs in what could resemble coordination and rhythm. That was when I ripped my pants. It was by the knee, so it was fine. They were old.

Gary: Where did you meet her?

Me: Across the hall. Jane’s my neighbor. I told you that when we came in.

Gary: Oh, oh yeah. Yeah.

He took a big gulp of his sixth beer and leaned in.

Gary: Are you guys, like, together or something?

I knew he’d ask.

Me: No, no. She’s simply my neighbor, she invited herself, we’re here as friends.

Gary: “Friends.”

Me: Friends.

And then he ate a brownie off the plate beside him and pointed across the room to a serious, late20something guy standing against the wall of the living room, shoveling a pig-in-a-blanket into his mouth.

Gary: Cool, because he’s asking about her.

Me: What?

Gary pointed to a 30something guy in the kitchen drinking expensive champagne out of a Solo cup.

Gary: And so is his friend, but he doesn’t know that.

Me: Wow.

Gary: Yeah, you don’t mind, right? I mean, she’s pretty awesome. I’m sorry my friends are lame, in comparison to her.

Me: No, I mean, I’m pretty sure she’s single. She can do whatever she wants, really.

Gary: Cool. Have you met my friend Amy? She dated my ex, but she’s cool.

And before I could answer, he dragged me into the foyer where a very trendy, glossy-looking girl stood with her jacket in her hands and her eyes on her phone.

Gary: This is Doug. He’s awesome. Talk to him.

Amy: I’m leaving, Gary. I’m getting up early tomorrow.

Gary: Oh, just chill for once.

Then Gary walked away and left me with the girl who wanted nothing to do with me.

Me: If you wanna go, you can go… I don’t wanna make you–

Amy: Oh, really? Okay, cool.

And then she started actually walking out.

Me: Or, wait, you can stay or something for a second. Just because we’ve never met before.

And then she turned around and looked at me like I was some lost five-year-old in a shopping mall, hiding under a table in the men’s department.

Amy: Are you single or something.

Me: Yeah, I am, I mean, I’d imagine most people at this party are.

Amy: Yeah, I’m not really looking to date.

Me: Okay. Then why did you come here?

Amy: Because I’m friends with Gary, and I’m sick of Netflix.

Me: Okay, I get it.

And then we just stood there.

Amy: How do you know him.

Me: We work together at the firm.

Amy: Oh. Cool.

“Finance” is so hit-or-miss with women. Some see dollar signs, and some see a sell-out. Both are right, really.

Amy: Yeah, I don’t really date finance guys.

Me: Really. Why?

Amy: Cause they’re boring and traditional and shallow, usually.

Me: Well what do you do?

Amy: I’m an editor, cover nightlife and restaurants. I’m just not really looking to date.

Me: Alright then, that’s fine, that’s fine. Have a good night.

So then I turned around and walked back into the living room, grabbing a beer. I was about to call Jane over when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

Amy: So if you want my number, you can have it. I will give it to you.

Me: But you’re not looking to date or anything.

Amy: Yeah, but I need to get out more. Where’s your phone.

I took out my phone and she gave me her number.

Me: I’m very boring and traditional and shallow, though. We’ll have an awful time.

Amy: Yeah, well, that’s nothing new.

And then she turned around and walked out. Women are confusing.

One hour later and Jane and I were riding the elevator back up to the eighth floor, exhausted.

Jane: I’m proud of you, Doug.

Me: Because I danced?

Jane: Yes. And when I invited myself to your friend’s party, you didn’t say no. I didn’t expect you to do that.

Me: I didn’t have a choice, really.

Jane: You hardly knew me and I’m so much older than you and your nice friends, but you still let me come to the party. It says a lot about you. It says a lot about your character.

Me: Perhaps.

Jane: It does.

Me: Or maybe it just means I could use a friend.

She laughed and smiled.

Jane: Everyone could.

And then she said goodnight, and walked into her apartment.

chapter 21: valentine’s day

I’m a single, 40-year-old guy and what can I say: I like Valentine’s Day.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been single for a couple of years and I feel so far away from it all, but I like to examine the couples as they walk the streets with packaged flowers and boxed chocolates: some couples look like one another, dressed in the same style of t-shirts and jeans, and some are absolute opposites which is why they could work.

