I was taking a stroll along
the boardwalk-- the moon was rising in the distance; lovers were passing by,
hand in hand propelling little whispers in one another's ears. I watched the
seagulls float into the explosions that cascaded the skyline. I stared long and
hard at the rotation of the Ferris wheel, watched the lights grow large in my
almost neurotic eyes and I thought to myself how could something so beautiful make me so miserable? Of course I wanted something good,
something to make me happy--sweet little things like candlelit dinners in
little cafes overlooking the streetlights and cars that screech to a halt at
pedestrian-crossing xings or listening to “Meant To Be” by Squirrel Nut
Zippers and slow dancing in the arms of a hunk I'd only ever see from a lighted
up screen. Reality is harsh sometimes, and sometimes you've just got so many
questions to ask, so many questions that people just aren't willing to answer (or
you're just too much of a coward to ask--rather quite the contrary, they won't
answer your phone calls.).
Life is a tricky, tricky
thing but after a while we get used to the twists and turns and being picky
creations of nature we often forget what we're looking for. True love? Dream
job? Money? So here I am, at Coney Island with this anchored look upon my face,
my hands are wrist-deep into my empty pea coat pockets and I'm just standing
there completely dumb-founded. I click the heels of my notorious
"peter-pan" shoes together and shut my eyes and whisper “There's
no place like home,” with
a convinced tone in my mind. By the time I open my eyes I see another
fluffy couple walking towards me as clingy as dingle berries to a horse's ass,
I scoff as they walk by and blow vapor into the air. Classic is what I think to myself as I drag my feet aimlessly across
the aged wood beneath me. Eventually I reach the subway station and trek down
the few flights of stairs below until I reach the caverns of dirty and
pissy-smelling corridors that seem to go on for forever. I plow my fingers even
deeper into my pockets and hook my hip around the strap of my long purse so it
almost hugs the inside of my thighs as I walk past mole people and women dressed
for a “whore's night out.” My head sinks further between my shoulders as “Feel
It In My Bones” by DJ TiÑ‘sto comes on, I instantly fear that if my head sinks
any lower I'll be having a late night dessert. My eyes angle at a slant as my
eyebrows create a curvature of anger to my face fucking spectacular is what I think to myself as I huff and puff
near the column reading “Coney Island” in Helvetica print. Now couldn't have
been a more perfect time to think of the man of my dreams who would be leaving
me in six months, thinking about it made me teary-eyed as I stared off at the
tracks in search of “a light at the end of the road.”
By time the F train came my
saddened feeling had become magnified, I took a seat on the scarce car next to
an empty seat and stared down at my shoes. I felt the few people who were on
the train stare at me with demeaning looks but maybe; just maybe, for once I
might have been wrong. If I would've looked up I might've seen sympathy?
Compassion? Pity? Pure animosity towards whoever sent me into such an upset
state of mind... but I never did look up, I simply rode the train with deep
sighs until I reached West 4th street. I crawled up the stairs as languidly as
possible, never in my mind did the thought pass that I would see so many
promiscuous people at night-- women dressed in sequin dresses that rose to
their center areas, wearing 5" stilettos that I could easily trip and
break my neck in, and shivering their asses off while I strode by with a pitying look upon my face that clearly
said I'm glad I'm not you. Is that really what men want? Is a question that asserted itself to me as I
imagined what was underneath my jacket--a rabbit fur sweater with golden
stripes, a pair of well-worn jeans which were appraised with overly large lint
holes in the crotch region, accompanied by a pair of thick stockings, a black
body-shaper and matching undergarments. Was I some under-fashioned sloth that
crawled out of the forests of Timbuktu with a full grown uni-brow and mustache
in hopes of marrying the most beautiful man the world had to offer? Or was I
just a girl who was merely outgrowing her adolescence and slowly becoming a little
less rock and a little more modern? It's not to say that I haven't always
dreamed about kicking back on an overly cushioned, beige couch, with matching
arm chairs, and footrest, in the arms of my husband and a bowl of popcorn
before a big flat screen that played our favorite movie—“The Notebook,” while
our kids snoozed in their rooms with rotating aquarium night lights. Man, that's the life right? Fantasy. Never going
to happen. I
puffed myself up again and let out a long and dejected sigh once I reached the
corner of 9th street right in front of a now closed Lenny's. I crossed in front of the glaring headlights of a New York taxi
and watched the dissipation of my shadow on the ground. I walked hopelessly
down the double staircase in the Path station and
tapped my Smartlink card on the turnstile and walked through
casually. When I was say several strides in the Hoboken train pulled up all
shiny and blue with a car full of strippers and male hookers ready to “Par-tay!”
