chapter 10: hit man

Ever since the holiday, it’s felt like a rippling, red-and-green-striped tidal wave has crashed through New York, and I’ve become swept up in it. My nights have been spent at work until 9pm, trying to stay focused and seemingly interested and capable in an industry I know nothing about, all while dusting remnants of nacho chips onto my keyboard every time I type.

Every time I think I’ve finally mastered something, the task suddenly gets harder and I’m proven wrong. It’s like thinking you’ve beat the boss at the final level of a video game, until he suddenly hurls a grenade you’ve got to learn how to dodge. Life stays interesting.

But does it really?

Sometimes I worry that I’m becoming this one-note person – someone who’s just his job, losing sight of his creative sensations and urges, who doesn’t look up – reach upwards – long enough to grasp what living is.

Why have I not seen Eleanor? I didn’t get her number. And I don’t have Facebook. In fact, I don’t even know if she’s back from the holidays. So now, we’re thrust into this 19th-century relationship where encounters are dictated by fate, not text. And since I’m working so much and hardly home to knock on her door, fate has yet to make its appearance. But why hasn’t she knocked on my door? Or maybe she has – and I’ll never know. “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it…”

The good news: there’s been an addition to the family.

Meet: Sir Hunter Green.

He’s a modest three-feet-tall, stocked with colorful lights and a stuffed reindeer ornament I got at the Union Square holiday market. The lights were too long so I laid the rest of it on my heating vent. I’m not very crafty.

Sir Hunter and I have been listening to Christmas music all day while I’ve laid in bed watching Damages. Have you seen it? It stars Glen Close and Rose Byrne as ruthless lawyers in New York doing illegal things to bring ‘justice’ to the world. The moral of the entire five-season story: trust no one.

And now the lesson has started rubbing off on me. Have you ever noticed that about TV shows? When you become so committed and attached to them, these people become your friends and their outlooks become your own. You’ve got to choose wisely, you know.

Now I’ve started questioning everyone’s intentions: is that guy with the love-struck girlfriend secretly texting her best friend? Did my friend leave last night’s party early to feed his fledgling drug addiction? Did the waiter steal my credit card number to pay off a hit man to kill a roommate who knows his darkest secret?

You see, I don’t want to question people’s motives. Navigating life is hard enough without having to dissect every moment like a Salinger book. But yet – there’s an air of ‘mystery’ that the questioning brings, like there’s some underground scandal I’ve discovered, and should be sitting in an oak-paneled room with a cigar, plotting how to avenge ‘the bad guy.’

I’ve lost it. Have I lost it? Has my life become so humdrum that I’m assuming the thoughts of TV characters? I don’t want to be someone who spends his nights and weekends escaping to a show because his own life isn’t fun enough to watch.

Time to make things interesting.

chapter eight

Being in a woman’s apartment is a very peculiar thing. There are only three reasons a single, 40-year-old man would ever find himself in a single woman’s apartment: 1. he is going to sleep with her 2. he is hoping he’ll sleep with her or 3. he is plumbing her toilet.  

With the exception of number two, I am unsure which is happening between Eleanor and I. Sitting on her couch, with a view of the Empire State Building, it felt like we fast-forwarded several dates. And yet, glancing at her her unmade, ruffled bed, the tilted artwork, and the crumbs on her kitchen counter, I am pretty sure there’s a clogged drain somewhere in that studio that’s in need of cleaning. But you can never be too sure. 

Eleanor: What are you thinking about?

Me: What do you mean?

Eleanor: You just got quiet there.

Me: Oh. I got distracted by your art.

She smiled and looked up at the painting hanging above her bed. It’s of a woman with a very small head on a half-exposed body, sitting in a robe at a small kitchen table. She’s holding a glass of water with lemon, and peering out.

Me: Did you make this?

Eleanor: Yeah, last year. For a class.

Me: It’s beautiful.

Eleanor: Thanks.

Me: What is it of?

Eleanor: A woman, in a kitchen.

Me: What’s she thinking?

Eleanor: I don’t know. 

It surprised me that she didn’t know. Aren’t artists supposed to have intent? But then I thought of the Mona Lisa. Can Da Vinci explain her smile?

Me: She’s a mystery.

Eleanor: I guess. Or maybe she is just confused.

Me: Confusion is mysterious.

Eleanor: It is.

Then we sat in silence. It felt heavy, and I had to make it stop.

Me: Hey, have you been to that new Italian spot across the street?

Eleanor: The one with all the noise?

Me: Yeah.

Eleanor: Nope, I haven’t been yet.

Me: Want to go?

Eleanor: Now?

Me: Sometime. Next week? When I haven’t ordered Thai.

Eleanor: Yeah, let’s do that, that sounds fun.

She said it in a really nonchalant, very cool way that made me wonder if she was uninterested or trying to compensate for getting nervous. I do that, too, sometimes. I compensate.

Me: Great. Well, I’m glad I stopped by.

Eleanor: Me too.

Me: Have a good rest of the night, drying your clothes.

Eleanor: Good night.

Me: Good night. 

She closed the door, and I walked five steps and opened and closed my door. After drinking some water, I put on my pajamas, brushed my teeth, and got into bed. 

 And I thought about the woman at the kitchen table. How she sits there above Eleanor’s bed, day and night, clutching that glass of water, and peering out. Maybe she’s confused. Perhaps she is mysterious. Or maybe she’s the luckiest painting in all of New York.