"Two Years in New York" (Michael Mohr's "fictional memoir" chapter 2

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Photo by Kaysha on Unsplash

Chapter 2

March, 2019

Lucius—my 3-year-old Tuxedo cat—and I sat in the back of an Uber heading west over the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge, crossing the Harlem River (north of the East River) aiming ourselves at 125th Street, in Harlem. The vaguely Iranian-looking driver stayed focused on the road, ignoring me, which was great. He spoke softly to his iPhone clipped to the dashboard, speaking in a Middle Eastern tongue I could not decipher. We’d been driving for 45 minutes since JFK. I was exhausted from lack of REM sleep. It was March 26, 2019. I saw the faintest vestiges of snow from a recent storm along the road. The radio was playing lightly, some local news channel, a man talking about how the winter just simply wasn’t ending, and how temperatures were still down in the forties. When, the man wanted to know, would it start to feel like spring. The first rays of light were just beginning to puncture the hibernating bears’ lair.

We got off the bridge and spiraled around in a circle along with other cars; then we headed south onto Harlem River Drive (north of FDR). It was good to be on the freeway again. I saw the river to my left (east), cold-seeming and deep blue, glinting sunlight pecking the water. I glanced at Lucius in his small flexible green crate. I’d been worried about him flying. It was his first time. We’d flown out of SFO.

My ex, Adinah, and I had gotten him when he was just four months old, from Berkeley Humane, in October, 2016. It’d been Adinah who’d wanted a cat to begin with. We had the house. Now we needed a pet. All my life I’d been around animals: My parents always had dogs. Usually chocolate or black labs. And pugs. Currently a 90-pound yellow lab and a Husky/German Shepard mix. At first I’d resisted getting a cat. I’d had a cat we found when I was a kid growing up in Ojai. But I hadn’t had to take care of it myself. Adinah worked a traditional 9-5 in Fairfield as a graphic designer. I worked from home, writing and book editing. Which meant that I’d be the one stuck with the aforementioned four-legged creature. I’d always been mostly neutral, slightly impatient around animals. They were too needy. I myself was needy enough.

But, in the end, we finally visited Berkeley Humane. We looked for two days. When I saw the black and white furry little guy in his cage, and he licked my hand—and, ironically, scratched Adinah—I knew he was the one. We got him, purchased some supplies, bought the little green crate, and took him home. Adinah gone during the days, I fell in love. We named him Lucius after the child in the movie Gladiator, starring Russel Crow. He had an ancient, tough wisdom about him. His whiskers were so long we almost named him Bernie, after Bernie Sanders (because the whiskers reminded us of the former candidate’s wild white hair) who’d just relinquished the Democratic nomination to Hillary Clinton. Adinah and Lucius were very close. Closer than he and I were in a certain way. She could get him to play in a way that confounded and eluded me. I started to feel edged out, even. But, after we broke up, in January, 2018, and she left the house, we decided it made the most sense for me to keep him. That was when our real bond began.

The Uber slowed down and stopped in front of 2nd Avenue and 105th. There was a five-story gray building, drab-looking. For a moment I just stared at the building. How strange it was. I was here, in Manhattan. At 36. After all those years of debauchery in this city throughout my twenties. Bright lights, big city, like Jay McInerny wrote. A shock erupted inside of me: The El Cerrito house was empty. No one was there. I was in New York City. Adinah was gone. We were finished together. A whistling wind blew through my memories of our four and a half years. The bike rides; the backpacking trips; buying the house; home repairs; road adventures; reading one of my unpublished novels in its entirety out loud to her; getting Lucius; getting to know each other’s families; her father’s rejection of me out of hand. It all sat there inside of me like a handful of jagged rocks, cutting my insides. Life was suffering. Life was pain. Life was constant change. Change was scary but good. Necessary. Human.

I got out of the car. The man jumped out and opened the trunk and helped me grab my stuff. I had my blue and gray messenger bag, a cloth bag with extra clothes, Lucius in his little green crate, and my gigantic black wheeled suitcase. Cold wind cut against my exposed skin, rushing north along 2nd Ave. It was freezing out. I shivered. Even in my thick red REI ski jacket it was cold. I was used to the Bay Area. California. This was very, very different.

