I received my MA in New Orleans nearly eight years ago, then I signed on to a doctoral program at NYU. Some of my friends here were concerned about a lil’ ol’ Southern boy like me livin’ up in the Big City, but I wasn’t worried in the least. I’d visited New York enough to know the lay of the land reasonably well, and I had quite a few friends there already. Nothing to worry about, right?
Wrong. You know that truism that goes, “There’s no place lonelier than a crowd?” Well, that’s the way I felt for most of my time in New York. As if the city’s pervasive, numbing anonymity weren’t enough to bring on the blues, my friends were all too busy making rent to spend much time with me, so I was left to wander the streets alone. Then one night, one of my co-workers from French Connection (yes, dearie, I was a retail ho’) suggested I stop by the club where he toiled after hours: the now defunct Glitz, at 13th and Broadway. Little did I know that things were about to change. Sort of.
Having nothing better to do, I traipsed to the club at the appointed hour, paid a couple of bucks to get in, and chatted with my friend, who was one of the hostesses that evening. The tunes were good, so I decided to dance a bit, and there, in the corner of the floor, turning it out with Girlina and her pack of clubby minions, I saw the world’s Most Adorable Boy. With his swarthy, Mediterranean looks and a bit of a tan, dressed only in a wifebeater and jeans (hey, it was summer), he practically glowed. I couldn’t stop looking at him. We exchanged glances a couple of times, but I was too shy and he didn’t seem particularly interested, just amused, so ultimately I let it go.
Flash forward to a dark and sultry night about a month later. I was casually seeing someone–very nice, very cute, but we didn’t share a lot of, um, interests. That night, the night of my 25th birthday, the guy dumped me. “It’s all moving too fast, too quickly,” yadda yadda yadda. I hung up. Fuck him.
So, I could have stayed home and listened to my collection of Bread LPs and felt sorry for myself, but no, I went out–first to Glitz, where nothing was happening, and then to a club I’d seen advertised in HX, Zone DK. It was, for all intents and purposes, a sex club. Not a very good sex club, mind you–which explains why it went out of business–but a sex club nonetheless. And there, amidst the typical license plate/warehouse decor and the surpisingly sexy clientele, who should I see but Mr. Wifebeater….
We made eye contact, he and I, then crossed paths in the itsy-bitsy, teeny-tiny, teeny-weeny back area. Nothing serious happened–just a lot of heavy petting. But even with all the crowds and the pushing and shoving, it was pretty damn nice. When we were finally overcome by claustrophobia, we stepped out to the bar and chatted a bit. I was swooning, but I played it cool, gave him my card, he said he’d call.
He didn’t. In fact, although I saw him nearly every week for the next year, he barely returned my glances. I was completely confused: we were so obviously meant to be together, why couldn’t he see that? (God, if that doesn’t make me sound like a stalker from a CBS movie of the week, I don’t know what will.)
Over three years later, he finally came ’round, thanks to a little nudge from Lady Luck. But if I’d stayed back at the hotel the night we were re-introduced, or if he’d gone to bed and not come out, where would either of us be now? Fate isn’t just about happy coincidence. It’s about the terrifying possibility of ships passing in the night.
As of yesterday, we’re four years down, with several score more to go. Happy anniversary, boyfriend.
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