V

V
At the time I was so relieved to have Adam back, to have myself back, that I didn’t see the blinking traffic lights ahead. How could we go back to the way things had been when we’d both strayed so far? The simple answer was that we couldn’t. After that weekend, with the ecstasy filled hours upon hours of making up, things never seemed the same. It’s true what they say, the best part of fighting was indeed making up. The problem was that we hadn’t fought, hadn’t had it out, screamed at the top of our lungs, broken dishes, stubbed toes. At first I thought that it was a sign of how strong our bond was, in retrospect I realize that it was a testament to how little we really knew each other at the time. All we were really doing was walking on eggshells trying to hold on to the one thing that made us feel human.
The summer dragged at a snail’s pace. I went to Boston the next weekend I had off, figuring that Adam had done enough traveling for now. It really was my turn. I loved New York, but I hadn’t realized how much I missed my hometown. We did the kinds of things that we’d done at the beginning to kill time between bedroom romps: bowling, pool, strolls in the community gardens, people watching on Newbury St. He bought me a book of poems by E.E. Cummings, and we lay out in the common reading them aloud until the last skateboarders had gone home, and the only other company left in the park was the squirrels. At the end of the weekend I didn’t want to go back, but comforted myself with the idea that I only had four weeks left in the long hot city.
I took a bus back to New York at 1:30 in the morning that Monday. I had to be at work at 7. I dragged myself into the office, and by noon had thrown myself head first into booking test screenings of “Nympho Blood Suckers II” to try and keep our perfect weekend off of my mind. The theory of relativity had never held such meeting. It seemed to me like the time I was able to spend like Adam was like trying to drink from my own cupped hands. No matter how quickly I swilled the liquid, it seemed to escape through the tiny cracks in between my fingers. The four weeks until I could see him again however had a non-permeable seal around them, and I couldn’t even see ahead that far.
I spent all of that night on my fire escape, slipping my legs between the rungs, and letting my feet dangle over the five stories. Once again, I found myself unable to finish an entire cigarette, but still proceeded to stub out an entire pack of half cigarettes, letting them fall to the street below when no one was looking. Around 3am it started to rain, lightly at first, and it was nice. I had always liked to play in the rain when I was young, taking off my sneakers and stuffing wet socks into them, playing under drain pipes (even when it was pouring, the water came down harder there), and splashing in puddles. It started to pour, and for a few minutes I didn’t make the effort to move, letting the hard droplets sear my skin and roll off. Eventually, I got up and went inside, peeling the wet clothes from my body. I left the window open though, and stood near it for a few minutes, naked, letting the sprinkles of wind blown rain that trespassed into my apartment dust my cool, damp skin.
After a hot shower a sat cross-legged in front of my “bookshelf” (in reality it was three stacked milk crates) with a cup of herbal tea, and took stock of my unread selection. There was nothing in the shelves that I both hadn’t read and wanted to read. In fact, I took note, most of the books on the shelf were not there because I like them, but because I was supposed to like them. Sartre, Hemingway, Kerouac, Faulkner. It read like a hip, how-to guide for young trendy artists. Who the hell was I anyway? Certainly not “The Sound and the Fury.” I’d never seen the Deer Hunter and I didn’t want to, I didn’t really like the Rolling Stones or the Clash, and I hid a copy of “Hangin’ Tough” inside my un-used copy of “Synchronicity.” I was a fucking poseur. Fuck this, I thought to myself.
“Fuck this,” I said aloud, and wondered if that changed anything. And what if it did? What if it changed everything? What if Adam only loved me because he thought that my façade was an interesting alternative to the bottle blonde Psych majors that populated the well-worn streets of Cambridge each fall? Maybe though, maybe he was just as ambling in his quest, maybe you’re supposed to copy others a bit in order to get your bearings. Maybe it’s a good way to weed out the unworthy. Maybe Adam was just as unsure of his Velvet Underground box set and the too cool for TV “full series” DVD that he’d bought after everyone’s favorite dramedy was cancelled after a season and a half. What if the only thing we really had in common was insecurity and pretension? I stopped making lists that night. I resolved not to nod my head in conversation anymore when I didn’t know a song I was supposed to or hadn’t seen a movie that everyone else had. Fuck them, I was going to bask in my ignorance. I decided that I thought too much about things that didn’t matter. I worked 45 hours a week and had too much time on my hands. The next morning I ate breakfast and skipped my vitamins. I was going to sleep that night.
I had good intentions, but my plans were not as well mapped as I’d imagined, and by the time I left work I was gnawing on my fingers like a teething infant. It had begun to get dark and had cooled once the sun set, but I was sweating like it was midday with no trees. I welcomed sleep, thinking that maybe then I could stop thinking about the 29 days that still separated me from Adam. Sleep never came though, and even though I’d climbed under my covers at ten thirty, when two rolled around I was still wide awake. The blankets were rolled into a ball at my feet, and there were beads of sweat all over my nearly naked body.
I tried counting sheep, but they all came out looking like the stuffed bear I’d had as an infant, and it was kind of creepy. I tried making patterns on the flaking ceiling in my mind, but that just made me more awake. I was somewhere in between wake and sleep, so tired that my entire body ached with the kind of heaviness that takes over your chest after a long day, but unable to get the satisfaction that drifting off into slumber brought. I had a small welt on my wrist where I’d been scratching with my gnawed, ragged fingernails. I figured that if I lie still long enough in that bed I’d have to fall asleep. I may have done just that, but not for more than about a half hour, and at six thirty when it was time for my shower and pill, it took every inch of resistance I had to skip the latter once again. The shower helped a bit, but by lunchtime I had that heaviness in my chest again.