I thanked the driver and he nodded and took off, speeding away. I stood on the shoulder of 2nd. People walked by. No one noticed me. I was just another little specimen in this town. Another young seeker. Another writer hoping to “make it,” just like actors trying to succeed in Los Angeles. They say if you can make it in New York City you can make it anywhere.

Following the Airbnb instructions, I walked into the next door Thai food/hipster coffee restaurant and told the cook behind the counter I was there to pick up the keys to the building next door.

“Which apartment?” he asked, testing me.

I had to think a moment. “4C.”

He grimaced and handed me the keys. The place smelled like rice noodles dipped in sesame sauce and curry.

Escaping the brutal chill, I got into the drab gray building. It was a fourth-floor walkup which meant no elevator. I had to get my suitcase up four flights of stairs. I started the ascent, feeling both resentful and grateful at the same time. As I climbed I heard Spanish being spoken softly behind cracked-open doors, news playing on a TV. I smelled Mexican cooking, sauteed peppers and pan-fried tortillas. I heard the echoes of shoes screeching down the stairs coming my way. At an open space I paused before the next set of stairs. I breathed heavily. Lucius was still frozen with morbid fear. New sights, sounds, smells. Fresh environment. Loud noises he’d never heard. He didn’t even meow. He had to be fairly comfortable to meow.

A young black man raced down the stairs, saw me, pretended I did not exist (New York tradition) and passed me. I resumed my climb.

At last I reached the fourth floor. I slid the keys into the slot at 4C. I opened the door. Inside, it was basically what I expected. My first sensory awareness was the ripe stink of old coffee grounds. There was a little bathroom to the right of the door. A medium-sized open kitchen. A desk. A living room with ratty beige carpet and a ratty, torn orange couch. And a fairly large bedroom with a king-sized bed. Windows overlooked 2nd Ave in the bedroom. Across 2nd there was a large building called East Harlem Scholars Academy. I set all my stuff down. I placed Lucius in his crate on the bed. Looking down four floors I saw cars rushing both ways on 2nd. Well. Here I was. Now what?

I walked slowly around the apartment. The Airbnb guy was a Brazilian artist, it’d said in his profile. Big portraits of his surrealist art hung on the walls in the living room. It was the kind of art which can only be understood, perhaps, while on acid. Bending, dripping hands; four-dimensional clocks; rabid, explosive colors everywhere. The apartment reeked of old laundry. Male sweat. Cigarettes. Bacardi-151. It was perfect. It was like sliding my foot into an old shoe I’d never worn before which somehow fit precisely, as if it had been waiting for me all this time.

I opened Lucius’ crate, on the bed, and he didn’t budge. After five minutes he very slowly, extremely tentatively, started to explore, leaving his tiny cage. He used his nose to smell everything in sight. In less than three minutes he had disappeared under the ratty orange couch. I shook my head, thinking, What a little silly-ass. But I understood. He was freaked out. It was all completely new. For both of us.

For a half an hour I unpacked my suitcase. Then I sat on the couch, in awe that I was, at last, here. All those conversations I’d had with Adinah about moving here. (Even the idea of me going solo and her staying and renting the second bedroom for six months.) All the talks with my mom about the need to go to The Big Apple (she encouraged me to go). All the friends—especially writer friends—I’d told I was “going to move across the country,” before I even believed it myself. Maybe I told them so I’d feel the pressure to actually do it; feel accountable.

How had it come to this again? Being single. Alone. In a sense I’d been alone all my life. Even the four and a half years with Adinah I’d often felt alone. Utterly alone, in fact, as if existing at the bottom of the Marianas Trench, completely separated from all other human beings. I’d always been a fairly attractive guy—short, balding, but handsome. Women hadn’t been a problem from 30,000 feet.