But then there are the odd couples: the mismatched twosome. Like pairing mayonnaise with peanut butter on a whole-wheat sandwich. But in their own little world, I guess it works.

My Valentine’s Day started out tame.

I wore a red tie and purple shirt to work. No one dressed up. I felt like the inside of a Hallmark card.

But after lunch, my co-worker Gary invited me to a Valentine’s Day party: he’s younger and just recently went through a tough break-up with a girl he called “so crazy” that he “won’t even talk about it.”

When I got home that night and rode the elevator to the eighth floor, I thought about Eleanor and what she’s doing tonight.

I imagined knocking on her door and her having trouble opening it, as dozens of red petals and bouquets of long-stemmed roses and tulips from various suitors tumbled out, bursting from the doorway.

“Oh, sorry!” she’d say with a laugh. “It’s just that time of year again.”

I lingered in the hallway, key in hand, contemplating knocking on her door, until I heard a voice.

“Hello, Doug.”

I turned around: it was the woman I met in the hallway the night Eleanor and I ate the brownie.

Me: Donna, hi, good to see you.

Donna: Are you lost?

She stared at me, unwaveringly. I felt my face flushing.

Me: No no, I’m just… debating grabbing food. Just got home.

She stood there in that same red robe, looking like the painting above Eleanor’s bed, but a little bit older. Was she wearing anything under there?

Donna: No romantic dinner planned?

Me: No not me, just taking it easy tonight.

She turned her head, examining me like I imagine I do the couples on Valentine’s Day.

Donna: How old are you, Doug.

Me: 40.

Donna: So you’re young, but you’re not that young.

Thank you?

Donna: Why are you alone.

This wasn’t exactly the conversation I wanted to have on a Friday night, on Valentine’s Day, in the middle of our hallway.

I mean, I could say that it’s because I don’t have my life in order yet and that’s not very attractive, because I have a high standard for chemistry, because I’ve been hibernating all season-long, because I have low self-esteem and confidence, or I could say—

Me: Haven’t met the right person yet.

That could be true, too. But I sensed she wasn’t buying it.

Me: Well, have you?

Donna: I have. But he’s not here anymore.

Oh man, I felt bad. Like a criminal. Like I just ran off with her jewelry and her soul, or something.

Me: Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m really sorry.

Donna: He moved to Paris.

Me: Okay then.

And then we just stood there. Like we were stuck in traffic.

Me: So what are you going to do tonight?

Donna: I’m debating getting something to eat. And you?

Me: Well, my co-worker invited me to a party. So I think I’m gonna go.

Donna: That sounds lovely.

Me: Yeah, I mean, it’ll be okay.

And then she took a step forward, walking under a light in the hallway, and that’s when I realized: she’s definitely not wearing anything under there.

Donna: I’ll join.

What?

Me: The party?

Donna: Yes, I’ll put some clothes on. I’m coming with you.

And just like that, on this Valentine’s night, we became one of “the odd couples.”

chapter 20

I still can’t believe what I did today. Hours later, and I’m a laughing, sweaty mess.

Coming home has a way of regressing a person many years: I become hyper, hungry, distracted, messy, and incapable.

So when my best friend Lucas called, saying he was coming home to NJ for the weekend, I couldn’t pass up the chance to join. After half a year of not seeing him, we packed into my living room like teenagers again, drinking beer and talking about rock music, concerts, and arm exercises. Except now he’s married with a one-year-old son living in Baltimore, and I’m living on my own across the Hudson with a dead Christmas tree.

Lucas: Living the dream, Doug. New York financier and bachelor.

He clinked my beer in a cheers and radiated that smile all the girls in high school loved, all the women we met at bars in our 20s loved – his tour de force and kryptonite.

Me: Thanks. It’s been pretty wild I’ve gotta say.

Lucas: Proud of you, man. It takes a lot to just pick up at 40 and move out and get a job. Good for you.

