Monday, September 11, 2006
The Best thing you've ever done
I spent the morning in the park with Louis, sobbing all over my copy of The New York Times as I read article after article about 9/11; about the neverending debates about the memorial, about Giuliani, about families of the victims, about the victims themselves, about unlikely friendships that have been forged between mothers of the survivors and mothers of the terrorists, and so on and so forth. I cried and cried and accidentally dumped a half bottle of pomegranite juice on the crotch of my white jeans, and then cried some more. I called Annie to tell her that I loved her, because I do, and she didn't answer. I went for a run on the Williamsburg bridge, and then went to school.
My psychology class was incredible, every single word out of my professor's mouth was riveting and profound, I got to spend a quality eight minutes on the train with my new friend Megan, and I flung a sauteed shrimp at my tv screen as President Bush gave his ridiculous address tonight, which would have been more satisfying had it not left a permanent grease stain on the screen. I met up with Melissa and we took our dogs on a walk together. On my way home I stopped to chat with the firemen who work at the firehouse next door to my apartment. They were all drunk and trying to convince me to bring my dog to the bar across the street so that they could resume their drinking with us in tow (me and Louis), but I told them I couldn't because I had homework. Frank, the most boisterous one, retorted, "Homework! Jesus! What are you, twelve years old?!"
I explained that I was in grad school, getting my Master's in writing to ensure that I'd remain unemployed forever. Frank said, "Hey! Why don't you write about me?!"
Without thinking about the fact that it's 9/11 and not the most appropriate time to ask firefighters to reflect on triumphs or hardships, I asked, "Why? What's the most exciting or interesting thing you've ever done?" As soon as I said it I regreted it, and braced myself for some maudlin account of something actually heroic. Unfazed by my insensitive question in light of the day's date, one of the other firefighters, Glenn, jumped in: "I gave Mariah Carey a foot massage once! And my brother made out with her!"
Frank was not about to be upstaged by Glenn: "Oh yeah? Well I drove across country once in my uncle's van!"
Vinnie, the quietest of the lot, whispered timidly, "I used to take a lot of acid."
And they started talking about ways to smuggle drugs into prison and how to pass drug tests when you smoke weed on a regular basis. And as I stood there, watching Frank run a vibrating back massager up and down my dog's back, sharing debaucherous tips with my friendly neighborhood firemen, drinking delicious deli coffee out of a styrafoam cup, I felt more sentimental about my beautiful, miraculous hometown New York City than ever.
My psychology class was incredible, every single word out of my professor's mouth was riveting and profound, I got to spend a quality eight minutes on the train with my new friend Megan, and I flung a sauteed shrimp at my tv screen as President Bush gave his ridiculous address tonight, which would have been more satisfying had it not left a permanent grease stain on the screen. I met up with Melissa and we took our dogs on a walk together. On my way home I stopped to chat with the firemen who work at the firehouse next door to my apartment. They were all drunk and trying to convince me to bring my dog to the bar across the street so that they could resume their drinking with us in tow (me and Louis), but I told them I couldn't because I had homework. Frank, the most boisterous one, retorted, "Homework! Jesus! What are you, twelve years old?!"
I explained that I was in grad school, getting my Master's in writing to ensure that I'd remain unemployed forever. Frank said, "Hey! Why don't you write about me?!"
Without thinking about the fact that it's 9/11 and not the most appropriate time to ask firefighters to reflect on triumphs or hardships, I asked, "Why? What's the most exciting or interesting thing you've ever done?" As soon as I said it I regreted it, and braced myself for some maudlin account of something actually heroic. Unfazed by my insensitive question in light of the day's date, one of the other firefighters, Glenn, jumped in: "I gave Mariah Carey a foot massage once! And my brother made out with her!"
Frank was not about to be upstaged by Glenn: "Oh yeah? Well I drove across country once in my uncle's van!"
Vinnie, the quietest of the lot, whispered timidly, "I used to take a lot of acid."
And they started talking about ways to smuggle drugs into prison and how to pass drug tests when you smoke weed on a regular basis. And as I stood there, watching Frank run a vibrating back massager up and down my dog's back, sharing debaucherous tips with my friendly neighborhood firemen, drinking delicious deli coffee out of a styrafoam cup, I felt more sentimental about my beautiful, miraculous hometown New York City than ever.
