Big Guy

When I saw a message from my ex-boyfriend La Moustache in my inbox this afternoon, I knew that something terrible had happened. I thought first of his dad, or his mom. Maybe his uncle, who still sends me occasional sweet messages.

But instead it was our friend and former landlord in Brooklyn, Big Guy. I should have known: of COURSE a 34-year-old black man who lives in Bed-Stuy is at more risk than 60-something, white French people.

Big Guy was one of the kindest, most generous men I've known. He was always available and happy to help; even before I moved in he offered to drive over to my old house to pick me up so I could sign the lease. He brought me to work when the subway wasn't running, and loaned us his car when ours crumpled to its death one day on Atlantic Avenue. He'd try a taste of any food I offered him, but his favorite was my mom's apple cake recipe. I started baking one for him every fall because he loved it so much. He'd come in for a piece or two, then ask for one to take downstairs to his place so he "could really get into it." I pictured him diving face first into the apple cake, crumbs flying in every direction à la Cookie Monster.

He didn't deserve to be shot in the chest by a drunk man accosting a woman who Big Guy was attempting to protect. He certainly didn't deserve to have his arrest record published in the Daily News in an article about his murder -- how is it in any way relevant to what happened that he drove without a license a few times?? Needless to say, his three children don't deserve to grow up without a father.

I don't know anything about the man who shot him, except that it was his birthday and he was drunk. But I imagine that it's possible that when he woke up this morning, hung over and in jail, he regretted his terrible, impulsive action, whether it was for Big Guy's sake or just his own. I hope Obama is able to do something to make it harder to get guns so that a drunk guy doesn't have the option of pulling out a gun and shooting someone in the chest. It's just so... senseless.

The Death Phase

A few years ago, my mom's parents died within a few months of each other, and my mom went through a Death Phase. She thought about death all the time, and was prone to saying things like, "There's no point in buying that, since it'll just become clutter for you to take care of one day." My friend Miami Nice came to visit during the Death Phase, and started telling my mom about this book she had read called Stiff, about dead bodies. "I would loooooove to read that," said my mom, eyes wide, as I made "cut!" gestures to Miami while Mom wasn't looking. Once, my parents texted while I was out celebrating a friend's birthday, and I didn't reply. The next morning, I took a shower, and by the time I got out of the shower not only did I have multiple voicemails of increasing desperation from my parents, but I also had messages from several friends. My mom had convinced everyone -- even the friends who I had been out with the night before -- that something terrible had befallen me. Nope, just taking a shower!

My landlord's mother had a heart attack recently and is now in rehab, and he seems to be going through a Death Phase of his own as a result. I told him I am moving out. He said he doesn't want me to, and he won't raise the rent if I'll stay. But then, he said he thinks I'm doing the right thing. "You're not getting any younger," he reminded me. "Oops, did I just say that out loud?"

He gave me the following advice: Never go out for dinner. No drinks out. Save up like crazy, because I'm going to need $3 million to get me through my last years. I can do it, as long as I live like "a cheap bastard" (his words). "You never know, you might find yourself old and with no one to take care of you. I might, too," he said, just before he walked out.

Quite the reality check. And I thought cheap rent meant I could go off austerity measures.

Finding a modality that works for me

During my drive up to Maine on Friday for the holiday weekend, I found myself pondering the events of the last couple of weeks and months, and wondering if perhaps I need to change my approach. Here is a sampling of my thoughts:

• I spent four days crying almost nonstop after I lost my bird, to the point where my contacts became so salt-encrusted that I couldn't see. Even as I was bawling over my little green featherball, I could feel that I was really upset over so much more.
  
• I got my knickers all twisted over a chubby guy with copious backhair who I made out with a few times in March. Why did I care so much?
• Dating has brought me frustration and bitterness, but no husbands.
  
• I spent Friday morning drinking bloody marys, watching the Netherlands/Brazil soccer game and flirting with the cute bartender with a tattoo of JFK on his wrist, who commiserated with me on my loss of Haricot by telling me how sad he was when his pet python escaped.
  