Oh, Lucas. He’s got this way of making even the sincerest of compliments sound condescending. It’s why people who don’t know him think he’s a jerk. But I know he’s awesome.

Me: Still can’t believe you’re a dad. And he’s still kickin’.

Lucas: Neither can I. I keep waiting for the day when someone realizes Sharon and I have no idea what we’re doing.

Me: Well, I know, but I’m not telling anyone.

Lucas: You’re a good friend.

We took another swig of our beers, surrounded by photos of my family trip to Bermuda in middle school, my kindergarten photo, and some memorabilia from college down south.

Me: Wanna go back to high school?

Lucas: Yeah, I mean, it would be fun. I’m pretty sure I peaked there.

Me: No, I mean right now. Visit.

He cocked his head like a dog who heard a doorbell.

Lucas: We can’t, it’s a Sunday. No one’s there.

Me: Who cares. Let’s just drive and walk around it. It’s been ages.

So we pack into my dad’s Honda Civic with a couple bags of Cheetos and fruit snacks, blasting Bon Jovi, and we race to the high school in the center of town.

It looked like a spaceship. It had grown, at least, four times the size since we scattered the place in our Nikes and sweatbands and pimples.

We got out of the car and wandered the grounds, peering into the cafeteria and 70s-style classrooms.

I put my nose up to the space between the two doors in the entranceway.

Me: It smells… it smells like teen spirit… and rejection.

He pushed me aside.

Lucas: Let me.

He took a big whiff.

Lucas: It smells like… like anatomy textbooks and… hairspray.

I ran to the long end of the building, looking into a computer and photography lab – and that’s when I saw it.

There, in all it’s hidden glory, was a door slightly ajar. An open door. Leading inside the high school.

Me: Lucas. No way. The door is open.

Lucas hurries over and looks.

Me: We’re going in.

So I swing the door open quietly, and we both tiptoe into the hallway, on the same carpeting and tile we once walked on to get to Spanish class. We look around, like we just landed on a new planet.

Lucas: Everything is so… shiny. And just big. When did the hallways get so big.

Lucas took out his phone and started snapping photos, making a video for Sharon of the bathroom where he used to play cards while skipping math class.

Walking through the long hallways brought back memories of truth-or-dare in the auditorium, breaking my nose during frisbee at lunch, asking a girl Emily out seven times junior year, and getting erections in history class. Really, a whole outpouring of insecurities. So much has changed and so much has stayed the same.

Lucas: Doug. Check this out.

I ran over to a section of lockers.

Lucas: This is where that kid hid the dissected pig. They didn’t find him for months.

Kids are sick.

I ran around the bend of the language arts hallway and spotted something I hadn’t seen before.

Me: Lucas, over here! There’s an entirely new wing.

The wing was practically glistening with fresh paint and new windows, connecting the language arts hallway to the history classes.

We looked at it the way many look at the Brooklyn Bridge when seeing it for the first time. With awe.

Me: Let’s go.

We dart down the hallway, when suddenly we hear a…

“click.”

I turn to Lucas. We both lock eyes.

We hear a voice. It’s automated.

“Intruders. Intruders. Intruders. Intruders.”

FUCK

We run, screaming like banshees through the new wing, through the language arts hallway, passed the spanish classroom, and through the open door to the outdoors. The alarm is whirling throughout the entire spaceship of a school.

Me: The new wing. It…it has new technology.

I yell back at Lucas as we race to my dad’s Honda Civic, hollering like we’re at a metal concert.

Lucas: Step on it. Step on it Doug.

I push my key into the ignition and slam on the gas.

We circle the parking lot and fire up the driveway, back onto the main road.

Lucas and I: WHAT THE FUCK WE’RE ON CAMERA

We’re yelling screaming laughing huffing puffing. Dying and alive, all at once.

Me: They’re gonna see our plastered faces on camera. Our looks of absolute fear. That’s what they’ll show on TV.

Lucas: The wanted posters, it’ll be all over.

Me: The cops, they’re gonna arrive.

We pull into my parent’s driveway, Cheetos and fruit snacks scattered about the dashboard.

