At about ten minutes shy of nine o’clock, my friend calls me with a nervous bravado characterized by the tiny little tremors in his voice to ask me if I want to see the Woody Allen movie at one of the Ritz theaters. His proposal was intriguing since I needed to be out of the house anyway, especially on a Friday night.
“we’ll take a cab” he says, “my treat.”
“we can just take the subway, it’s much cheaper but it’s up to you.” I said.
A long syllable escapes from his end so I say, “how about I just come over and we can decide then.”
Fifteen minutes later I was standing outside his doorstep. He lives in those big houses converted into honeycombs of apartment buildings, each with one bedroom, a kitchen and a bathroom. No living room and light on the usage of windows. From the narrow corridor which housed his kitchen appliances - a two burner gas stove, a sink and what seem like an extension of the wall that was his fridge - came the aroma of pasta and chicken. For the life of me, I cannot guess the name of that particular noodle nor does it really matter. Shapes are pleasing to the eye but as soon as it reached one’s mouth it all turns into something indistinguishable from any other piece of food.
He offers me some and apologizes for the mess; he did not have enough time to clean up before I had arrived. I joked and reminded him that I do not live too far away from him.
The pasta tastes exactly as it should. Personally, I would have used more spices or at least more grated cheese but a free meal is a free meal. We ate from one big giant plate and a thought occurred to me: this is how plates should be used. A communal sharing of food. In that small stuffy studio apartment, eating from one big plate just made everything seem a bit warmer and right.
We talked about our day and when that topic was exhausted we talked about the movie that we were going to see. It was one of Woody Allen’s new movies called Vicky Cristina Barcelona. I told him that I am not a big fan of Woody Allen. This remarked prompted a quick rebuttal from him. He said, “Woody Allen is like an extension of my personality.”
I shrugged and reminded him that we best finish up so we can make it to the movie theater across town in Olde City. We decided that the subway was the most economical route to take and furthermore, we should just walk to City Hall to catch the subway there instead of transferring lines.
There was some minor confusion when he purchased his tokens. I suppose living in the city made people more likely to walk everywhere rather than take public transportation. He mused at the unreliabilty of the subways, which only prompted a shrug from me. I was much too used to the subways being late or early that I regarded it as a fact of life, much like how the sun rises and sets each day.
We emerged from the subway into the heart of Olde City and immediately I was reminded of why I tend to avoid this section of Philadelphia at night, especially on a weekend night. There were hordes of yuppies standing in line waiting to get into the bars and restaurants. What really annoyed me were the hordes of yuppies standing in the middle of the sidewalk totally lost and indecisive of where they would like to go next.
As usual I pushed past these people with, perhaps excessive, contempt.
We made it to the theater and bought our tickets. As usual for every small independent theater, there was a quaint collection of people on the audience and because of this we managed to blend in rather well. They were showing drawings or paintings of scenes from the eighteenth century and my friend mused at how he wants to go back on time and live during that era. I shrugged and said that the racism back then wouldn’t have done me any good. He didn’t understand my concerns and perhaps he was a bit annoyed I didn’t share his feelings towards the eighteenth century.
Vicky Cristina Barcelona was a cute movie although at parts I found it slightly predictable. The basis of the story (or at least one of the motifs) was the way two girls who were best friends dealt with love, a subject they did not agree on. Interestingly a line from the movie still sticks with me:
“incomplete love is the most romantic. It doesn’t come full circle, it stays there unfullfilled and always with a sense of longing.”
I agree with it - we always want something we cannot have. Everything is more passionate when our goals are always outside of our reach like how a dog must feel when it is chasing that metal rabbit around the ring in those races you see on TV.
And the dissatisfaction of what we do have.
The movie ended and we emerged from the theater. It was drizzling a bit and my friend is trying to convince me to go out drinking with him at the Sky Lounge since it’s Asian night. I reluctantly agree. What’s the worst that could happen?
