1/15/98 - Fresh Step
"Coming out," the stickman shouts at me, a tinge of impatience rising in his voice. My hands clench into fists as my nerves tighten. I don't know why. The green felt begins to blind me. I turn away, and my eyes idle for a moment with the lounge band, rattling out some old standard, playing to a plush pool of empty chairs. "Coming out!" he snaps again. Worried, confused, I let my gaze lower. Blood is dripping from my fist, drawing tangled red lines around my pale fingers, falling, mixing with the carpet's hypnotic patterns. I'd forgotten that I still held the dice.
With the exception of a few brief sabbaticals, I've lived in this area for pretty much my entire life. As my time here winds down, it's becoming clearer to me just how much someone's environment defines exactly who that person is. I feel now, as I take in some of the local sights for perhaps the last time, that this place has become an immutable part of me. It's as much a part of me as that carton of beef lo mein that I ate last night. And I will take it will me wherever I go. At least that's what it's starting to feel like. I think my colon is going to explode in a carnival of monosodium glutamate any second now.

It was with these sentimental sentimentatious sentiments that I set out last weekend on my "farewell tour" of Washington, D.C. A last chance, it was, to see the glorious spectacles of our nation's capital, which residents of this area tend to take for granted, and upon which tourists travel thousands of miles to unleash their glinting, wide-eyed camera lenses. It was not my intention, nor my desire, to simply make this a souvenir-gathering foray. I brought naught but a single dollar bill, crumpled and worn from an accidental trip through my washing machine. No, I planned only to glide through the hallowed streets sprawled before the Capitol, reveling in the aura of its past and future glories, engraving upon my soul a permanent, living keepsake of this land from which I arose.

A noble scheme it was. But there, sitting in my car on L street behind a bus, inhaling noxious fumes seeping in through the vents, watching a homeless guy screaming unintelligible nonsense at the top of his lungs to no one in particular, I realized what an ugly, smelly, boring place this really is. The bus wasn't moving, and I was getting dizzy from the exhaust, so I pulled over into a parking spot along the side of the road and got out.

After the spinning stopped and the blur desisted, I looked up and found myself right alongside a very familiar-looking building. There it was, my old stomping grounds, where I used to walk the halls like a king. Well, I sat on a throne a lot, anyway.

The Washington Post. Fitting that this should be my last stop before bidding a final adieu to this city. The irony struck me like a sword twisting in my gut. Keep in mind, though, I'd had szechuan pork the night before.

I lazily walked over towards the L Street Newsstand and Coffee Shop (quaintly referred to as "Lucy's" by the locals, though in my time there, I'd never seen anyone remotely resembling a Lucy. Or a female, for that matter.) Bells above the door jingled, feebly announcing my entrance. I grabbed the day's edition of the Post, walked up to the counter and flopped it down, along with my tattered, faded dollar.

The cashier, a vaguely familiar face, took the dollar, pressed it a few times against the countertop, tucked it into the register and gave me a few coins in change.

"Hey, buddy, didn't you used to work around here?"

"Yeah, right across the street there," I replied, flicking my thumb behind me.

"What, you quit or somethin'?"

"No, they...I mean, we had some disagreements," with a wry smile, I avoided the ugly "f" word.

"They canned you? Heh, what, they saw you readin' a Times or somethin'?"

"Nah, man, they had this idea that I should come in on time every day or something. Is that some hard-ass bullshit or what? Heh." (If you want to get along with people in the modern world, you have to use profanity, and say "man" a lot. Trust me, man. Fuck.)

"Aww, shit, man. Hey, take this quarter back, man, this one's on the house." Opening the register again, he flipped a coin to me.

I thanked him for his generosity and the friendly conversation, and took a seat in the far corner of the room. Nothing more uncomfortable than talking with someone for a minute, then sitting quietly right next to them reading a newspaper. There's an obligation there to continue the social connection somehow, usually by discussing something in the newspaper. "Wow, how about that. `Scientists determine connection between obesity and eating enormous amounts of cheese...'"

I tore through the sports section, the "metro" section (or as I like to call it, the "Dead Babies" section), and the comics, before finally coming to my favorite part of any newspaper, the personal ads. I like the personal ads because they provide a convenient, reliable, and safe way to find all sorts of people, from all different parts of your community, who are just like you: ugly.

