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 sixth chapter

So after Eleanor left, I rinsed the wine glasses and worked out.

The gym I go to is on a corner, and the front of it is all windows, facing a busy avenue full of traffic and dimly-lit restaurants. Sometimes, when I’m lifting weights at night, I like to look out the window at the couples sitting in the restaurants, drinking cocktails and laughing over dishes of guacamole or bruschetta. I wonder how long they’ve known each other, what they’re talking about, if they’ve had sex, if they’re happy. And then, when I start to worry that they can see me watching, I turn and face the other way.

Yesterday, my mom and dad visited. They saw the wine glasses in the sink and asked if I’ve become an alcoholic. When I told them I had a friend over, they were skeptical. Sometimes my mom likes to rub it in that most of my friends are married with kids and, thereby, too busy to spend time with me. This was one of those times.

I debated telling them about Eleanor. About how nice and attractive I think she is. How she’s a graphic designer but also a painter, and how she takes the stairs on weekends.

But then I’d have to tell them that she lives across the hall, and then they’d probably call me ‘lazy.’ Because only the laziest person in the world dates the girl across the hall.

I’m really not lazy, though. I keep my eyes open for someone new. I like to observe people when I’m out to eat with friends, and when I’m at a party or other social function, I do talk to women. Sometimes they talk back.

When people ask why I haven’t met someone yet, I used to say that I’m too busy pursuing The Arts and living at home with my parents. But now that I’ve moved out and gotten a job, I think I’ve got to think of a new response.

Maybe I’ll say ‘chemistry.’

Chemistry is one of the hardest things to find. There’s a warmth to it, you know? I really believe the temperature rises between two people when they’re talking and have chemistry. It’s like all the molecules in the room sense what’s happening between these two people, and so they zoom over to witness and marvel at what’s taking place.

When I see couples embracing in the street, I smile, because I remember that warm feeling. Sometimes I want to tap them on the shoulder and tell them that this is what they’ll never forget. But that would be intrusive.

Most of all, I think I’d like to thank them. Because when they’re standing there together, I swear that, for a moment, that feeling that they feel passes along to me, and I feel it, too. It comes rushing back. And just when I’ve had a moment to savor it and let it really warm me up, it quickly disappears, and I keep on walking.