The New York City Journals, Part VII: Wadin' Through the Waste
'Cause it's getting winter, and if you want any flowers, you gotta get your seeds into the ground
I only experienced seven New York City winters—the first was undoubtedly the warmest, save those three nights I slept on the concrete floor of Yasira Nun's art studio on the second floor of The Clemente, at 107 Suffolk Street, near the corner of Rivington—a stretch of road which I rarely ventured far from, those days.
It wasn't the coldest winter, but if you ask me about sleeping on the concrete floor under a blanket makeshift from the stiff and unstretched canvas, I'd unrolled from one of the giant spools leaned against the towering brick walls of the three hundred square foot studio space, I'd tell you I nearly froze to death.
I might have just gone home to Carrol Gardens—hopped on the F train, and rudely awakened my new pal Jordan—the Wall Street guy I rented a hundred square feet framed by six-foot walls in a ground-floor apartment with ten-foot ceilings for six hundred bucks.
Perhaps there was a valid reason I couldn't go home for nearly seventy-two frigid air hours. Still, I cannot say with one hundred percent certainty what my excuse was, other than never wanting to leave the City, specifically Rivington Street.
As referred to in the pages displayed above, Shaun is not Becka’s boyfriend. The fella I’m talking about spells his name Sean, and I can only assume he is still alive because the Texan transplant I nicknamed T-Bone made my acquaintance during the notable CMJ music showcase that year; then our friendship fizzled out only a few years thereafter.
T-Bone, if you’re out there, drop me a line, old friend.
You know who else I’d really like to hear from?
Jonah. Bonnie Bedalia’s son, cousin of Culkin’s, behind the bar at Welcome to the Johnsons’ on any given Saturday afternoon, Sunday night after happy hour, and always into the wee hours of Monday morning, walking the Williamsburg Bridge coked off our heads with me, Capi, and Fred.
Jonah fucking Luber. Where in the world did you go?
Yes, we all remember your non-speaking role in Zoolander.
No, I no longer have that silly, unrelenting, unrequited crush on you. I swear.
“Last call for alcohol, assholes!!!”
After turning the stereo system volume down, Jonah yelled in his fake Brooklyn accent.
I slid my empty shot glass across the bar like a weighted disc on a shuffleboard table. That could have won the match with the precision I exhibited; the glass was coming to the most graceful halt directly in front of Jonah’s hand, where he held onto the bartop to support his relaxed lean. He poured Jameson Irish whiskey until it began to spill over.
“That’s alcohol abuse, fucker!!” I heckled before sliding from my stool to my feet and unsteadily going behind the bar to pour myself the next shot as I chugged the one I was holding.
“Ash, don’t come behind the bar, man!”
Jonah placed his large hands on my shoulders, giving me a playful shake.
“I know you work here, but you’re not working right now.”
I cut him off before he could continue his lecture.
“Don’t be such a pussy, Jonah,” I smirked.
I wrapped my arms around his waist.
“When are you going to fuck me, Jonah?” I asked aggressively, as per usual.
“You’re like my little sister! That’s gross!” He remarked.
Annoyed, I’d stroll back to the other side of the bar where I belonged and perch myself onto my bar stool before giving Jonah the finger. My barstool at the Johnsons’ was my bar stool. It was the one on the back end of the bar, right by the swinging half-door that led into the well, and I took up residency there seven nights a week.
Excerpt from my upcoming memoir, Ballad of a Sick Girl.