I stared into the windows of the train as it passed me by and I continued
walking, catching the glance of few people--men and women of all shapes and
sizes, obviously just as wide awake as I was... yet not as depressed. When I
least expected it Squirrel Nut Zippers came on again and this time they
brought with them “Wished For You,” and I shook my head in repression. I had
been walking for a while now; it never usually took this long to reach my usual
column-- the one that Mom taught me about “It drops you off directly in
front of the escalators.” I smiled at the thought and watched the plaques
on the wall that read “9” in bold white paint looking for the one
plaque that had “what” scratched horrendously into it; once I saw it I
knew my post would be the following one.
I laid my back against the
scuffed up cavalcade and slid down it 'till my derriere reached the even
dirtier subway floor tile and I released my legs. It was a Sunday night and I
was alone, alone in the city and possibly alone for the rest of my life, sure I'm being dramatic... but I've never known
love until now, I've only ever dreamt of it as a reality and well now I have it
and it's just not “meant to be.” Or maybe I'm wrong. So here it was, the light at the end of
the tracks, my savior, the Journal Square train, the train that would
take me out of the miserable position that I was in. I stood up and waited for
the train to stop like a princess waiting for her butlers to roll out the red
carpet for her big “coming out” party. And then it stopped, the doors were
about to open and a twenty-something man was standing in the window with raging
brown eyes, spiked up black hair, delectable lips, a pair of wire
glasses, a black blazer, an undone tie, a partially buttoned white-collar
shirt, black slacks, black crocodile loafers, black belt, silver watch, a black
pea coat which hung over his bulging left forearm and a leather suitcase that
was clenched tightly in his right hand. He was beautiful, he was tall, I was
satisfied, and I was also lying. This guy was in his mid-thirties and
looked nothing like this but instead he had blue eyes and was looking at me.
So I turned to the side and let him pass me and watched him as he turned back
to glance at me and just as I got on the train and the doors closed “Sleep
Together” by Garbage came on and harassed my repressed ears. I took a seat next
to a plump woman who reeked of too much perfume and sex, really? Her? Is what I snickered to myself as my eyes threw
me into a daze and I listened to the train run on air. All I wanted to do was
get home and go to sleep and for once not be reminded of him, a chance to let go and breathe for a little bit without getting
teary-eyed and thinking that I did something wrong. And then it hit me, like a
bat out of hell—“This stop is Christopher Street.” straight to the
fucking skull that went, yeah, I feel
you in my bones; I
couldn't have been more heated, more irritated... more in love with this beautiful creature that I'd probably
never meet. This man who I've been dating “secretly” (from my family, everyone except my grandmother and aunt,) for oh look at that, six months, fuck me. He's the best goddamn man in the world you
know? Makes me cry every time I think about how goddamn wonderful he is and how
I crave his attention but get a bunch of phone calls and texts that are
conveniently ignored for days or weeks at a time and then eventually hit with a
spatula of sarcasm in a text that says “Yeah, I'm not dead.” Well
fucking hello to you to! But I can't be pissed, I can't hate him, I can't
wish him away because he's all I've ever wanted. I'll tell you one thing
though--I can say that I miss him, I miss the constant array of attention and the knowledge of
being needed, I miss it when he used to call me at night and send me lovey text
messages and well when he actually used to respond to me no matter what he was
doing...the roles have obviously been switched. And I'm here sitting on
the late night Journal Square train back to Jersey City with this lump in my
throat and eyes that are ready to burst before me and the tub of lard sitting
next to me. And then to make matters worse Kimbra’s “The Build Up” comes on to
my headphones, my once pristine iPhone headphones that Mom found while we were
at work, headphones that will never be with their soul mate-- the iPhone rather
they are with the runner up--a 2nd Gen. iPod Touch. “This Stop is Journal
Square, this train is now out of service.” announced the intercom and I was
brought back to reality, I got off the train to look across at the Newark / WTC train that waited patiently for passengers on the other side
of the track.
