The Lone City

I’ve spent the last few days wondering what I would write for my second blog entry, figuring out how to thread every bombardment of my subconscious into something presentable, something tangible, to promote this more immediate flow of words while I craft my novels and short stories in the background.

I made a visit to Manhattan, a place that plucks my emotions in the best of ways as I’m riding in, and in the worst of ways when I have to leave. Early in the afternoon of July eleventh, 2019, I arrived at Penn Station and walked about three-and-a-half miles to a friend’s place in East Harlem.

That night, we bar-hopped. Well, only three different places. (That’s not a lot, right?) I didn’t do much; in fact, I mainly just sat. I don’t drink, I was only there to try and expand my social connectivity, so in classic introvert fashion, I sat around and waited for something to happen. I just watched in almost a trance as the sharp speckles of dance light ran across the floor, watched music videos on the TV in the corner, listened to the corresponding music blare. I watched the people around me. Some of them were looking back, but I remained in my one spot, where ever that spot may have happened to be per the bar in which I found myself.

While I had nothing to drink at any of the three bars, Ironically I needed the restroom by the time we reached the third one. I was reluctant about using a bathroom in a somewhat seedy bar, but I really had to go.

The bathroom in this third bar had two urinal sections: a small room each with three urinals. I had never seen such a setup before, but I thought little of it. I picked the one further back, thinking there would be no one in it.

As I entered this small cubby of a urinal room, I found that there was indeed a man in there, tucked away in the last urinal of the three.

So I took the urinal on the right.

As I waited for my stream to commence, my body pressed flushed against the mouth of the urinal, I noticed the man on the left was glancing at me in brisk succession.

As his glances evolved into a solid gaze, I wondered how bold he was going to get. This was a Manhattan gay bar, after all.

As I stood, peeing and postulating, the gentleman to my left seemed to be finished with that particular urinal, and came over to the urinal right next to mine. And it seemed, given our tangential proximity, that the urinals in this place were built even closer together than normal; which, if you are a man, you must know how close together urinals already are.

His right foot started grinding against my left.

I had no plans on engaging with this man: for one thing, while I found his taste in men agreeable, I found his methods less-than-safe. But more importantly, I wasn’t attracted to him. However, I didn’t feel embarrassed or awkward or backed against a wall. As casually as a thought can be shared with oneself, I decided that I was going to finish this session of urination, which I was very much enjoying considering how long I had held it in; then I was going to flick it, zip it, and fly. And of course, wash my hands.

I did take a final glance at him to ensure that I was definitely not attracted to him, and I was right

Now, the reason I gave him that final glance is what brings me to the point of this particular detail of my trip to Manhattan, which is that, while I found both him and his conduct unattractive, I still appreciated what he did. I appreciated that a stranger had sized me up, decided that he liked me, and reached out. No inhibition, no fear, just reached out to me.

It was an important moment.

In the past year, I’ve spent days wandering the streets of the city I’ve admired from afar. But through these impromptu visits, all the toe-numbing tours, it’s clear I’m still only prodding at the surface.

All my life, everywhere I went I felt like I didn’t belong. Everyone else belonged, of course: everyone else fit right in. But as simple as a pebble in a sand shifter, I did not.

I recognize that this is a common inclination, and it is far more an internal problem than it is the fault of anything or anyone else.

The feeling runs so deep, it’s hard to even blame myself.

When I used to get bored in school, one of the things I would doodle in my work was a city: a simple skyline. It was a distant city, a small object centered in a wide foreground. It’s what inspired the cover of my first novel, The Last City of America. I always imagined such a city on a late Sunday evening, where a nice long rest was nearing its end, and a new adventure through urban life was about to begin.

I wouldn’t say this longing is what inspires me to write- far from it- but it has ingrained itself into my writing life. I become excited at the prospect not only of becoming a part of a glorious city, but of building my own.

For now, the city remains, peaking over a wide, flat surface, waiting.

And my toes are numb, but I’m not slowing down.