But, besides Adinah, the relationships had often been a mix of chaotic, fleeting, sex-based, and one-sided. I tended to move towards control and criticism, and I tended to end up with codependent, kind, needy women. It was a classic alcoholic cycle. (Even when sober.) A semi-loving, semi-toxic tango which required domination and submission. And yet I had loved Adinah. And she’d loved me. In many ways we’d brought out the best and worst in each other but either way the thumping heart between us was shared. Still, even from the start there’d been that feeling I always had of stark loneliness, of being alone in a narrow cave so dark you can’t see your hand in front of your face, no flashlight. Despite all this, she’d added warmth to my trembling aloneness.

I woke up with a start what seemed like hours and hours later. Sweat beaded my forehead. I’d slid sideways down the couch. My throat was dry. I looked around. It took me a moment. Strange paintings on the walls. Ratty rug. Thrift-store couch. Oh. Right. Manhattan. Airbnb. I jumped in the shower and woke up. It was only 9:15am. I’d slept about an hour and a half. It didn’t matter: The adrenaline, the exuberance rushed through me like a shot of cocaine.

Wrapped up in four layers, with my red lightweight REI jacket topping it all off, I jogged down the stairs and out the door, this time without all my stuff. It was colder than Antarctica. That wind rushed at me again. I pulled my hoodie over my beanie-clad head. Brrrrr. I didn’t know what to do, where to go. I had the urge to walk. Move. My whole adult life I’d cherished walking. No matter what city I’d lived in—Ojai; Ventura; Santa Cruz; San Diego; Portland; Philly; San Francisco; Oakland; El Cerrito; etc—I’d loved to walk around the neighborhoods. Morning, daytime, night: It didn’t matter. I craved movement. I liked scoping out the locals. I liked seeing the apartment buildings and homes. I enjoyed the vicarious experience of imagining myself in one of those warm, safe refuges.

I chose to walk west along 104th Street. I jammed my hands deep into my pockets to keep them warm. Black and Hispanic men passed me and I quickly learned—intuitively—to avoid eye contact and not nod or smile. In Ojai, yes. Bay Area, fine. East Harlem? No. Especially as a white-boy. My first nod had received harsh, cold eyes and tight lips which seemed to drip with this disclaimer: You’re in the wrong hood, brotha.

My walk took me past 3rd Ave, Park, Madison, and finally I saw Central Park, along 5th. I remembered walks in Central Park during visits to Manhattan in my drunken, lurid twenties. I realized I was starving. I hadn’t eaten on the plane, minus a small orange juice and some crackers. The last meal I’d consumed had been the night before in El Cerrito before a restless, nightmare-spiced sleep. I stopped at a hotdog stand. Classic New York City. I paid too much for two long, skinny dogs with just the buns and a spray of ketchup. I got an orange Snapple.

I crossed Madison to 5th. Cars rushed down 5th at breakneck speed. I found some boulders nearby, along a path. People were meandering around the park, gesturing with their hands to each other, talking about who knew what, distracted, oblivious to my pitiful existence. Who was I? A no-name unpublished writer with no agent and no stature. I had come here to potentially change that. Would I? A voice in my mind said, Goddamn right you will. Another voice said, Be realistic, kid. The ambitious, driven writer and the critical, sarcastic editor. I had both. Always. Thank God, I thought: I’m here sober. In my thirties.

I found a spot to sit on one of the boulders. It was jagged and rough but it worked. I devoured the hotdogs. Drank the Snapple. Wiped my chin and lips with the back of my hand. I watched the cars racing south one-way along 5th Avenue. I saw in my mind the sunlight glinting off the East River as the Uber drove me towards the Airbnb. It reminded me now of the last time I’d seen Adinah in person. It’d been at the Berkeley Marina, eight long months after she’d broke up with me, severing that special bond we’d developed. The night she told me she couldn’t do it anymore—what pain; what sadness; what relief!—had been our last night together. We cried. We hugged. We shook our heads. The primeval urge to change her mind was present. But then I had what can only be described as a moment of grace. I grasped deep inside that the relationship needed to end. It was for the best. I let it go. I simply ungripped my metaphorical hands and let it go. The next morning I woke up to her crying again. Then she got dressed for work. She didn’t even say goodbye. She just left. She never came back.