I recall getting on that
train one day, in the highest hopes of meeting my love, it was in October, and
it had been a while since he'd asked me out. I was so happy, so peppy; I
dressed up and put on a shit-load of make-up, made myself smell good--everywhere
and I darted to Journal Square. I waited at the WTC for five hours. I know, I
know, it was my fault for acting on impulse but what the hell? When you're in
love you'll do anything won't you? Il n'y
qu'un bonheur dans la vie, c'est d'aimer et d'etre aime. I'd do anything for
him at that point; wait for days even if it meant I'd have tear stains running
down my face. Hell I'd do anything now, a lot of things that make me seem
stupid and that a movie script writer could probably make a good buck off of
for a new romantic-block buster hit. Apparently he had lost his phone and
didn't even call to tell me that he did (with another phone of course... yes
I've memorized his number), let alone text me... I called him at least 20 times
before his phone shut off, I even texted him. Hell I even had a stranger call
him from her phone for me in hopes that maybe he was just blocking my
number. I was
thrown back into reality again when a woman dressed in a floral dress covered
by a faux fur coat bumped into me in a rush down the stairs, she paused to suck
her teeth and roll her eyes, fuck you
too is what I thought as
I continued on my venture home. "Home" it sounded like a nice place
to be, a nice place to climb up the ladder to my tower, crawl under covers and
prop my laptop on my lap... and think of him all over
again. "Rose" by Zazie came on and I scowled... for my Women's and
Gender Studies class I researched the lyrics and presented my own
interpretation on them (with no one in particular in mind). Is it really possible to love someone who will
never see the true you? Is
what I pondered in my ‘Carrie Bradshaw’ voice as I stared at my surroundings. I was home, well as close as
I'd be to it for now; it was cold and I was walking again, alone. Watching couples who held on for dear life to one another as if
the wind was threatening to take them away to some place terrible. It was now
officially 12:00, I pulled my phone out of my purse which I usually leave on
silent unless... no there is no unless it's always on silent. My heart began to
race when I saw the blinking red light on the corner of my screen, I held my
breath in hopes that it was him, took a
moment, inhaled and clicked the toggle button on the top. Missed Alerts “Pop,” “Mom,” “Alyce” “Whore,” “Lizzy,” but absolutely nothing from him... how
typical is what I thought as
I rolled my eyes and checked my missed calls and texts... nothing important
though, just casual conversation and worrying parents wondering where I was and
what time I'd be home. Right about now, instead of being in the blistering cold
of a late January night I'd love to be in his arms,
under his covers, and sleeping soundly knowing that I'll wake up and not
have tears running down my face or that I'll know that he'll be there in the morning maybe with a strawberry crepe on a bed
tray with a single rose in a skinny vase and an 8 oz. glass of orange juice.
And I'd smile, I'd smile and cry anyways 'cause I'd be the happiest girl in the
world at this point and he'd be sympathetic more sympathetic than he's ever
been like that time when I went to the Bronx Zoo and my phone died and he
called me a thousand times and when I charged my phone his call finally got
through and he told me he “was worried sick!” about me. Never in my time with
him did I think I'd be this miserable without him. What did I do
wrong? Was I too close? Was I too caring? Was I too selfish? And then I stood there in front of my
building staring up at the sky looking for the Big Dipper like I usually did
when he called on cold nights and I went outside for a bit of privacy. My keys
jingled as I retrieved them from my purse, I took slow steps up the staircase
to my building and kicked open the door with light force opening it just enough
to let me through. I put my keys into the lock of the second door and opened it
with ease, walked to my door which held the slanted sticker that read 1 and a tacky door accessory that was a month too
early for Valentine's Day, don't
remind me. Is
what I thought as I listened to Kimbra's "Withdraw" as it reached the
climax of the song and I plugged my keys in the sockets and turned the locks
one by one. And I opened the door, took off my shoes, without saying
"hello" to anyone that was awake I simply walked through with my head
down.
Hi, my name is Jonsey; I'm
going to be 19 in June. I am a brunette with brown eyes, a large bust and I'm
an aspiring author and artist. I work in New York as a part-time intern at Elle; I am
striving to one day be an editor here and face the world with a new set of
eyes. I am a sister, a daughter, a friend, and a lover; I love macaroni and
cheese, and I am intrigued by the French culture. My dreams are to one day
travel around the world (and to Paris) and to own houses in several of these
places, also to marry a man and have three children--two girls and one boy-- I
plan to name them Emily,
Rose, and Dorian. Oh and I forgot to tell you, I'm in love with a
Portuguese / French man that I probably won't ever meet but it's nice to know
that I love him. Stop lying, you're being too dramatic. You'll see him...
but the only disadvantage you'll have is that you'll never let go.
And then “Closer” by
Nine-Inch Nails came on and I was shaken abruptly to reality. I stared
wide-eyed at my laptop screen and snickered at what I had just written, Flawless is what I thought to myself; this story would never make the cut. Is what I assured myself as I hit the ‘Close’
button on my browser screen, I can't
write something good if don't tell the truth, Jonsey would never make it in the
real world. I
laughed and then shut down my laptop. Goodnight. And then “Last Christmas” by
Wham! came on and I tried not to cry.
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