• I dismissed the cute, nice French Canadian who is the only good communicator of all the men I've dated since my breakup because he told me he's not looking for a wife at this time.

A piece of advice that my neighbor, the Cat Lady, gave me several months ago popped into my mind. "Maybe," she said (she prefaces all her advice this way because, as a single lesbian in her fifties, she doesn't feel totally qualified to give me advice), "you should just relax and have fun. You're young and attractive. Just see guys casually, and don't look at it as auditioning to find your next boyfriend."

When my sister, Ms. Swamp, began online dating a couple of years ago, her goal was to find a husband, and she did. Well, they're not quite married yet, but to all intents and purposes she did. As I sifted through my feelings, I wondered if perhaps what I need right now is not a husband, but a Mr. White Pants (or several Mr. White Pants). Pants was the guy I dated for four months after I broke up with my ex-ex-boyfriend, l'Artista. He took me to the opera and drove me around Manhattan in his convertible and bought me nice dinners and generally entertained me and distracted me, and when I was ready to be emotionally connected to someone again, I moved on.

So I'm going to try the Cat Lady's approach. I'm just going to relax and enjoy the summer and give myself time to get over my traumas of the past year. I sent Le Canadien a message and asked if he wants to get a beer, and within three hours we had a date set up, because that's the kind of communicator he is. And I'll probably swing by and visit my bartender this afternoon to watch the game and maybe hear more about his python.

Rude Awakening

I woke up yesterday morning to the sound of my clock radio playing Ludacris at 5:40, groggy as usual but feeling unusually euphoric for a Monday morning. As my dream came slowly back to me, my euphoria transformed into sadness and disillusionment: I dreamed that, several weeks into the round-the-world trip that my ex-boyfriend, La Moustache, left me to undertake, he called to tell me it was a huge mistake and begged me to take him back. And I was thrilled.

Usually when couples break up after several happy years together they miss each other. They have other emotions too, of course – anger, bitterness, relief – but there is some level of missing someone who you once loved and who was an important part of your life. Not so in my breakup, at least from my point of view. I was too furious with Moustache to miss him, and in any case, our last weeks together – while he prepared his Land Cruiser for the drive around the world and I moped around and frequently demanded “How could you?” of him – were so miserable that it was a relief to finally be out of each others' presence. If he ever felt a moment of nostalgia for me he did not give me any indication of it, and I can honestly say that the scenario that occurred in my dream never once crossed my conscious mind before. I did hope for some level of atonement for his abandonment of me at what was already the lowest point in my life, but I never hoped that he would give up on his mission and return to the life we shared.

Recently my neighbor, the Cat Lady, and I were discussing the Brazilian, and she presented a hypothesis: “Maybe some of your disappointment about the Brazilian is actually misplaced sadness about the end of your relationship with La Moustache,” she suggested. I nodded politely, but inside I poo-pooed her idea: I had done my mourning, and it was over and done with.

My dream called all of that into question. My disappointment when I woke up that it hadn't been real made me experience the loss all over again, even as I was furious with my subconscious self for wanting him to come back. I even burst into tears in my car on the way home from work. And I wondered: What would I have done if it really had happened? Even if I hadn't taken him back, would I have been tempted to?

Really, of course, what I most wanted when we broke up was for him to be the person I thought he was: the funny, caring man who I used to cuddle with on the couch as we watched movies, who adored our pet lovebird and who I was always excited to see when he came home from work in the evenings. And the hard part is that that IS who he is, at least in part. He didn't spend our three years together playing a role. But he is also the other part, the part I didn't see until things started to go badly between us: the person who selfishly told me he still loved me and wanted to be with me and hoped I would wait for him to travel around the world. The person who tried to convince me that it's normal for a couple to spend some time apart before getting married and starting a family. The person who thoughtlessly wrote in an article that was published all over the world that he had to choose between using his savings to buy a house with me or to travel the world, and he chose the latter. People are complicated, and are rarely the simplistic villains or heroes we sometimes paint them as.