We sit in the car, attempting to catch our breath. Bon Jovi still blasting. Sweat raining down our necks and temples.

I look at Lucas: my oldest friend, who’s seen me at my smallest, largest and now, my sweatiest.

Me: You’ve got to come home more often.

this is my 19th chapter

This week marked the commencement of winter hibernation: when I join the throngs of black bears, bats, and other cave-dwellers and avoid all social interaction and food-outings for a very long time.

Sir Hunter Green and I (oh yes, he’s still here) enjoy late-night Thai food delivery, jazz and classic rock, and many beers. He’s shedding like a dog but he still exists kind of.

However, this year is unlike others. Last year at this time, I was living at my parent’s home, and hibernation was an all-year thing.

Now that I’m living on my own, my hibernation needs a new excuse. It’s not depression or Seasonal Affective Disorder or even laziness.

Let’s call it “shock.”

Because when I sat in my boss’ leather seat and listened to him promote me and ask, “How do you feel?” – I felt Nothing, and instantly got the clarity I’ve been seeking. I realized that–

I just don’t give a shit.

I sat there like a really bad actor, feigning excitement and doling out dialogue like, “Wow, this is great news. I am very happy.”

I sounded like a customer in one of those cheesy car dealership commercials. But I was worse than that actually, because I was a person acting in my real life, and that just feels awful.

But I guess this is what happens when you try so hard to deny what you love  – when you veer off course in pursuit of a career and a life that sounds good on paper. You sacrifice feeling much of anything.

And is it worth it? It’s up to you decide. There’s really no wrong answer. Happiness is the only compass, I guess.

I left early that night, picking up a honey-glazed rotisserie chicken and a couple of rolls.

I made a mess of the rolls. I was so hungry, I couldn’t really wait to slice the bread in half, so I just tore them apart like a black bear and devoured them. I think there’s still crumbs by the freezer.

Whoops.

I looked out the window at the city that’s been my home these past couple of months. What a crazy place. Who are these people living in these buildings next to me? Are they as confused as I am, shocked, feigning excitement? Just not giving a shit? Do they slice their rolls in half before eating them?

Maybe they’re really happy. If they are, I’d like to ask them how they got there. And maybe if I’m lucky, they’ll begin their story with, “If you ever told me a year ago I’d be…” Those are the best stories. They’re kind of heroic, you know? They’re surprising.

After watching “American Beauty” and eating an ice pop, I went back into my bedroom and pulled the boxes out from under my bed.

There sat the piles of screenplays I’ve written over the years, inspired by so many different and extreme moments in my life: graduating college, moving back home, having moderate success in film, peaking at 28, facing rejection, depression, losing my dog, falling in love, losing her, writing again, doubting again, and finally getting kicked out.

But what about New York? Perhaps it deserves its moment. I sat on the floor against my bed, wondering what it is I could write. Part of me feels like I need to live a bit more and I can’t force the inspiration, but part of me feels it’s already there.

And then the biggest part of me of all realized that already I was feeling more than “Nothing.” And if happiness is the only compass, then I think I am finding my direction.

my 18th chapter: passing cars

Every morning when you wake up, you have those three golden seconds when you forget who you are, where you are and what you’re doing here. You’re just this free-floating unwritten page.

It feels like bliss.

When I woke up for work on Friday at 6:30am, these three seconds arrived. And naturally, I did my daily rundown.

– My name is Doug.

– I now live in New York.

– I work at a finance firm.

And then I continued:

– What did I do last night?

– The brownie.

– Alaska.

– She’s here.

I turned and saw Eleanor passed out next to me in bed, a little puddle of drool beside her cheek. I was partially stoned.

I knelt down next to her.

Me: Hey, I’ve gotta go to work, but you can stay as long as you’d like.

Eleanor: What time is it?

Me: 7am.

She looked at me for a moment, having her own three golden seconds of “blank page,” and then registering what happened. After a swift, sleepy hug and a “I’ll see you later,” she left, and that was that.

On the subway, I stood by the window, looking out as the car rolled through the tunnel.

