When Noah Met Charley

If there’s one thing that I’ve begun to realize about my adopting this pace of living it’s that I can’t sacrifice the well-being of my cuticles in the process.
My nails are in ruins and it’s most likely because I haven’t been busying myself with the proper level of productivity.
Either that or I just have a very bad habit.

Even so I awoke on Sunday morning with an all-too-painful awareness that a peevish hangnail on my left thumb was throbbing unmercifully where the dried skin had begun to tear. Disgusting as this image may be it still managed to get me out of bed and into the shower in order that I might rehydrate my dermis and thus quell the digital aching.

It was after suiting up for yet another New York day that Todd and I agreed to make another trip to Union Square only this time for much more pragmatic reasons. Donning coats, scarves, and gloves, we headed for the door, snatching up the reusable shopping bags on our way out.
Among many other noteworthy things, Union Square plays home to the first Trader Joe’s to have been incorporated into the cityscape of Manhattan. As one might imagine this also means that it was small by default and therefore jam-packed with weekend grocery-meisters.
Todd had warned me ahead of time that the check-out lines may very well wrap around the whole interior of the moderately claustrophobic store (as it turned out he was entirely correct) and thus we concocted a game plan: we would take turns holding a spot in the “12 Items or Less” line while both hunting down the items we required to make a stellar brunch, dividing them up between our two bags at the end in order that we not be breaking any rules when we eventually reached the cashier. Luckily, considering we were not terribly picky about the elements of our would-be omelette let alone any accoutrements, we only ended up with 10 items between the two of us so we were spared the scorn of our fellow queue members.

I’ll note that while inside I received not one but two compliments on my wolf sweater (again, I feel it was a worthwhile purchase).

Following check out Todd and I made our way back to Bleecker opting to take a new route home in order that we be able to discover new little niches within the city. We ended up traversing the NYU campus quite by accident and I must say it is a much different notion of “urban campus” than Portland State. Not that I didn’t like it, it was just a concept of its own: classrooms stacked upon classrooms stacked upon dorms stacked upon classrooms. Quite efficient if you asked me.

We arrived home, prepared a sumptuous bacon, sharp cheddar, and shallots omelette, and then Todd headed homeward to work on coursework for his coming school week.
I on the other hand called mother and dad for the promised Sunday check-in phone call. I elaborated on my activities to that point and told them I would be spending the coming week on the job hunt. They once again told me they were proud of me and offered what little advice I would field about how to present myself, what to expect, and so on.

I had to utter a hasty good bye once 5 o’clock rolled around considering I had a dinner date a 6 with my friend, Charles Loffredo, another internet acquaintance who I’d yet to meet in person.

I layered up before exiting the apartment considering how cold I had been during the walking portion of the prior day but approximately half way to Charley’s flat I was sweating unbearably and felt obliged to remove my scarf and unzip both my lined hoodie as well as my cardigan, allowing my chest to breathe in the cool (although not at all cold) evening air.

Arriving at 6 on the dot, I rang Charley’s number on the apartment call box then stepped back and took in what little of the neighborhood I could make out by the streetlights. It was a charming, historic little rue. Rows of brownstones and colonial-seeming apartment sets bordered a somewhat narrow street with lines of cars hemming in both sides. Trees were planted every ten to fifteen feet, trunks disappearing into those little cement rectangles on the sidewalk. And every residence seemed to have an iron gate around the front stoop which I found awfully romantic.

The door buzzed annoyingly reminding me that I was supposed to be going inside as opposed to standing there scrutinizing the street. When Charley and I officially met there were a few moments of shock-ridden, somewhat jilted stammering. Having shared numerous in-depth literary conversations over the last year the two of us never thought it possible that we’d be having this moment, this official encounter. We shared a giant hug and a number of “I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you” sentiments. Then Charley insisted he show me around considering I would be subletting the space from him beginning in February.
“How was London?” I asked as we settled onto his small couch located on the opposite wall from his full-sized Murphy bed.

