Don't Forget to Write

Looking for Comfort

I woke up to find Karen's head on my shoulder, and her arm stretched over my chest. She left a puddle of drool on my shirt. I tried not to laugh as I eased myself from the bed, and slowly lowered her head onto a pillow. Bruno was already cooking breakfast.

"Where did Karen go?" He croaked.

"She's in my room."

"You dog!" He said, eyebrows raised.

"It's not like that, we just slept."

"Uh-huh."

"Shut up and make breakfast."

"You shut up and pass me the eggs."

We made a feast of bacon, pancakes, eggs, toast, fruit, and a big pot of coffee for all of our guests. They each floated towards the kitchen as the smells of breakfast wafted through the apartment, and we all ate in peaceful quiet. Karen and Diane left after breakfast, both of them had work in the afternoon. On her way out the door, Karen insisted that I join her in volunteering at a soup kitchen before Christmas.

Bruno, Moose, and I all had the day off from coaching, so we spent it together sitting around and drinking. Moose was looking for a new apartment online. The one he had been in for years was going through a price hike that his landlord hadn't told him about until last week. His lease ended less than two weeks from today.

"God damn gentrification," Moose said. "They say it improves a neighborhood, makes it safer, makes it prettier. Bullshit. All it does is chase out the people who call that neighborhood home, people who really care about the place and its history. About its local stores, and its culture. It chases those people out and replaces them with wealthier people who don't give a shit about the place and will probably be moved out within a couple of years." Bruno and I could see how worked up Moose was. Rather than interrupt or try to contribute to the conversation, we let him rant on. "They're just pushing me and every other broke kid in Manhattan further and further North until eventually we all end up under some bridge in the Bronx. It's classicism. The second wealthy motherfuckers from midtown need a new place to stay, us poor motherfuckers get sent packing. It's the invasion of the rich man. They turn the deli into a hipster coffee joint, the Chipotle into a center for world-cuisine, the convenience store into a fine wine shop. Bam bam bam. Suddenly rent shoots up hundreds of dollars for the same shitty one-bedroom apartment, and why? Because it's on the same street as an artisanal cupcake store or some bullshit like that. Suddenly it's "safer" because there are more white people. This is god damn nonsense, stupid ass mother fucking bullshit gentrification." He was saying a lot of this to himself in a low voice as he stared at the computer screen. "And on top of all that," he said, looking up and now fully talking to us rather than partially to himself, "my mosque was like five blocks away from that apartment, man. You guys know I'm not the most devoted Muslim, I don't always do my prayers and I eat pork and drink alcohol and all that shit. But it was nice to be able to stop in now and again for prayer. It was comforting to know that my people, my community, was right there. God damn it."

Bruno and I had a silent conversation with head nods, eyebrows, and faces, then Bruno said "You know you can stay here for a while Mustafa."

"I can?"

"Absolutely. We have a lumpy but surprisingly comfortable futon, might as well put it up to good use. And you can stay until you find a place, no rush."

He had a big smile as he thanked us with a big hug each. "I appreciate y'all mother fuckers. I'll keep my stuff in a storage cube until I find a place."

"You can use mine," Bruno said.

"You have a storage cube?" I asked.

"Yeah I bought it a while ago for stuff I didn't want to bring from my parent's house. There is a bunch of space left. I'll take you there this week and we can load up some of your belongings."

Moose closed the laptop and sat back on the futon, his shoulders eased and his eyes relaxed. We kept drinking, and soon I was drunk enough to numb the pain. Well, I wasn't necessarily numb. It all still hurt - my heart and my soul and even my head, but when I was drunk enough, it hurt a little less. The booze was like the comforting touch of a gentle woman; it didn't fix anything, but it felt good at the time.