One of the most fascinating things about a subway ride is the way two separate train cars pass one another on different tracks, moving parallel and and then continuing on their journey.

For 10 seconds, you get the voyeuristic thrill of literally staring into someone else’s life and daily routine – the way they lean up against the subway door, roll their eyes at the story in the paper, sneak a bite of a sandwich from their bag.

I like to wonder where they’re headed, if they want to go there, what they did last night.

People are so much more interesting than we ever imagine, you know? They’re like these walking Russian dolls where, if you take the time to open them, they keep unraveling into more and more pieces, filling up your shelves with stories and fears and quirks.

It’s moments like this – on these passing trains – when I think about my screenplays: all the pieces that are sitting in a box under my bed. And I want to capture these people, the same way a camera zooms in on an actor’s wrinkles and scars.

I feel something when I look into their lives for just a second. One day, I really hope that this feeling will be enough to stir me to write again and get back to my scripts.

Maybe even write something new.

When I got to work, there was an email in my inbox from my boss Greg.

Greg is a guy who takes what many perceive as stressful events, and turns them into breezy, charisma-filled moments, and I don’t know how he does it. Sometimes I sit there in my stiff suit, holding a miniature plastic cup filled with room-temperature water, and am in awe of him. He’s the personification of the “I think I can I think I can” Little Engine That Could.

Greg always emails me in the morning with updates, but this time the subject line said, “See me when you get in.”

What does he mean “see me when you get in?” What’s that about.

I froze and went to the bathroom and looked at myself. This was probably the worst morning to ever see him when I get in.

Not only were my eyes slightly red, but I realized my blue tie didn’t match my green shirt and my hair looked like that of a Tim Burton character. This is what happens when a 40-year-old eats a pot brownie and gets three hours of sleep.

But what are you going to do? The deed is done. Now is go time.

So I walked out and knocked on his door. He opened it.

Greg: Good morning.

Me: Good morning, I just got your email.

Greg: Of course, take a seat.

So I took a seat.

Greg: How’s it going, Doug? How are things going for you.

Me: Good, good, I’m enjoying it here. No complaints.

Greg: No? That’s great. I’m happy to hear.

We talked about our weekends, the workflow, etc.

And then there was a pause, and he looked at me for an unusually long time.

Greg: Well, I think you’re more than settling in. I think you’re doing a great job. Larry left, and I want you to fill his position.

My mind went blank. Wait, what? Who’s Larry?

Me: Really.

Greg: It means a bit of a raise and more responsibilities, so weekend business trips and stuff, but I think you’re ready for it. Bill agrees.

Wait, who’s Bill again? What the fuck is going on.

Greg: So what do you think of this? How do you feel.

How did I feel.

I sat there in my mismatched blue tie and green shirt and red eyes and dry mouth.

All I could imagine were the passing cars that rode through the tunnel, making stops and moving forward.

For three golden seconds,  I forgot who I was, where I was and what I was doing there.

And I felt nothing.

my 17th chapter

Me: Alright, so go ahead. Tell me what you think.

Eleanor: Right now?

Me: I ate the brownie, Eleanor. Go ahead.

Eleanor: I don’t feel anything yet.

Me: For me?

Eleanor: No, from the brownie.

Me: Who cares?

Eleanor: I’m not telling you until I do.

So I got up and grabbed my keys and walked out. She yelled into the hallway. At 3:30am.

Eleanor: Where do you think you’re going?

Me: You’re a baby, Eleanor.

I opened my door and she darted toward it.

Eleanor: You are. Why can’t you trust how I feel? Does it need an explanation?

Me: You’re confusing, you’re just confused. I’d rather be high by myself.

So then I walked in my apartment and shut the door.

Eleanor: Douglas.

She stood there.

Eleanor: Douglas, come on.

I made a drink in the kitchen.

Eleanor: Open up.

Me: You.

And then I heard her walk away, back into her apartment, which surprised me a little bit. I thought she’d put up more of a fight.

I walked out into the hallway to be sure, but she wasn’t there. Someone else was.

She was slender, older, probably around 50, 55 and she was wearing a red robe. You could tell she was beautiful at one point. She still was.

