Blackout_ Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget
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THE LIFE YOU’VE ALWAYS WANTED<br />
My apartment in New York was on <strong>the</strong> sou<strong>the</strong>rn edge of Williamsburg, back when rents were<br />
almost reasonable. I had a view of <strong>the</strong> bridge in<strong>to</strong> Manhattan, strung up with lights like a Christmas<br />
tree. I had painted my living room in red candy cane stripes. When Stephanie came over <strong>to</strong> visit<br />
shortly after I moved in, she said, “You’re never leaving this place.” And I was so proud <strong>to</strong> have<br />
impressed her for a change.<br />
Paris had been devastating, but also a onetime deal. A private disaster is easy <strong>to</strong> rewrite for<br />
public consumption. “How was Paris?” / “Amazing!” And people nodded, because how else would<br />
Paris be? Besides, I had better views in front of me. Here I was. I was here. A writer in New York:<br />
<strong>the</strong> phrase that compensated for nearly anything.<br />
Dreamers plan <strong>the</strong>ir lives long before <strong>the</strong>y live <strong>the</strong>m, and by <strong>the</strong> fall of 2005, mine was finally<br />
catching up <strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> script. The details were a little off. I wasn’t 23 when I moved <strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> big city; I was<br />
31. I wasn’t exactly writing Catcher in <strong>the</strong> Rye. I was writing hack profiles and advance blurbs for<br />
Lego Star Wars: The Video Game . And I wasn’t nestled in <strong>the</strong> tree-lined Valhalla of literary<br />
Brooklyn. I was scraping by in a borough where razor wire was giving way <strong>to</strong> ironic T-shirts.<br />
But I loved my big, rambling apartment. The owner of <strong>the</strong> building was a small Dominican woman<br />
in her late 50s, with a tight bun and a stern demeanor. She spoke little English, and I refused <strong>to</strong> speak<br />
Spanish with her, because I didn’t want <strong>to</strong> cede what little comfort zone I had, so we were reduced <strong>to</strong><br />
curt nods in <strong>the</strong> hallway. Her entire family lived in <strong>the</strong> building. Her heavyset single daughter, who<br />
s<strong>to</strong>pped by <strong>to</strong> discuss noise complaints. (I had a few.) Her sketchy son, who smoked on <strong>the</strong> front steps<br />
while talking on a cell phone. Her six-year-old twin granddaughters, with heads of kinky curls.<br />
“Is your cat home?” one of <strong>the</strong>m would ask from <strong>the</strong> hallway, lisping through her gap teeth. This<br />
question would crack me up. As though sometimes my cat were at work.<br />
My first year was mostly good. Promising. And having finally settled <strong>the</strong> bullet points of my life, I<br />
was ready <strong>to</strong> finesse <strong>the</strong> details. Less furniture pulled from curbs. Better skin care products. A little<br />
personal improvement.<br />
I had this great idea: I should learn <strong>to</strong> cook. My mo<strong>the</strong>r had tried <strong>to</strong> teach me a few times in my<br />
early 20s, but I blew her off. Women don’t need <strong>to</strong> know this stuff anymore , I <strong>to</strong>ld her, like she was<br />
instructing me in stenography.<br />
But 12 months in <strong>the</strong> city had made me question this tack. Too much of my paycheck was being<br />
handed over <strong>to</strong> deliverymen. I also hoped cooking might forge a healthier connection <strong>to</strong> food and<br />
drink, which I badly needed. How had I determined that not learning a skill was a position of power?<br />
My cooking experiments began with promise. Me, in that empty kitchen, slicing and dicing like a<br />
mature, grown-up adult person. I would open a bottle of wine <strong>to</strong> enjoy while I did prep work. But<br />
wine made me chatty, so I would call friends back in Texas. And I’d get so engrossed in <strong>the</strong><br />
conversation, I didn’t want <strong>to</strong> cook anymore. I’d lose my appetite after <strong>the</strong> second glass, and I’d<br />
bundle <strong>the</strong> food and stuff it back in<strong>to</strong> <strong>the</strong> refrigera<strong>to</strong>r, trading asparagus spears for half a dozen<br />
Parliaments by <strong>the</strong> window.