"but for the minute it didn't have us by the throat."
back in the city next sunday, kids. i guess i do miss it a little.
i bum you cigarettes and conversation is easy and we fog up the windows of your car. relentless taunting, a jug of wine, six hours of monopoly. the exact same arguments we've been having for years.
when the sun rises you drive me home and i keep looking at you, hands shaking at the wheel.
we're both trying to sing along to a tape i mailed you from new york. leaves all over parking lots, orange and yellow and red. my best friend in the backseat.
and already all i'm thinking is how awful it will be to leave you again.
New York is, in fact, sinking in your absence.
I am too.
New York finally feels like home, which is awful and pretty fucking sweet all at once.
I can't believe this city.
"The first thing I'll do is visit Grant's tomb--"
"Drunk, obviously, to honor the man as he lived."
"I wish I had been in the Civil War, I could have provided the troops with proper morale..."
"Clara Barton that shit."
"Lincoln, Hadley and I are going to the love shack--"
"Also the site of the union moonshine operation--yeah Lincoln, we're totally wasted."
"Sherman called, he's fucked on PCP--"
"And may have burnt down Atlanta--"
"This after my drunk horse riding charge, not looking good for us PR wise."
I feel like I'll never have this again.
I know I should be psyched to be moving to New York in a couple hours (and I am!) but I just keep thinking about how great this summer was and the finality of it all. The thing is, I don't really want new friends. I just want to see David and Joe (with cameo appearances by Diana and Danny!) every day forever.
That being said, many thanks to David for an excellent last day in Rockville (and Diana for the appearance and movie selection, and Danny for sharing your apples, though with reservations). I feel so lucky to know all of you.
Jill: you are the other piece of my soul. I love you so much and am so proud to know you. I could never do it without you, which I hope you know. Things will get better, I promise.
THINGS I WILL MISS ABOUT LIVING IN ROCKVILLE:
watching the west wing and thinking, 'hey! i could go there right now!' at all the dc shots
barnes and noble rockville pike
caribou and subsequently, smoking with david at caribou every damn day
the broadway diner. and the tastee diner
singalongs and monopoly games behind barnsley
the second story warehouse (before i was employed by SSB, tainting the place forever)
caps games at the verizon center
my father doing my laundry
everyone i love
THINGS I WILL NOT MISS ABOUT LIVING IN ROCKVILLE:
the fact that there is absolutely nothing to do
the obnoxious students of rockville high school
seeing everyone i know all the fucking time
"ram nation" and "the inferno"
the fucking rampage
having to admit that i live in rockville
living in rockville and wishing i lived in new york
it's been fun, rockville. tomorrow we can have one last hurrah. then it's hello, new york.
that is, if i ever get around to packing.
i've hung out with david almost every day since joe left: though this means me smoking a lot more, it's nice to be around him. diana has also started showing her face, and with diana comes rum and pretentious indie flicks etc, so the joe-less days aren't as sad as i thought they would be. there are still a million things i want to tell him all the time, and our almost daily emails just don't seem to be an adequate replacement for his presence. i wish he was here. i wish everyone was here.
there are empty boxes on my floor. tuesday night will be my first in new york.
From the daybook:
"Telephone customer asks for a large print copy of War and Peace. He is wheezing heavily, possibly dying, possibly he's requesting the book so as to be buried with it. I tell him we don't have one, so he asks for a regular copy. I go check. When I get back on the phone, customer is...sleeping. (I can hear him snoring). I have to speak very loudly, nearly shout, to wake him up. He asks "how much is a paperback copy?" I start to explain that depends on the copy, condition, etc, but before I can finish, he interrupts, wheezing. "If you can't find a goddamned copy of War and Peace, what the hell is this world coming to? This is just like 1964!" and hangs up. This bit about '64, I'm convinced, is some sort of subtle dig at me personally. When I figure out what it means--and I will--there's going to be hell to pay..."