Still, I like to think that I wouldn't have taken him back if my dream had actually come to pass. I probably would have been tempted to. But even if he does have some redeeming qualities, he is certainly NOT a quality life partner. Far from it.

More Neighbor Tales

I was finally writing that long-promised letter to my Wise Woman today when I was interrupted by a little drip noise coming from my computer. For those few of you who are not on Facebook, a little drip noise means that someone is trying to chat with you. While many people sign out of Facebook chat for fear of being bothered by people who they don't want to chat with, I find that the benefits outweigh the negatives, and enjoy an occasional Facebook chat (and also, I have plenty of time to spare so I'm less protective of it than others might be).

I was not disappointed. “I miss you!” read the chat, from one of my former neighbors in Brooklyn, Trey. “How are things in Boston? Let me know next time you're back here. I be bored out of my mind these days! Keep in touch.”

It brought a little tear to my eye. Trey holds a special place in my heart, not only because he greeted me every day with a huge smile and a “What's new, Heath? What kind of crazy shit did your kids do today?” but also because, once upon a time, he heroically saved my lovebird Green Bean's life.

It happened over a year ago, in October '08, back when things still seemed peachy between me and La Moustache. Moustache was out that evening at a business dinner, and I was busily putting together my homework packet for the following week. I was crouched on the floor next to my printer, printing out pages, and Bean was next to me. He is very interested in anything that moves or makes noise, and he was hopping around the printer, curiously watching the cartridge slide back and forth and pages spew out.

He hopped a little closer. I was making last-minute edits on my computer and paid him no heed. He got up onto the shelf where the pages come out and ducked his head down to get a really good luck inside the machine. “Arrête ça! Stop it. I'm trying to work,” I said distractedly, brushing at him ineffectively. All of a sudden I heard a terrible squawk. My little birdie had put his head INSIDE the printer as a page was printing, and when the page was done, the cartridge slid back into place, trapping his head behind it. He was terrified, and flapping madly.

I tried pulling at him gently, to no avail. He was really stuck. As he continued to flap his wings, feathers went flying, and when a small blood feather came out he started to bleed. It was only a couple drops, but I had read many times how a small amount of blood loss could result in death. I rushed to the kitchen and grabbed a box of corn starch, which stops the blood flow, and poured it liberally over the frantic bird, printer, and homework sheets scattered nearby. Then, unsure what to do next, I called La Moustache. “It's an emergency! Come home now!” I said, my tone of fear underscored by the horrifying sounds Bean was emitting from the bowels of the printer. “But I just ordered dinner,” he said. “You really have to come,” I replied, and he relented. “I'll grab a cab. In the meantime, call Big Guy.”


Big Guy, for those of you who don't remember, was my Brooklyn landlord, a gem of a man. I called him up and briefly described my emergency. “I'm not at the house right now, but I'll be there soon and I'll come right up,” he told me.

Sure enough, he showed up a few minutes later with two friends in tow: Trey and Fat John. As soon as the three of them arrived, Trey took charge. “Do you care about the printer?” he asked. “No,” I replied quickly. “Destroy it. I don't care. Just get the bird out.” “Okay. Do you have a saw of some kind?” I tried to think if there was one, but the sharpest think I could think of was my bread knife. I ran into the kitchen and emerged with my dangerously sharp Wusthof bread knife.

Trey set to work expertly, and in no time flat, my printer was being sawed in two. The other two men stood around watching, no doubt as amazed as I was. Then, with a final flap and a squawk, Bean was free and flying crazily around the room, his little face smeared with black ink. He did a few laps around and then settled on Fat John's shoulder; surprised, Fat John reacted by screaming and hitting the floor. Big Guy, Trey and I burst into relieved guffaws as I rescued Green Bean and returned him to his cage, where he promptly fell into a deep slumber.