“Oh, it was really great,” he responded with enthusiasm. “The show seemed to be doing very well by the time I left and what little I actually got to see of the place was gorgeous. I can’t wait to go back and spend a larger amount of time there.”

Charley had just returned from Great Britain where his self-owned, self-run theater company had mounted a one-man show which had only that week begun receiving celebratory reviews from a number of London publications. As the director he was able to set the beast in motion then jettison back to Manhattan where he could continue to perform his duties as the accountant for a small collection of successful publishing agencies (one of which I would be interviewing during the coming week).

“It’s so marvelous to have you here,” he told me, grinning ear to ear.

“I still can’t quite believe it myself,” I replied with a sigh.

“And now that you’re here I can show you around!” Charley seemed quite energized at the prospect of introducing me to the neighborhood so we headed out into the now only slightly colder evening for dinner and a little strolling.

He took me to a petite Italian restaurant with a name I didn’t happen to notice and food I’ll be hard-pressed to forget. The portions were enormous and the flavor was magnificent. We enjoyed traditional Spaghetti Bolognese, Gnocchi with Gorgonzola, and that evening’s Chicken special with Asparagus, cheese sauce, and Herb-Roasted Potatoes. To top it all off the bill only came out to be $39! I remember thinking to myself that a dining experience of that caliber and quality would have run somewhere along the $50-$60 range back home. Charley informed me that the small restaurant had an enclosed garden in the back with table seating available on the busier nights. What with it being Sunday the space was closed but Charley assured me that it was indeed worth returning to see. The food had already convinced me.

Afterward Charley led me around Chelsea and listed the areas of note as well as a bit of the cultural history of one of New York’s oldest gay districts. For the first time in quite awhile I felt a certain sense of pride and membership being a part of this community. It was as if even though I’d never been there I still had a place waiting for me when I arrived. And even through the cloudy blur of booze and cigarette smoke, I could see why it must have been such a mecca during the previous eras in American history when in many places, to be indicated as possibly homosexual was an element of exclusion all to itself. Yet another reason why I felt even more aware of my move being so perfectly fitting.

Charley finished the tour with a stop by Billy’s Bakery where I was given my first taste of a New York Red Velvet cupcake. I’ll admit I came into the situation with a certain level of foregone skepticism considering my as yet unchallenged allegiance to Cupcake Jones. Even so, the confection was quite marvelous. . .

. . . although I have to say that, to me, Lisa Watson is still credited as being the best Red Velvet artist I have ever encountered. There’s nothing that compares to how incredibly insouciant I feel at the first bite into every single one of her beautiful little rose-petal-topped treats.

Back to the east coast. . .

Charley and I ended the evening with a discussion about my interviewing with one of his agencies during the week as a personal assistant. Having looked forward to this opportunity for the whole month up to departing Portland I was in the mood for details. I needed to strategize about ensuring my competitive edge be the keenest.
Charley’s advice was to simply be my usual self. He felt that when Heide Lange met me in person, heard me speak (and in particular my vocabulary), and noted my aplomb, she would be very impressed and thus highly likely to burn down the building and run away with me into the sunset.

Actually it was something a little less dramatic than that.
But oh, how I do love a good ending.

Making my way home following the last hug from Charley along with a final “I STILL can’t believe you’re actually here”, I was hit with the first genuine pangs of homesickness. Maybe it was the misty weather, or perhaps the fact that it was the first lengthy walk I was taking on my own. Either way I had a number of my fondest remembrances of Portland begin floating in front of my mind’s eye: biking across the river at midnight in Summer, piling into somebody’s car and spending the whole day at the Washougal, frittering away the hours crouched in the Philosophies section at Powell’s, the antics of my neighborhood Stumptown baristas, evenings smoking on the back deck at the Aalto.

By the time I’d fully processed all of the lovely little pictures I was arriving once again at the green door with the bronze 2,4, and 7 nailed to the painted wood. And as much as I love to think back on the beauty of my former life I know I shall eventually have just as many beautiful memories about this place: favorite haunts, lovely happenstances, strange discoveries, and good friends.

But until then I remain so grateful for all of the beauty that has brought me here.
And that will continue to sustain me.