The Last Vacation
Paying It Backward & the Common Coronavirus
4.13.20
Two days and two nights in New York is flicking an atom off the tip of the iceberg. But we packed in as much as we could, as hard as we could, like we do. Less than an hour after departing La Guardia, the theme of the trip was set as a sort of Long Live the Good Samaritan. I immediately made the amateur mistake of slipping anything of value into a pocket. A moment after pulling my phone out, an artifact of an Asian woman tapped my shoulder and pointed at the ground, where my fresh hot MetroCard had just fallen. May you never find yourself unable to say “thank you” in any fewer than nine languages.
To honor both my grandfather’s and my date of birth, I had to begin at the Twin Tower holes for a little DP action. I reserve the right. I was trying for an “uphill from here” momentum, get the sad shit out of the way, you understand. A measurable heaviness, make no mistake, but I give credit for the most tangible terror to the teethy selfie-takers. A dissonance of phone camera clicks has replaced the bustle of industry. Condoleezza Rice told a friend not to fly that day anyhoo let’s keep it moving.
Subway buskers are a relatively new species. At no risk of endangerment, unfortunately for all involved. While your fully-clothed pole dance and your matted teddy bear headpiece are fine distractions from the blindman maniacally swinging his cane, I am not paying for it. Worth noting was blindman’s skillful passing between cars, at whatever miles per hour, a feat I’ve never attempted with functional eyes and health insurance. Retro train seat orange is the only redeeming shade these days. But one day, surely not too long from now, a faux gold-plated urn will adorn a Manhattan mantlepiece, and it will be filled with Cheeto dust.
My room in the storied Chelsea neighborhood was roughly three inches shorter than the cot housed inside of it, the most luxurious hostel I’ve ever crashed on any continent. Washing my face in the sink, my elbow repeatedly bashed into the doorknob. Still beats the circle jerk of bunkbeds. Patti Smith lived here. Lou, Bob, Jim. When all artists could afford to. Lewie finally arrived as I was gussying and we were off. As spontaneity only delivers so often, we scored some pizza after army crawling out of our first attempt, a one-starred Chinese restaurant with gangrene-colored mop water in a bucket on top of the counter. Thin and crispy or I’m calling the police.
En route to the museum, a quick stop at a booze shop where an unleashed Belgian Malinois would provide some insight into the historical background of one of the paintings around the corner. Inspiration for Lewie’s “kibbles and” … not bits bit. Lewie is a rich, dark chocolate. Once we arrived, blow and behold, it was free Friday at the MoMA, where Lewie yakked up the front desk with some chum charm and got me my twenty-five duckets refunded. Van Gogh, Monet, Gaugin, Schiele, Dali, Munch, Warhol, Picasso. And that chick boned down Brad Pitt. Brave beyond the tabloids! And enter through the gift shop. That way, you can hold up each postcard next to the corresponding painting and be like “Hmm I dunno I think it’s a replica, Greg.”
Less than auspicious would be the Comedy Cellar afterward. Impulsiveness be damned, we stood in the standby line in freezing cold temperatures, in vein, for an hour. A close second was the restaurant just upstairs, where an on-brand Lewis K. would ensure my embarrassment in front of my favorite comic of the night’s lineup. Mr. Morril, I do not take birth control. I’m a Dominican Republican. The chalkboard tables in the booths allowed for some intoxicated arts and crafts, the girl beside us particularly appreciated my chonky trans angel. To use the restrooms, you have to slink down the iconic stairway and cut all the way through the middle of the showroom. Use the restrooms.
I was awoken early to a racket unique to international under-thirties: a What-Is-Student-Loan-Debt kind of zest for life, a repulsive innocence at any pre-noon hour. Where are the travel bans when you need them? After accepting the fate of four hours’ sleep after a twenty-five hour day, you can imagine my relief at discovering the complimentary coffee downstairs was Folgers. But no matter - onward, Christian soldiers! As I require the sizzling grizzle of mammal carcass to grease my gears into motion, I opted for a nearby diner in lieu of hostile fruit. What is speck? Does anyone know? Manchego cream is advisable no matter what. Bound for the Brooklyn Bridge, Lewie surviving his second night of a category of saxy adventure I will never know, it was Basquiat o’clock. “How do you not know who he was, don’t you like art,” I plead. “Uh I like sex with men.” Well, fuck.