By the time La Moustache got home, the corn starch had been cleaned off the floor, the printer was outside in the garbage bin, a frozen pizza was heating up in the oven to make up for his missed dinner, and everything was almost back to normal. The only difference was that poor little Bean, in addition to being blacker than usual, was very subdued and quiet. This lasted for a couple of days, and then he was back to his chirpy self. By now, I think he's completely forgotten about it, although I still keep him far away from my printer. But I'll never forget Trey's heroic response. Next time I have an emergency, I sure hope he's around.

A recovered Haricot decorates the top of the Christmas tree in December '08.

Last Exit

A couple of weeks ago, I talked to my landlord in Brooklyn, Big Guy, about moving, and asked him if he knew any movers. He quickly volunteered one of his vans and a couple friends for the job. And so it was that two days ago La Moustache, Big Guy, and a few neighbors loaded my remaining possessions (after being carefully culled through to fit into my new limited quarters) into Big Guy's van. The next morning I hugged a tearful Moustache goodbye for the last time, and Green Bean and I drove off in my little green car.

Big Guy was not available to accompany me to my new city, so he entrusted the job to two of his friends, Corleone and Jesus. I don't know Jesus too well, but Corleone and I go way back; he was the first person to give us a tour of our apartment, he was there for the lease-signing, and he's been a constant presence ever since. I was glad to have him with me on my journey out of New York, and happy to see his face when I stopped for gas midway through the trip and he came knocking on my car door to say hi.

Corleone and Jesus teased me that I drove too slowly, and they also had the benefit of a GPS to prevent them from getting lost in this maze of a city, so by the time I arrived they had been hanging around for a good half hour and had had plenty of time to assess the situation in Boston. At first, they were none too impressed. “Where are the pretty girls at??! There's no one around!” they told me. “You're not gonna last here two months. You'll be back in Brooklyn in no time.” They went on to compare my new neighborhood in Boston to “WAAAAYY out in Queens, or maybe Long Island.” I told them that not too long ago this neighborhood had had a bad reputation, and they responded, “Yeah, it's mad dangerous around here. Like, that guy on the bike is SPEEDING! Crazy! And look, that lady over there is jaywalking. Somebody littered over here! Call the police!”

After unloading my belongings, settling Bean in, and saying a quick hi to the kittens, we headed out to an Irish pub before the boys headed back. It was at the pub that their opinion of Boston began to change, due to the large portions and low prices of the drinks. They were also impressed that it was 5 pm and the bar was pretty full. As Corleone and I downed a few drinks and Jesus rolled a joint, the conversation turned to La Moustache. Corleone and his girlfriend of four years, the mother of his adorable son, split up recently, and I asked him what he did to feel better. He told me that he really didn't feel so bad since their breakup was amicable and they still spend a lot of time together, but it was helpful to “call Tanya, Danielle and Jessica.” He recommended I try the same technique.

I told Corleone and Jesus about the painful last few months, and they initially defended La Moustache. They said every man is afraid to settle down, and after his trip he'll surely come back to me, begging forgiveness. After I told them more of the story, though, they agreed that he had been unfair to me. I briefly considered giving them a few extra $20 bills to slash the tires on the Monster, but decided against it, and instead asked them to give him some dirty looks for me before his departure. They promised they would do so.

We walked out of the bar and headed back to the van, and Jesus lit his cigarette and offered it to me. I took a quick puff and handed it back to him, but he refused it, saying, “Take at least three. You need it.” I followed his instructions and breathed in deeply, enjoying my last taste of Brooklyn.

Neighbors

I was on my way down to my garden to harvest my heirloom tomatoes for dinner recently when I ran into my downstairs neighbor, Pink. Pink is my landlord Big Guy's nine-year-old daughter from a now defunct relationship, so she's only my neighbor part-time. I took advantage of her presence to enlist her help with my tomatoes, and she happily tagged along, pointing out the red ones and wondering out loud which were too ripe to eat and should be left behind in the soil.

When we were done, she trudged up the stairs behind me, hands full of tomatoes, and politely asked if she could come in for a visit with Green Bean. Bean is my and Moustache's pet lovebird, and I like to use him as an excuse to invite the neighborhood kids up for visits. It's not his favorite activity, but I enjoy having them come in, pepper me with questions about him, and nervously allow him to perch on their shoulders (actually, I'm not sure who is more nervous when this happens).