I went downtown for a fruit smoothie, which was usually all I could stomach for lunch, but found myself craving more once I was finished, and marveled at my newfound appetite, opting for a large falafel wrap, and eating every last bite.
I was still groggy when I got home from work that night and thought that maybe I could finally get some sleep. I didn’t know much about amphetamines, despite having been taking them since I’d started college, but I figured that it couldn’t take that long for them to run their course through my system. What I didn’t take into consideration was that my reliance on them had grown such that I was taking them at least twice a day as substitute for both food and sleep. The nausea hit me hard. I’d eaten more in that single day than I had in weeks, and my stomach was hating me for it.
Just as I’d gotten into my sweats to settle in for the evening, the first wave of nausea hit me like a lead pipe. I’d just eaten a samosa from the Indian place on the corner and washed it down with a glass of cheap white zin, which probably didn’t help matters. A few minutes later it was all I could do to make it to the kitchen sink, hunched over it as the international cuisine I’d consumed writhed my body violently. Once I’d rinsed my mouth and face, I sunk onto the floor. My head was throbbing and I didn’t realize it but I’d been sobbing. For some reason I had not control over my own salivation, and I felt another wave of nausea welling up in the back of my throat.
Three days later, I’d hidden away the rest of my stash in a locker at Grand Central Station, partly because I’m melodramatic, and partly because I couldn’t bear to blush them down the toilet and was afraid I’d fish them out of the trash. I’d also called out of work for the week, claiming a terrible case of mono. Somehow I had a feeling that the vampire chronicles would get along all right without me for a few days. I had spent three days and three nights practically crawling the walls of my tiny one room apartment. Adam called everyday, twice on Thursday. For some reason, I didn’t want to tell him about what I was going through; I kept it my own private battle. It was as though I thought that the speed made me more interesting, and that just like the books and movies and music, losing it would also make me less appealing to Adam.
By Friday morning, the phone was ringing in my ears so much so that when it did ring, I answered it, half from fright, and half from desperation.
“Hey babe,” he sounded excited to hear my voice. “Where ya been?”
“Adam?” I sounded frail, frightened, and sick. Instantly I could hear the smile on his face fade.
“Janie… Janie, baby, are you okay?” I didn’t answer right away; it took me an extra second to concoct a persona that would scare him less, a silly problem that I could be crying about.
“I’m fine,” I said, trying out a small nervous laugh while choking the rampant tears and a bit of bile.
“Work been tough this week?”
“Yeah, you know how it is.”
“Getting to the end of things though, right?”
“Yep, I’ll be home before you know it. You’ll be able to see me in no time.”
“Even sooner than you think.”
“What do you mean?” I didn’t know whether to be excited or terrified. If I felt anywhere near as bad as I felt, well, let’s just say “it wouldn’t be pretty” is a staggering understatement.
“I got myself booked at the Boston Comedy Club tomorrow night.” The Boston Comedy Club was a huge springboard for up and coming stand up comics, which held a weekly amateur night, and was, ironically, in New York. I remembered then the night that he performed a private show for me and Mr. Wiggles, my stuffed dog, and the little stuffed monkey that had showed up in my mailbox after our first fight.
“That’s fantastic!” I was genuinely excited, and for a brief moment was able to focus on something other than the bullet train in my cranium. “When is it?”
“Monday night, so I’m taking the day off of classes.”
“So when are you coming up?”
“Well I wanted to come up tonight, but I really have a lot to get done with missing a whole day of class, so I won’t be able to make it out until Sunday afternoon.” I debated internally whether that was good or bad news. “Are you mad?”
“No, no. Do what you have to do, it will just be good to see you.”
“I can’t wait. But right now I have to get to class, and I don’t want to make you late for work.”
“Yeah,” I said, sounding sheepish to myself. “I’ll see you Sunday.”
“Yep, can’t wait. Love you.”
“Love you too.” Click. I had two days to make myself presentable. Fuck. I decided to take the look in the mirror that I had been dreading. Once I’d stumbled to the bathroom, I wished that I hadn’t. My eyes were sunken in; purple circles underneath them looked like welts and made my usually bright blue eyes look charcoal gray. My hair, which was usually uncontrollably curly, was stringy and hung limply to right below my chin. I wondered when it had gotten that long. The freckles that sprinkled across my nose from the summer sun stood out brightly against my ashen skin. I was more tired than I’d ever been in my life, and now matter how long I lie still, eyes closed, blankets held tightly around my shoulders, I couldn’t dose off. It was the worst feeling in the world-- Almost as bad, maybe worse, than not seeing Adam. It was close.
I had to weight my options at that point. Was it better to be miserable for now, and get a good night’s sleep tomorrow (if that happened) or maybe even today, and be refreshed and a new woman when Adam came on Sunday, or to get instant gratification right now? There was an emptiness in my stomach gnawing at the bare lining. I wasn’t sure if it was begging for drugs, food, sleep, Adam, or a little bit of all of those. A half an hour later, I was on a Queens bound 6 train, headed for the lockers at Grand Central Station. I shouldn’t have kept the key.