Me: I’m sorry for all this racket. I must be so loud. Really apologize.

She smiled.

She: Who are you?

Me: I’m new, Doug. Moved in a couple of months ago. 8E.

She: 8J.

Me: What’s your name?

She: Donna.

She smiled again. Or maybe it was a smirk.

Me: Good to meet you, Donna.

Donna: Welcome to the building.

And then she walked back inside, and so did I.

Back in my apartment, I drank my whiskey, laid on my bed and considered what to do. I turned on National Geographic and watched a time-lapse of Alaska.

And I thought about the first time I had a weed brownie. It was sophomore year of college, spring break in Amsterdam with my best friend Lucas. We had a weed muffin and felt nothing, so we went to another shop and picked up a special brownie.

We went back to our hostel and I pulled out my guitar (I played at the time) and we just started jamming and recording it, thinking we were gonna pull a “Beatles” and write the next “Lucy in the Sky.” The next morning, when we listened to the recording, all you could hear were some plucks from the guitar, melodic mumblings, and the sound of me passing out headfirst on the hostel floor.

The last time I had a brownie, I was also with Lucas. It was three years ago. We were at my parent’s house, just blocks from his parent’s house. His co-worker gave them to him as a birthday gift, so we sat on the couch in my living room when my parents weren’t home and got baked.

And that’s when he told me.

Lucas: Man, I’m getting married you know.

I didn’t react. My response time was shot.

Lucas: Dude, marriage. It’s happening.

Eight seconds later.

Me: Huh what? What really?

Lucas: Yeah, I did it. On my birthday. She had no idea.

Me: Where how?

Lucas: Where we first met. That cafe in the East Village.

I sat there for a bit. System processing.

Me: Wow Lucas. Congrats. That’s huge that’s really big.

Lucas: Yeah man. Growing up, it’s crazy. You’re next.

And then I looked at him. And whether it was the weed or the statement, I didn’t recognize him. I actually looked at my best friend of 25 years and didn’t know who he was. Like a stranger on the street or something.

Me: Fuck.

Lucas: I know.

Me: No, fuck. This is crazy really crazy.

I stumbled to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror and saw that I was 15 pounds overweight and my hands were covered in Cheetos cheese.

I didn’t even recognize me.

Fast forward three years, and I’m in this New York City apartment, wearing a suit to a job five days a week and haven’t seen my best friend in half a year. Who am I.

And that’s when it hit me. Alaska looked great.

And then I heard a knock and stumbled to the door. It was Eleanor.

Eleanor: This…this is…this is…

She was practically swaying.

Eleanor: Fuck.

And then she just lunged at me, like an animal on attack.

She kissed me. I kissed her back. We moved onto my bed and started making out. It didn’t need an explanation.

And then she stopped and looked at me.

Eleanor: Is it weird? Is it weird that we’re neighbors.

Me: I don’t think so.

We kept kissing. Then she stopped again.

Eleanor: Because I like you, I do. And that’s just how life works, you know?

Me: It is. It’s crazy.

And then we kept making out, with the Northern Lights and a pack of caribou in the background.

And then we laid on our backs, looking up at the ceiling, cuddling. It felt so good to touch someone else and feel warmth, you know? It had been so long.

Me: I think you’re really special, you know.

She stayed quiet.

Me: I’m happy we met.

I turned on my side to look at her and kiss her again. And that’s when I realized.

She had fallen asleep.

this is my 16th chapter

It came at the strangest of times: a note, pushed swiftly under my door.

On Thursday, having returned from work around midnight  – my head spinning with numbers and emails and traffic lights – I sat awake on my bed, eyes glazed and staring at the ceiling. I considered masturbating, but was too tired. You know how it goes.

And then I heard a “swoosh” coming from 10-feet-away, a tiny pocket of white by the door.

Eleanor. It’d been weeks. I could even hear her say “Douglas.” The one moment I wasn’t thinking of her, she swoops right in. Isn’t that how it always works.

So then I considered ignoring the note, but then I thought of Doug ’14, and how it would be such a better “show” to actually see what was going on next-door.