After feeding him a few seeds, Pink and I settled into my kitchen so I could start working on dinner. I gave her a glass of cider and put her to work making tortillas, which she turned out to be a natural at. She talked to me about school, telling me the escapades her classmates get into, and asked if my students ever act in similar ways. When I told her that I'm not working at the moment, she told me she wished I could come teach at her school, but wisely advised me that the time to find a job there would have been over the summer; by now, a month into the school year, they had enough teachers.

It was only after we had been working for half an hour or so that she told me why she was having a rare midweek visit with her dad: her mom was in the hospital, giving birth to a new baby sister. Pink reported this casually, then burst into tears. Her mom wasn't due until two weeks later, and while she was excited about having a sister, she wasn't ready. She thought the baby should have waited until the due date. She wanted to be with her mom, but was also upset because when she called her aunt she could hear her mother crying out in pain in the background, and she was angry with the baby for putting her mom through this. I told her how great it is to have a sister, and shared stories of my friends' birthing experiences (not the graphic ones). I told her that I was sure the doctors knew what to do to make sure her mom and new baby sister were safe. After a while, her brother came up to tell her that dinner downstairs was ready, and Pink left with a tortilla in one hand and a cookie for later in the other. I continued solo with my tortillas.

When La Moustache and I moved in together, I gave up a charming, pricey little studio on one of the most desirable blocks in Brooklyn. I was half a block away from Prospect Park and dozens of amazing bakeries, restaurants and bars were close by. My street was lined with stately brownstones, and neighbors included famous writers, actors and politicians. We moved to a new neighborhood a few miles away, and were able to get a spacious apartment for much less than the two of us had been paying together for our studios. The downside is that nearby restaurants mostly serve fried chicken, the delis are devoid of organic milk, and the closest place to get a latte is a mile away. It was a difficult transition for me. I missed my warm croissants in the morning. At times, I felt out of place and intimidated being in the minority as a white person on the block.

Moustache and I gradually got to know our neighbors, who turned out to be kind and welcoming. When it was someone's birthday, we would come home to the offer of a celebratory glass of cognac. I took to spending a few minutes each evening when I returned home from work chatting with neighbors who congregated on my front porch; as time went on, the minutes stretched longer. We invited a few neighbors over for dinner a few months after we moved in, and La Moustache made his specialty, boeuf bourguignon. Midway through dinner, Big Guy expressed his appreciation and his happiness that we had moved in, finishing with the unintentionally humorous statement, “You two add a lot of color to the neighborhood.” He wolfed down two slices of my apple cake and asked for another one for the road so he could “really get into it”; this started a tradition of me baking him an apple cake each fall.

Big Guy and his brother Little Guy, a mechanic, took particular interest in La Moustache's purchase of a red convertible Chrysler LeBaron, and I started calling them the Car Fairies because of the way they magically fixed any issue that came up. If we ever forgot to move it to the other side of the street on cleaning day, they would take care of it for us. One morning, while backing out of the driveway, I hit the brick gate on my way out, and the driver's side mirror was left dangling by a few wires. At the end of the day I came home, showered, and by the time I came out to drive over to my friend's house I found the mirror reattached. When I started driving to school every day last year, I would drive home and park the LeBaron face-first in the driveway. An hour later, it would be facing the other way for easy exit (this may have been related to the earlier gate issue; they never said so, but my backing-out skills had proven to be weak). The LeBaron finally died last February, and Big Guy offered to loan us his BMW for emergencies. After a year of living here, I still missed the croissants, but it started to feel that the tradeoff was worth it.

An hour or so after Pink left, a timid knock came on my door. I opened it to find her smiling broadly with the news that her new baby sister had been born. I gave her a hug and told her she'll be a great sister. I didn't add that I'll miss her when I'm gone and am sad I won't hear stories about Pink's prowess as a big sister, but I think she knows.

Portrait of me and Bean by Pink