Alone on the Brooklyn Bridge

The year was 2017, sometime in the fall. I had just moved to the City for work at a prestigious agency Deutsch, which turned out to be a total shitshow. My roommate, who I met on a random roommate matching website (Roomi – not that random, I guess) became quick friends despite a mutual distrust of each other and love but also disliking each other. The space was small, so it was difficult to share with anyone, no matter how much I liked them. We had a party on our rooftop, where her friends from Yale (maybe four total) came, and my 20 friends from The University of Texas at Austin showed up ready to rock. This showing intimidated her a bit—who was I? I was not from New York. I had never lived there. How did I have this much pull or game to attract such a large crowd less than a month or two after I had moved? I was so happy to see my friends, but her best friend from college David Hickey, who is the most beautiful man I have ever laid eyes on, took a strong liking to me. He thought I was very cool and wanted to know everything about me. I was so flattered. We made out that night in my bed (he left a note with his number) and started hanging out quite often, though he lived in Williamsburg, which was a bit of a trek from the Upper West Side, where Mack and I lived.

David knew I liked riding bikes, so one day for a date, we biked all over Queens, Brooklyn, you name it, laughing our asses off and having a really good time, semi-stoned. He wanted me to go across the Brooklyn Bridge with him. I was really nervous to do so, but he encouraged me, and I did it. We got to the end of the bridge; I felt like I had faced a major fear and was so proud of myself. Then, he drops it.

“Have you ever been in love?” He asked me, point-blank.

“Yes, I think so, why? Have you?” I responded with confusion.

“No, but I mean REAL love.” He asked again.

“Maybe? I think so?” I said again.

“I’m going to meet up tonight with the first and only girl I’ve ever loved. She taught me how to love. [Later, I read Siddhartha and saw the similarities.]” he smirked.

“Why are you telling me this? Do you want to be with her?” I asked.

“No, I don’t. I just want you to know the truth.” He said and spent the next 20 minutes talking about how much he loved her, but we could keep hanging out if I wanted.

“I don’t want to anymore. This is an asshole move. I’m leaving you here alone on the sidewalk to figure it out. I was crying so hard. I thought we had something special. I can’t do this if she’s in your life like this.”

For the first time in my life, I left someone behind. But it gets juicier in 2018… let’s see.

If you’ve never seen Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, you were a lot like me until about a year ago. I wanted to understand the drug, the super appeal of a wild ride involving crime, debauchery, underage women, and the endless pursuit of getting wildly fucked up and intoxicated by any substance under the California/Nevada sun. When the two goons have left and are on their way to Vegas, they come across a few interesting younger characters. I read the novel, so it’s more in that one, but there’s one girl that they really take a liking to. She’s young, sassy, funny, and most importantly, the guys believe that she will successfully fuck them, so they keep her around. For a while. Until they realize that this young thing is a liability and potentially in love with one of them, they ditch her, fast, proceeding with their mission and never looking back to say goodbye, "it was nice to meet you," "good luck," etc. She’s completely dead to them. They are so fucked up on substances, but most importantly, one of the guys does have feelings for her, but realizes she will ruin the mission to get the money, drugs, etc. in the seediest places.

I can’t totally relate to that girl, but I can also totally relate to her on some kind of transcendent astral plane. Is every girl like that…that girl?

I remember the first time I saw him. I was boarding the plane to a friend’s wedding in Houston, going through security, and he kept staring at me. Staring. He must have thought I was attractive or interesting in some sort, so I quizzically looked back to study this man who would not take his eyes off me no matter if I even called anyone or sent a text. He was locked into me. And I was intensely flattered and grew extremely aroused by this show of affection and his at the time rather complete and total fascination with staring at me. He was wearing glasses, had a backpack, maybe jeans, some cool colorful shoes. We proceeded through security in separate lines, but yet again, he stared. I looked back with confusion and desire and smiled as best I could, trying to seem cool, but wondering why this man thought I was someone worth giving so much visual attention.

On the plane with assigned seats, I walked him walk down the aisle and he sat down right next to me. I was nervous. Excited. Assumably it was what we both had wanted – a chance to meet, which we could not have done in the airport terminal (La Guardia I think.) We did not say much at first, both shy, both reading our books. I broke the ice and started asking him questions about himself. I was surprised by how intelligent he was. Most men are not, at least the West Village Village Tavern crowd where I had met the last guy I had a “thing” with before.

He said he wanted to be friends. I knew it meant more. He tried to get me to come to Marfa Myths with him and his friends but I couldn’t because of the wedding. Even Jesus was tempted. I had never been so sexually attracted to someone so quickly. It scared the fuck out of me to be honest.

We talked every day since that day. Then months in I got pregnant. He ran. He left me behind. He never bothered to follow up to see if I was okay. He abandoned me in my lowest moment and showed little to no remorse. He put his own desire to get laid first and sought to compartmentalize the feelings I knew he still had for me. -love even – for the endless pursuit of pussy. Fear and loathing much?

I had never felt so unwanted or so unloved. I cried every day for almost five years. It broke me. The abortion. Him leaving without making sure I was OK. I wasn’t trash, though. I was pure class and never did anything to him or anyone. He created a narrative about me being so terrible to justify his own shitty actions. He has to face himself and his own actions, deeds, and words if he wants a clean conscience and set the record straight with everyone he lied to about me. He doesn’t have to tell them he loves me. Sadly, very sadly given what happened, he does.