When we met at the Berkeley Marina it was September, 2018. We’d emailed since the breakup about money I owed her; minor updates; things she’d left and needed to come pick up when I was gone. But this was our first—and as it turned out, last—time meeting in person. I remember seeing her when I parked in front of the craggy boulders by the shimmering calm blue sea. She stood by the entrance to the pier. She looked the same as always: Short; dark-haired; attractive. An intelligent, creative Jewish girl born and raised in San Francisco. I didn’t feel much. Not then.

I got out of the car and approached her. I tried a sloppy smile. She tried one back. I sensed her nervousness, a tension between us.

“Hey,” I said, swallowing a knot down my throat.

“Hi,” she said, her anxious hands moving all over her body. She kept looking away and then flicking her brown eyes at me. Back and forth.

I breathed deep and slow, and then said, “Shall we walk?”

She nodded and we started walking side-by-side. We began to tell each other our stories—how life had been since we’d split up. We found a green bench and sat. It was warm out still, mid September, an Indian summer. She’d couch-surfed with several friends and even for a while a co-worker near Fairfield. It hadn’t been pleasant. She’d been saving up money and would soon be looking for a room in an apartment in Oakland. For a moment we didn’t speak, eyes straight ahead at the bay. Then Adinah said, “How’s Lucius?”

I looked at her and my heart broke. Lucius. Our precious baby. She was his mother. I had lost Adinah. Adinah had lost me, the house, and Lucius.

“Want to see some photos?” I asked, half-hoping she’d say no.

“Yeah,” she said.

I scrolled my phone and showed her some shots of him being cute. “I let him go outside with supervision,” I said. This must have shocked Adinah. We’d never let him out before. The two and a half years together in the house we’d always made sure the front screen door was closed. It made me think of my mother when I was growing up in the house on La Luna Avenue in Ojai, always yelling at me to keep the black iron gate protecting the driveway and house locked so the dogs wouldn’t get out onto the busy street.

She gulped and looked away from me. “Are you okay?” I asked.

For a moment she didn’t face me. When she did tears were arcing down her cheeks. This prompted my throat to close up in a tight knot and I started crying, too. She held my hand—which was unexpected—and we both wept.

We spent all told three hours wandering around the marina, along the parks and by the water, past the slotted yachts, telling each other about our lives the past eight months, both commenting on how shockingly bizarre it was that we really weren’t together anymore. Memories of the early days of our relationship in 2013 flooded my mind. The good, easy times. The new, fresh, blooming love. The connection. The mutual understanding. The joy of finding, if even for a brief moment, a fellow traveler in life. Though even then there’d been micro-cracks in the dam.

I hugged her tight in front of her little white Toyota Corolla. I stared deeply into her eyes for a moment. I shrugged. She slipped my grasp and said goodbye. In that moment none of the hard past between us seemed to matter—her father’s loathing of me, for instance. It was a pure feeling. Love and letting go. Forgiveness. Grace.

She got into her car and backed out. Then, just like that, she was gone.

I stood there a minute after she left. Then I walked along the craggy boulders by the water. I sat on one. It was bright and hot and sunny now. I saw the Bay Bridge, and the buildings of San Francisco, and the red Golden Gate Bridge, and the Marin Headlands way out there, across the bay. The water was so calm and flat, still. I saw the end of the marina, as if dangling there, heading into nothingness. It seemed incomplete, like a massive finger which hadn’t quite been fully extended. I took a long, slow, deep breath. I held it, closed my eyes, released. When I opened my eyes a rush sensation ran through my whole body, tingling my spine. I understood it. It was over. Really, actually over. Our lives had been cleaved apart. The rush feeling morphed into a profound feeling of loss. I swallowed, took another breath, eyeing the calm sea, and I said, whispering to myself, Goodbye, Adinah.

I walked back to my apartment on 2nd. It was not yet 11am. I was alone again. Truly alone. And here, in New York City.

I was ready.