hello to all that.

a run, a margarita, a panacea
September 24, 2009, 7:19 pm
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There was something in the air at the Willamsburgh (yes, they do insist upon that h, apparently) library yesterday afternoon that turned most of the kids at drop-in into these little obstinate crankypantses who made frequent and frustrating use of the phrase “I don’t know.” They were whiny, distracted, tearful, tired. They are normally the needier bunch, and this does not make trips out ot W-burg any worse of better, just different, and more challenging. I really love the back and forth. I love listening to their mothers’ Spanish, surprising them with my own, I love the simple understanding there, in even a little bit of shared language. I really just love drop-in. But days like that make my eyes and head pound and I leave a little deflated. And then I want to see my friends, explore, go somewhere. But they a short list, here, and they are on teachery schedules that wake them up when it is still dark so they are very understandably out of commission on most weekday nights.

So I walk towards home feeling what is undeniably lonely. There’s an odd sort of comfort in that kind of loneliness, in any emotion that is so readily defined and categorized. No dark stretches of heavy ambiguity, no dull and humid shrouds of meh. It’s the kind of loneliness during which you can take pleasure in slowly meandering through the grocery store aisles to select the remaining ingredients for a quesadilla you will prepare for yourself. In the cold air of the aisles, and the feel of red peppers against your careful fingertips, and the brush of the arms and carts of the other shoppers, it is safe.

I got back to my apartment at around 6:45, and knew that if I were to attempt to run with the seemingly awesome running group I’d discovered (on the track at McCarren Park two nights ago at the same time I discovered it is a downright RUNNING PARTAY after dark, and a JOY, omg) I’d have to leave soonish. I felt sticky and unmotivated and slothful and stood in the kitchen dipping half a cracker into peanut butter at the point that all runs or not-runs reach right before a decision is made. And man was this a decisive moment, almost cinematically so. I ran through the worst case scenarios in my head: they’d be speed demon jerks who left me the dust, wandering lost and weeping through the streets of Greenpoint, I would never even find them at the track, leaving me to amble through a half assed ipodless run, maybe also weeping. I decided either was better then moping around doing who knows whatthefuck else instead of something that at least had clarity going for it: if I didn’t do it, I was certain I’d regret it.

So I put on my sneakers, and go. “Are you guys, the um, ___?” (not putting the name here, I fear the google!) And they are. And they are smiley. And full of “the more the merrier”s and steady introductions. And we split off into pace groups and I swallow and let my legs do the thinking. We run in a glorious clump, and have the sort of moments the midnight bike ride is prone to, the whoooops were a big group of humans so we’re just gonna snatch the right of way sry! There is a mysterious bus painted sort of like this and dogs poke out its windows and its bass-heavy music pushes against us mingled with rusty citysmells and we run and we run and we run. I talk half marathons and new places with girls who set a quick pace and want to know my story and I theirs and run through streets I do not know and am a little awed. We run across the Pulaski Bridge to a place called Gantry State Plaza, a little pier on the Queens waterfront where the Manhattan skyline is so close it seems like you can reach forward and grab at it, and we stop, panting and gulping a new breeze foreign to the humid night. We stretch and make sure we know everyone’s name, and I agree with Oriana, a girl I’ve run most of the way here with that this is the best way to get to know a city and my god, the beauty.

I am happy to move up in the pack on the way back, happy to comfort a girl who is admittedly not feeling it with about a mile to go. We sprawl out in a corner of the track for core work and my sweat-soaked body gets covered in hard little trackbits and my elbows are aching and stinging from doing planks this way but I am grinning and one of the last to leave. There’s a gumby-like twinkly eyed British dude whose smile is an open window and he is sure to get my name before I leave because he “never likes anyone to not feel welcome!” More grinning. “It was great to run with you!” says Oriana, here eyes bright in the stretches of track-light that lean against the trees here.

And when I head up the stairs to my apartment, elbows a little raw and shirt dirty and stinking, a door on the 2nd floor is open and a red-headed girl pops out. “Hey! Do you live here ?!” She just moved in about a week ago too, and we shake hands and talk in that rapid way of people who connect instantly, if only for seconds, and she readjusts the bag on her shoulder with a quick shrug, and gestures towards the phone in her hand “I’m just on the phone with the bro, but…” her smile is apologetic, but ends in hope. “If you ever need an egg or sugar!” she calls as I bound up the stairs.

My roommate who rarely speaks or leaves her room has her boyfriend over and he has a warm face and shirtless charm and we talk easily, the three of us making small circles around the kitchen amidst the sound of chopping and sauteing that is all too absent here.

They make margaritas and there is a knock at my door and he is there to ask “salt or no salt?” and I stand in our small hot kitchen, right hip leaning against the counter, drinking the perfect margarita from a mug from a set Brink’s was getting rid of on one of my last days there that I’ve had an irrational love for ever since. I lick the salt off its rim, squeeze in a quarter of lime and feel distinct about things again. Only this time, the thing tethering me to the spot feels more like possibility.