Passengers

Last weekend: Housewarming party

Location: New Haven, (sigh) Yale Campus

 

Scene 1- (On the Road- The Passengers)

1) THE DRIVER (age 30, Woody Allenesque New York foodie, English professor, fiction writer, and…my neighbor)

2) SHOTGUN (age 32, ex-heroin junkie, charming rogue, and noble potter)

In common, THE DRIVER, SHOTGUN, and myself, are all predisposed to addictions and have spent our twenties railing against the absurdities and practicalities of the “real world.” Independently, we are driven to art, travel, writing, drugs, and escapism in many forms. My real life grievances continue to manifest in daily doses of brandy, a general aversion to finding what my dad deems a “real career,” and lately, a nagging hatred of Diablo Cody.

I live in New York because it affords me certain liberties like being perpetually unsettled, “just out of a relationship,” and a generally negative disposition notwithstanding my self-serving optimism. As a new resident to the city, I have learned that I am not alone and have thrived in the collective dysfunction and general displeasure I have found. Not incidentally, it occurs to me that there will be no housewarming in my near future (flashback to angry Italian and the illegal sublet).

Scene 2- (Housewarming)

I have never been invited to a “housewarming” party. The idea of homeownership grows more and more foreign as I settle into the city (lease agreements that linger into my 30’s). At the home of a curator of rare books at Yale, I didn’t expect to find myself back in a U of A frat house and the idea of housewarming did not naturally invoke images of hookahs and smoke-filled rooms or the morning after in a John Hughes film. However, I cannot say I was necessarily prepared for the level of maturity and togetherness this party presumed.

When we arrived there was a table with full, unopened bottles of whiskey, rum, and vodka (presented in trust). A bowl of ice is centered between rows of spotless wine glasses, brandy sifters, and water glasses. There was a centerpiece with candles and our host even considered a pitcher of water.

The room began to fill with thirtysomethings, fortysomethings, I couldn’t tell. Everything was serious. Conversations about after school sports and IRA’s and remodeling and promotions and retirement travel and the warming of houses. Someone brought a teal colander to match the teal teapot and the teal toaster and the teal dishtowels. The kitchen appliances matched the bathroom rugs and the lampshades and the couches and chairs. One woman brought cupcakes with alternating blue and green icing that she purposefully glazed to match the pattern of her dress.

There were moments that felt a bit like when I found out my best friend was (intentionally) pregnant (Me: “Really? You ….did…that…on purpose?”) While sipping my 5^th drink (in silent determination) I turned to see a 4 year old staring at me eye-level. “Oh…hey…uh…buddy.” I look around for help. Precocious curiosity was of the intensity I could not bear and so I handed him a cupcake. He peeled the foil wrapper and stuffed the fist-sized ball of cake in his mouth. He stood chewing, wrapper in hand, as I sat, tipping an empty glass (I spilled 4 times throughout the course of the evening). Holding our respective remnants, I tried to think of something to say. I started to wonder who I could relate to more… this short freckled person, making a mess of blue icing, or his father… the property owner.

Speaking with real adults is like listening to Wall-Street jargon on the subway. A woman described the multi-step process of making fresh hummus and my eyes glazed when she entered into phase 4 of sesame oil cumin mince. Later, an orthopedic surgeon, sprawling beside the well-nourished fire, a glass of red wine dangling between his fingers, explained to me how he performs a hip replacement: “So first you have to dislocate the hip…then we make an incision at the dorsal vertebrate….balllsocket ….prosthesis….thoracic….lumbar….suture…scapula…” (Me: ”Please shut up, please shut up, please shut up”), another rare moment where I have nothing to say. I stand up silently… I think he was still talking… boredom driving me like the shakes towards the kitchen table/makeshift wet bar and I splash Jack Daniels into a tall glass of ice cubes.

THE DRIVER asks if I am okay: “Are you having fun?”

Me: “Yeah! Totally. Who keeps putting on the Paul Simon record?”

My late twenties have left me floundering in adulthood, but it appeared that I was not alone. Throughout the evening, the passengers of our carpool find respite smoking on the porch, wondering how this party left us caught between generations.

At one of these outdoor cabals, Tucker, the landlord and father sneaks out to bum a cigarette. Clumsily, he asks, “Anyone spare an extra smoke?” He leans back, glancing past the window to ensure his wife and kids aren’t looking. Outside we hurl cuss words and dirty jokes. Everyone stumbles in laughing intoxicated by the nicotine and the illusion of rebellion.

Scene 3- (Quaint Neighborhoods in the Rearview)

In the morning THE DRIVER, SHOTGUN, and myself slam Orange-Strawberry AM Gatorade an effort towards recovery we fully understand. Speeding back to the city, vying against the traffic out of Connecticut, we spend the ride back to New York speaking openly of other (very different) times.

THE DRIVER began to relay his memory of calling 911 because SHOTGUN had OD’D on heroin: “He didn’t look any different, but when I tried to wake him up, he just started turning blue so I started smacking the shit out of him…flushed the dope right before the cops got there… Yeah…Narcan does just what you think it does… life-forcing gasps…except they don’t stab you with a needle through the heart.” The cops told him they would let SHOTGUN die if he didn’t hand over the drugs even though they flushed everything (except the bag in SHOTGUN’S pocket). All the charges were dropped when it came into evidence that the police tried to obstruct the ambulance.

Another time, THE DRIVER and SHOTGUN were so high they used a full month’s supply of food stamps on cartons of Ben & Jerry’s and boxes of Captain Crunch: “The best breakfast I ever had.”

I relish some of my decisions (hospitals and cops abound) and consider that perhaps…it was not so bad. For the weekend… caught between the blue icing and the teal colander…we speed back to the city and feel satisfied in the distance from a warmer house.

Me: Smiling, I settle back into a dead-bolted one bedroom.

Scene 4- (The Next Night- My Bed-Asleep)I had a dream that I chased an elementary school crush into a tree house. Regression is palpable…my subconscious, screaming from behind the branches, “Help! Help!”