So I went.

Eleanor: Wow. You’re actually awake.

Me: You’re actually alive.

Eleanor: I’ve been busy. You could have just knocked on my door, you know.

Me: Well, I’ve been busy, too. Really busy.

Eleanor: Good. How’s work and everything?

Me: It’s fine, the same. Just working a lot.

Eleanor: Yeah, same.

Me: So this is what you wanted to talk about at 3am?

Then she got quiet for a moment, and I wondered if she was going to shut the door or shutdown again.

Eleanor: I wanted to see how you are. It’s been a while since we hung out, and I was looking at the Empire State from my window tonight and thinking, “Douglas, I wonder how he is.”

Then she turned around and invited me in, and I realized she was wearing a scarf, and her jacket was splayed on the couch. We sat.

Me: Did you just get back from somewhere?

Eleanor: Yeah, I went to a friend’s art exhibit and then we went for drinks after.

Me: How was it?

Eleanor: Just bad, really bad stuff. But I told her it was great, of course. That’s what friends do.

Me: When’s your exhibit?

Eleanor: Mine? Who knows. When I’m dead, maybe? Posthumously hanging at the Guggenheim, like all great works of art.

Me: Don’t say that. Your stuff is really good, really different. You could go somewhere.

Eleanor: Blah, blah, blah, so could you, if you believed it yourself.

Then she got up and walked the two feet to her kitchen counter, unwrapping an aluminum-covered dish. Three brownies were inside.

Eleanor: Want one?

Me: You made these?

Eleanor: No, but my friend said they’re delicious. Have one.

She gave me a long stare as I reached for the brownie, like I, too, was an art exhibit.

Me: What.

Eleanor: Nothing, just eat it. They’re organic, you’re fine.

Me: Aren’t you gonna have one?

She grabs for one and keeps staring at me.

Me: Go ahead.

Eleanor: You first.

And that’s when it hit me.

Me: I’m not doing this right now. No way.

Eleanor: Oh, come on, it’ll be fun.

Me: Have you ever had one of these? You’re gonna feel like you died and the ground is spaghetti. You won’t even be able to recognize me.

Eleanor: Yeah, right. I’ll be fine.

She pops an entire brownie in her mouth.

Me: Are you crazy? You know how strong that’s gonna be?

Eleanor: It’s only one, calm down.

Me: You don’t know what you’re doing.

Eleanor: Who are you, my dad? I know, I’m “so young and stupid” etcetera etcetera. You’re only, what, 10 years older than me?

Me: 15, actually.

Eleanor: You’re 40? Really? Did you tell me that? You look a lot younger. Maybe because you don’t have a wife or kids or anything.

Me: And are you my parents? Maybe I’ll just go back to bed, or hang myself, or something.

Eleanor: That’s not what I meant. It was a compliment, come on.

Me: Well I just meant that half is all you need.

Eleanor: You’re an expert at weed. Weed and movie-writing, aren’t you. What else don’t I know about you.

Me: I’m not a stoner, and I’m not really a writer, either. I don’t know what I am.

Eleanor: Doug the mystery neighbor.

Me: You’re the one who disappears for weeks and shuts down on a date.

Eleanor: A date, really? Surprise. It was a date.

Me: Or something like it. You knew what it was.

Eleanor: How would I know? You don’t make a move.

Me: You’re confusing…really confusing. I don’t know what you want.

Eleanor: I want you to eat this brownie.

And then she smirked a little bit, in that way women do when they’re tipsy and very sure of themselves.

Eleanor: You really don’t know what you are?

Me: Do you?

Eleanor: No. But if you eat this brownie, I’ll tell you what you are. To me, at least.

We locked eyes and I felt that chemistry I saw between a couple months ago. That warmth, when all the molecules start moving and slowly raising the temperature.

Me: Deal.

And so, I ate it.

chapter 15: the blizzard

Two days into the new year, and we got hit with a blizzard.

It looked like this.

And I swear that, for a moment, the city that never sleeps actually slept – and so did I.

