A few days ago we received the keys to the apartment. Shortly after, I learned not only do I have a place to rest my head every night, but I also have a place to do my stinky business. Yes folks, its true: we have a bathroom…a private bathroom, and its pretty damn clean too!
On Friday, the 13th (don’t ruin it with your superstitious thoughts) we were notified all of the paper work was approved and we could pick up our keys from “Mickey” (more about this guy later). So Kev and I proceeded to lug our over-weight luggage down 3 flights of narrow stairways to get to the street. It would be the last time we had to carry all 8 of our bags at once which was thrilling, yet still didn’t make the job any easier. We sat in front of Steve’s building in Midtown and waited for our cab to take us home. We were slightly obscured by park cars so Kev headed out to the street to hail one. Success, and right away; Kev managed to get the first one passing by. The cab slowed, and rolled down his window, but I don’t remember him actually stopping. You see, when the cab finally passed the car that was blocking us, he got a panoramic view of Mt. Luggage. As quickly as he slowed down, he sped up, claiming “no room.” Whatever, I’m sure his cab smelled.
It wasn’t more than a few minutes more when a cab driver with the balls to take us on would arrive. He was actually very nice…well he stopped—and stayed at least. As I uttered the address, I couldn’t help but note that this series of numbers that marked a small minuet spot in New York, New York was my future home. These numbers represent the place I will sleep after a hard day. The place I will make meals on holidays. The place I will skype my friends and family to make sure they know I still love them. A place to cry and laugh. My home.
I don’t think our cab driver knew the significance of this trip, but I sure as hell did. We drove up the West Side and eventually found our way onto Central Park West. I got a glimpse of my corner of the park; it was beautiful. Spectacular really… it was just so vibrant. There were people everywhere and the trees were overwhelmingly green. I pictured myself biking, jogging, and laying out with the rest of New York. It felt good; it felt right. Sure it’s all the way to the top and way over to the left, but it’s the place where I will enter the park each day when I need a break from the city.
We then turned on our street and a wave of giddiness took over; I made “funny face.” I’m not sure if anybody else has ever gotten a case of the “funny face’s” or if I'm the sole sufferer, but, it usually occurs in times of great excitement when it would be inappropriate to scream out with joy or break into song. It’s at these time my body is overwhelmed with positive energy and I have to explode. In order for me to not die, I must make “funny face.” Now most people have never seen my funny face because I usually bury my face in my hands when I get symptoms, which is exactly what I did in the cab. I buried my face in my hands, made what I can only imagine as a hideous face, and uttered “AHHHHHHHHH” very quietly to myself. Crisis obverted; I’m still alive.
And now I’m home.
