Leaving New York

Chapter 1

As I walked through Hudson River Park towards my apartment, I stopped and watched a freighter churn down the river; it reminded me of how my life was about to drastically change. I got home to my studio in Hell's Kitchen with my new passport, so I began arranging some of my possessions neatly on the floor: jeans, bathing suit, toiletries, sunglasses, laptop, Yankee's cap, rain jacket, and depression medicine. I'd already wrestled my crummy furniture to the sidewalk for anyone who wanted it. I'd throw my mattress in the dumpster after my last night's sleep.

I phoned Jimmy, my friend who owned "Bitch Slap," a skateboard shop named after the complicated move.

"Yeah?"

"Hey, gorilla, what's up?"

"Sleeping, dude."

"Sorry, I forgot you're off today. I'll buy you breakfast."

"Okay."

"I've got something to tell you—it's big."

"You're moving to Florida?" I'd threatened a few times to move to the Sunshine State. "No. Just get your ass up—I'm hungry."

"Alright. I want to go to Bixby's—I'm sick of Waffle House."

"Okay."

Two years before, we met at a fire. Jimmy's little brother was smoking crack then caught the living room curtains on fire in the East Village apartment he shared with his mother. I worked at the Tompkins Square Fire Station, so we were the first ones on the scene. Once we put the fire out, I spotted a muscular man holding a crying old lady. I trotted over to them.

"Are you the tenants?"

"My mom and brother are."

"Your name?"

"Jimmy. Jimmy Cantalino."

"I need somebody to fill out some paperwork. Nobody can go back into the apartment until a case manager arrives. You can get your clothes and stuff then, but I'm sorry to say the place has a lot of water damage."

Jimmy said, "They can stay with me for now."

"Sounds good."

Jimmy filled out the forms while paramedics checked his mother and brother. After responding to a call, I usually never saw people again, but I ran into Jimmy at Tompkins Square Park, where I ate lunch when I was on duty. He was doing some fantastic noseslides along Tenth Avenue. He was damn good for a guy in his late thirties. He slid into the bench where I was eating a tuna sandwich.

"Hey, weren't you one of the firemen at my mom's building?"

"Yeah. How's your mother doing?"

"Okay. I owe you a beer for what you did."

"Just part of my job."

"How about tonight at "Marcie's" on 1st Avenue? Say, seven o'clock?"

"Okay."

The guy was good-looking, but I couldn't tell his sexual persuasion—I never could in New York unless someone was super effeminate. I hoped he pitched for the other team, not that I would ever do anything about it. We both showed up at the comfortable neighborhood bar, had a few drinks, and strangely clicked. Two years went by, and now I was meeting the person I considered my best friend for maybe the last time.

I got to his apartment, where a shirtless, Jimmy stood munching a banana when he opened the door. He was twenty years my junior.

"Hey." I wanted to hug him, but he always acted awkward about it. I followed him to the messy bedroom, where he rummaged in his dresser.

"I can't find anything to wear." He flung shirts out of his chest of drawers into the air. Finally, he found the too-tight "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" T-shirt he wore everywhere. He wriggled into it, then we walked to the café.

The waitress smiled at Jimmy when she walked up.

"I'll have the "Lumberjack Special." She giggled when he handed the menu back. Then, she turned to me dully asking, "You, sir?"

"I'll have the Spanish omelet with steak fries."

"Thank you, sir." As she walked to the kitchen, Jimmy said, "She's new—got a big ole booty."

"Yeah."

"So, what's the big news?"

"I'm leaving the city."

"Yeah, yeah, heard that a million times."

"I'm serious. I'm going to work on a freighter. Retirement ain't what it's cracked up to be. I don't know what to do with myself--no purpose. I'm sick of the grime, the crowds, the noise and my buddy at the station . . . is gone."

"Hey, you know the chick I boinked last weekend? She's married—how about them apples?"

I'd just told my best friend I was moving away; all he could do was mention some fat ass woman he'd met at Trader Joe's. Typical. Often, I felt I was just feeding his colossal ego, being his "friend." The truth was I was in love with him. The food came, and he crammed it in, his cheeks poked out like a chipmunk.

"I'm leaving soon."

"Sounds cool." He began to eat my fries. "I got a date with that gal Alysha tonight—the one with the corn rows? I just got to get some—four days, no fap."

"I didn't know you had a date. I thought we'd go to the "Dead Rabbit" to have dinner and some brews. My treat."

"You always want to go there." Jimmy imitated an Irish accent, 'We've ten thousand beers from jolly ole Ireland. We're dead. We're the Rabbit.'

"Then somewhere else. Jimmy, I'm probably leaving tomorrow."

"I already got it all sewed up with Alysha."

I wanted him to say, 'Hell man—let's paint the town. Alysha will understand.' But I knew it was useless. I knew my place with him all too well. When I was forty, did I want to hang out with guys nearly sixty?

I said, "You be careful tonight."

"Well, protection's her problem—I hate those rubbers." I looked out the window at the overflowing trash cans.

"You have fun on your big adventure. I got to get going—I got a shipment coming in of "Zero's" and "Alien Workshops." Those boards fly off the shelves as soon as we stock them."

I went home feeling like my best friend was nothing but a casual acquittance I'd blown up into a  love affair. But leaving him scared me; I hoped it wouldn't trigger a depressive episode.