Be Brave Project, Day 32: Mmm. . .Is that A Cardboard Box I See Before Me?

Hanging out with someone who's moving is a lot like spending time with someone who's in love; they just won't shut up about it. Everything is related to the object of obsession.

Once I was walking down Avenue A with a friend of mine, an educated woman and usually a humorous one. She had just met a man named Ryan the week before. Coming towards us was a hipster wearing an expression of rebellion and discontent. He glowered at a police car that went by, he sneered at the people carrying coffee and briefcases. His haircut was one of those expensive English rocker ones that make someone's hair look as if it died while crawling down their forehead in search of escape--but this wasn't why I laughed at him. What made me laugh was the fact that he was walking five fat dachshunds, who were clearly his own pets, and the ones in charge.

Five dogs means that you have an absolutely enoooormous apartment--not a cheap thing in the East Village, where enormous apartments generally mean buying several (previously tenement) units and reconstructing them with cathedral ceilings and bedrooms for your hot and cold running waitstaff. . .Five fat dogs means that you spend your nights shinnying around your home on your knees, offering pastry bits in return for a few scratches and a waft of bad breath. There's nothing wrong with living large--if that's your definition of it--but it just struck me as hilarious that the hipster wanted his public persona to be all disenchanted and sneering: There's a reason Marlon Brando didn't carry dachshunds in The Wild One. It might be nice, but it ain't cool.

So I smiled towards the hipster and he sneered at me Elvis-style as a dog threw up a little bit on his shoe, which made me smile more. I turned to look at my friend. She was gazing dreamily at the hipster's mid-section. "You know what?" she said, "Ryan would look so great in that belt. . ."

Sigh. But I'm that way now. Walking down the street I'll suddenly stop in my tracks and stare intently at a box that's been left on a corner. Is it strong enough? Does it smell? Does it have a convenient handle? (Believe me, I've dated men where I wish I'd asked these questions first.) I go to Staples and lurk in the back section, fingering various packets of tape. Every person I meet I interrogate: Who do you use for cable? For electricity? Who helped you move?

Yesterday I had an early and nerve-wracking meeting: My crucial first encounter with Rebecca's husband Markham. He owns the condo, he's the one who's nervous about renting it. . .he knows she met me in AA. I couldn't sleep the night before, and in the morning couldn't eat. Dressed in the most respectable & innocuous outfit I could think of (jeans, white cotton pressed shirt, heels). Put together financials. We met on the corner of 80th and Broadway at 8.30. Markham was dark haired, with kind hooded eyes and a slightly nervous manner. As he was talking about the condo in a kind and settled manner (as if it's all a fait-accompli!) I heard a sort of rush in my ears--uh oh. A few moments later my stomach lurched, and I realized I was going to be very, very sick. Quite soon.

After several eons passed, with me swallowing hard and schvitzing like a roasting piglet, we shook hands in what I hope was mutual satisfaction, and parted.

I almost immediately threw up in a grate on the street, came home and went back to bed, where I remained for 26 hours. With a plastic bucket comfortingly nearby.

Still feeling less than great--with an odd urge for macaroni and cheese mixed with peas--but the move looks like a go!