We met up with his friend who attends Jefferson University and by the time we got to the Sky Lounge I was properly soaked. We payed our dues after I proved my age and ascended the stairs towards the lounge. The crowd was indeed Asian with white guys littered throughout. Already I was not impressed and was glad I confirmed my suspicion that Asian night wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. I went to the VIP Lounge and saw one of my school friends. He’s a dancer at this bar and only was dressed in a skimpy pair of green briefs. We talked about school while I tried not to look at his package or perfect body. I did comment on his briefs, giving me a legitimate excuse to look down there.
I motioned to my friends that we should go to Tavern - another gay bar in the neighborhood. They agreed and we left the Sky Lounge.
Tavern was definitely more alive. I barely had room to maneuver myself towards the bar to get a second coke and rum. For a while I was in the middle of the dance floor watching the people, bobbing my head along with the beat and sipping my drink. I was introduced to a few people and some of the older dancers introduced themselves to me. But nevertheless I enjoyed my drink, the company and the music, which never seemed to stop.
I met M, a very drunk Asian guy who repeatedly asked me the same questions over and over again. I picked up my third coke and rum and returned to the dance floor.
I had my eye on M’s friend - a white guy dressed in a pink polo dancing to the music as well. He pulled out his iPhone and I contemplated pulling mine out too to start a conversation but I realized any meaningful conversation was impossible on the dance floors. Here, everyone spoke with their eyes and screamed with their bodies.
After a while I motioned to my friends, whose number had grown from before, that I was going out for a cigarette. My words were already slurred and I contemplated going home while I’m still able. Outside, I took a long and slow drag from my cigarettes and held the smoke in as long as I could before blowing out a long thick cloud of smoke that drifted lazily in the still night air.
M was outside trying to call someone bug not having much luck. He angrily put his iPhone away and took a couple of puffs from my cigarette. I looked down on the steps of the building across from Tavern to see the pink polo guy glued to the steps. He didn’t seem to be able to move and any attempts to do so on our part was met with a violent shaking of his head and a soft sad “no”.
Through our drunken perserverence, our stubborness, we managed to carry him towards M’s apartment just half a block away. Halfway there, the guy in the pink polo shirt vomited on the street and the spectators offered their encouragement. I held his hand and he squeezed mine.
We half carried him and half dragged him up the stairs and into the apartment and placed him in front of the toilet. There we made sure he was okay.
“what’s your name?” I asked.
“john” he said “”I’m the one who’s drunk and barfing and I know your name. you can’t even remember mine!”
I told him my difficulties in remembering people’s named especially while intoxicated. I was unsure as to what to do next. M was full of suggestions but even through my slurred speech I knew that we had to let John vomit all of the alcohol out. And he’ll do that eventually.
I sat with him on the floor in the bathroom rubbing the small of his back and the back of his head and told him he was going to be okay. M wanted to go to Pure but I wanted to stay with John. I cannot say my intentions were completely noble.
The minutes passed which turned into hours. I attempted to leave but when I was a few blocks away I remembered I had john’s keys in my pocket for safe keeping so I ended up back at the apartment holding John. Little by little I moved John from the toilet to the couch - the entire process taking up to half an hour and a lot of encouragement. I finally managed to hoist him on the couch because he was very close to sleeping in a fetal position on the floor.
I looked at my watch and it was already five o’clock in the morning. I set my phone for 8:30 am. I tried to sleep but it was uneasy. I woke up in increments but finally dozed off to wake up before 8:30. By that time John was feeling much better. We sat in bed, M and I with John in the chair talking and decided to go to the Midtown for breakfast in which I discovered that John already had a boyfriend.
When we parted ways John thanked me over and over again for being there for him and apologized for his actions. I shrugged it off and we hugged.
I came home and showered. I noticed that my hand was still stamped from last night but already that was fading as if it were some dream or a movie that happened to other people. I’m glad I stuck by his side, gratitude is always something to be cherished and unlike the stamp on my hand, memories do not fade as quickly.
P.S. I wrote this entire thing on my iPhone. It took almost two hours using only my thumbs. Enjoy!