Thankfully, emails were sent to everyone at work, urging us not to come in, just in case our “lives were in peril.”

Mine certainly was, as I stayed home watching two seasons of Breaking Bad, ordering in lukewarm pizza, and importing the colossal amounts of photos and videos from my phone to my computer.

Have you ever done this before? You watch your life literally flash before your eyes, moment by moment, as each memory impresses itself into the hard drive of your computer. It is pretty jarring.

I’ve had stuff on there for a good two years, and witnessed the snapshots just fly by: the time I chopped a pine tree down in my parents’  backyard and felt accomplished, the latest draft of my short film – crisp and printed out on my desk, going snowshoeing with my best friend and getting lost in the woods, and my first glance at my own tiny, barren NYC apartment.

I also took a photo from when I went to the top of the Empire State Building with Eleanor.

It looked like this.

We haven’t spoken or seen each other since our trip to the top. It’s like someone’s pressed ‘pause’ on whatever relationship we’ve been building, and has hidden the remote control under several very large blankets so I can’t switch it back to ‘play.’

Normally, I’d spend most of my subway rides, dish-washing, walks through the grocery store, and workouts wondering how she’s doing in that apartment of hers across the hall, and if she’s even thinking of me.

But now that we’re nearly a week into the new year, it’s time you meet the new Doug:

Doug ’14 (version 2.0.)

Unlike Doug ’13, Doug ’14 doesn’t enjoy grazing on muddy, doubt-ridden, insecure, and anxious thoughts many times throughout the day.

Instead, the new Doug molds these thoughts into sunnier ones, like the changing of a channel.

Don’t like the “Was The Empire State Visit Too Much” show?

Don’t worry, there’s a good program on “But It’s An Experience She’ll Never Forget.”

You see? If I don’t focus on this process, then Doug ’13 will succeed at cramming these anxious thoughts back into my head, and the two Dougs will have to duke it out.

It sounds like a sci-fi film, right? And it really could be, because with the might of Skywalker, I actually have to push the thoughts out of my mind. It’s like pushing a U-Haul up a ski slope.

Supposedly, a habit takes 21 days to form, so every day through the 21st, this is what I’m doing: mentally pushing a U-Haul up a ski slope.

May the best Doug survive.

chapter 14: the new year

Every year, around the end of December, I spend a good deal of time looking out the window. Like a house dog. “Reflection” is what they call it, but it might as well be coined “Digging A Hole To China With A Utensil,” because once I start “reflecting,” I don’t stop, and I don’t really get anywhere, and my mind and back starts to hurt.

I’m not where I was last year, which is a good thing, I suppose.

Last year, I was toiling with the fourth draft of a short film, doing some freelance film-editing jobs, and cleaning the kitchen for my mom after dinner.

This year, I have my own kitchen. And I haven’t touched a script in months, but I paid for this sandwich I’m eating.

How do I feel?

I feel pretty afraid, actually.

I am looking at my life and feeling kind of frightened by how easy it is to succeed at the things you don’t care about, and how hard it is to thrive at the things you do.

They like me at my job, and they pay me for it and they think I do it well.

But if my salary was connected like an IV to my heart, I’d be banking zero at the job and millions at the script.

But that’s not how life works. It rewards you in the places you least expect it to, and it’s frightening to think that life doesn’t notice if your “heart’s not in it.” In fact, the only one who notices is you.

When Eleanor and I went up to the Empire State Building at 1am, we didn’t speak. We ran out to the freezing observation deck and looked out at the skyscrapers and traffic lights and rooftops and bridges. We reflected in our own quiet way.

In the cab back, we still didn’t speak. And when we went up the elevator to our floor, there was silence.

Eleanor: Goodnight, Doug.

Me: Goodnight.

I walked the five steps to my apartment and shut the door and looked out the window. I considered Digging The Hole again, but passed. Instead, I put on my pajamas and laid in bed and looked up at the ceiling.

Maybe Eleanor felt the same way I did that night above the city: small. 

But in a good way. Because if we’re really that small, imagine how tiny our thoughts are.

And if our thoughts are tiny, our fears are, too.