Upon swearing a blood oath to the entrance troll at Brooklyn’s Greenwood Cemetery (“no, we are not filming, what is film, etc.”), my hopes for a properly desecrated memorial site were erroneously hiked. Repeatedly shushing Lewie’s random rant about linguistics studies, trying to be present in the moment blah blah, we struggled to locate the grave, once his GPS and my map told us we were there. “You’ve arrived.” HAVE I THOUGH. We finally spotted the unassuming, generic headstone. No statue, no monument, no spray paint, no panties. For fuck’s sake, Jim Morrison’s grave in Paris came with its own pussy: a striped stray cat I named Pam. I gathered four sticks and laid them in the shape of a canvas, as he’d stretched some of his pieces between curtain rods and broomsticks and shit. After taking a few respectful moments of silence, Lewcifer remembered he had a flight to Atlanta to catch. The moment we turned to leave, it began to snow.
Aboard my train back to Manhattan came the second Good Samaritanning. Another domestically-challenged human citizen person kept falling asleep on me and I was over it, and after about the fourth volley to his head with my shoulder, he began to take the hint. As I smirked at his increasing decibel, facing the opposite direction, the young couple in the seats across from us evolved from giggly to uncomfortable. Dude stood up and wouldn’t take no for answer, offering me his seat next to girlfriend. I held out humbly but remembered the nugget I had in a lil’ baby Ziploc in my pocket that Someone had gifted me. As I got off at my stop en route to Central Park, I handshaked it to him and no two youngsters have ever been more illuminated with gratitude.
Some trees, couple of hills, okay I get it. I live in Colorado, buttercup. Tears running down both my upper cheeks from the icy heartless winds, I trotted down to Le Bernardin. The Michelin-rated French seafood restaurant, home of Bourdain BFF Eric Ripert, was one of my few non-negotiables. While I had stiffened myself to the self-conscious atmosphere that did in fact await me, the Florida swamptrash pauper, I was still not prepared for the privileged rot that lurked beyond the linen. To both sides of me were absolute caricatures of The One Percent. Woman on the left whining to husband about how something on their recent trip “cost a lot of money - I mean, not to me, but…” while woman on the right describes with disgust to husband the virus’s effects on her stocks. But lo, no sooner than I’d noticed my sneer muscles flexing, in walked Common. I did consider cavorting over and proposing a toast to health and wealth with our tiny little lobster cappuccino cups, but wine was twenty bucks a pop so I never reached sociable-level buzzed. I’m a “the glass is one-sixth full” kind of broad.
After trekking to a Vietnamese restaurant for some Vietnamese coffee, then being informed the Vietnamese restaurant was out of Vietnamese coffee, I made it to the Blue Note. Venue of venues, my final destination, right around the corner from the Cellar. Some Skip James, some Nina, and some originals backed by Fred Hampton audio clips. For a Saturday night in New York City it was delightfully dead. As were my more pertinent extremities. Perhaps the city will be returned to the people one day.
I arrived at La Guardia before they were…open? I guess? I nursed my android at the outlet nearest the Tits Suck Ass line, which formed over an hour before an employee could be bothered to show. Hours later, after a rather drool-heavy nap, dicking around the unmanned gate I remembered my MetroCard still had five unlimited days left on it. I neither wanted to give it to some trust fun fuck, nor toss it. I approached one of the girls working a register in one of the inconvenience shops and asked if she lived in the area. She said yeah. I said “welp here’s five days,” handed it to her, and caught an “awesome thank you” as I angled for the restrooms. Before I reached the door, we’re talking thirty seconds, I hear someone calling my middle name. It speaks to my degree of confidence that I didn’t turn around until he was almost screaming. Someone is clearly yelling something, specifically in your direction, you turn around to look? Pretentious much? It was a good-looking pilot, returning my driver’s license that had fallen out of YEP my pocket. He walked all the way down the hallway to return it to a disheveled stranger. Good looking out.
A week after our return, the subways goddamn near shut down. Ridership fell by almost ninety percent. The world was (is) in an unprecedented crisis. The virus is now the second leading cause of death in the country, and some experts predict it will surpass heart disease. Not enough tests, ventilators, masks, data, competent leadership. President Cunt Punt pussyfooted around too long. People fired, furloughed, laid off. Let us hope fucking Flipper over there in the canals of Venice is a pigeon of sorts, placed atop the dead stoolie instead of the canary. The Pope seems to think so. Arguably the foremost religious figure, he self-flagellated on behalf of the entire human race for gnawing on Mother Earth’s shriveled teat. Frankenstein’s monster’s doctor’s orders. No more traveling. And you can forget about ever owning a home, millennial scum! Forget about ever breaking into the field of study for which you are permanently indebted. Forget about your grandparents. Forget about a family of your own. But do remember - wash your hands. Remember, when dawn does come, to wash your hands. Of all of it.