Now, before you crucify me as a heartless, bitter, prejudicial chinese food connoisseur, it's important that you read through my famous Personal Ad-to-English Dictionary, which I will make up for you now. The dictionary provides meaningful translations for many of the "code words" you're likely to find as you try to locate your next soulmate, grouped by the four sections you'll tend to encounter. I'll wait here and get the cross ready while you read...

Women Seeking Men
"Full-figured" : Fat.
"Voluptuous" : Fat.
"Love nice restaurants" : Mooooo.
"Slender" : Fat.
"Vivacious", "Exciting", "Sensuous", "Wild", "Romantic", "Intelligent", "Fun" : REALLY fat.
"Petite blonde, exotic dancer, just looking for a nice guy. Looks not important." : Written by a guy.

Men Seeking Women
"Sensitive" : Has left his apartment maybe once or twice in the last six months.
"Professional" : His last date was a "professional".
"Adventurous" : Keeps children tied up in his basement.
"Loyal" : Keeps his last date tied up in his basement...
"Romantic" : ...but leaves the light on.

Men Seeking Men
"I am a clean, mature 28 year old gay man in search of similar. I realize that in today's society, it's still very difficult to be honest about our homosexual feelings, as we continue to suffer persecution at the hands of the less enlightened. But I have no political or moral agenda, I am simply searching for a kind, gentle mate with whom I can escape from the ugliness of the daily world and realize that making someone else happy is the only way anyone will, themselves, be happy." : FAAAAG!!!

Women Seeking Women
(These are all written by guys.)

Now, if you still believe that I'm nothing but an angry, lonely, frustrated bastard, here, take that hammer and those nails and just OUCH!!! I was speaking figuratively, dammit.
I open my wounded hand, giving breath to the broken skin stabbed by the corners of the dice. My eyes close, and I let loose the bones. A raging throw or carelessly dropped, I cannot even tell. A numbness crashes over me like a summer wave, as the stickman cries, "Yo-'leven, pay the line." The blood, still warm, stains my face with scarlet warpaint as I wipe the tears away.
I took my newspaper, got back in the car, whispered a goodbye to the newsstand, to the building, to the city, and sped home to my quiet, nearly empty apartment. And to this moment, that's how it has remained.

I'm leaving early next week, so the next introduction will be written from the road. I have my map book ready, but I have not plotted a course yet. I was considering attempting to make it all the way across the country exclusively by asking for directions at gas stations along the way. But I'm a guy, and I don't like asking for directions, so I'd probably make it as far as Delaware before I realized I wasn't even heading west. So now I think I'll just sort of make it up as I go along. Get your atlases ready, so you can follow along at home.

Before I close up this, the final Maryland-based intro, I do want to say a few goodbyes to some special folks, without whom this page wouldn't be what it is. Whatever it is.

To Buckey: You were a good friend, and although we never said more than two words to each other, I think we formed a bond which will transcend the time and space that is about to separate us. To you, I leave the three quarters, two dimes, and the nickel that I brought home from my trip to D.C. I know you would have asked for them sooner or later anyway.

To the guy in apartment 14: I never got to know you like neighbors really should. But just to show you that I care, and understand, I leave you the personal ads from the newspaper I got at Lucy's. Bon apetit, my friend.

There's one more important goodbye I need to write.

It was a decision I was dreading having to make. But as my departure date drew closer, I realized that it just wouldn't be fair to force them to travel with me in the confines of that cramped little car. Besides, I didn't know how long we'd be on the road, where we would stay, or even if I'd be able to take care of them properly once we made it.

So with great sorrow in my heart, last week, I gave my two loving, gentle, terrific cats away. A very nice young couple, just married, came over to look at them. They fell in love with my little babies instantly, as expected. I never wanted to let them go, but I was pretty sure that these newlyweds would provide a warm, comfortable home for the kitties. This was the best I could do for them. And that was that.

The puffballs glanced back to me as the door to the apartment opened and their new owners walked out. I looked into their green and amber eyes, wondering what they were thinking as they took their last look at me, their father, their friend, their maid and servant. I hoped that they were just trying to tell me, "Thanks, Pop..."

I began to think of the time we spent together. They were my last link to an amazing, wonderful part of my life that I'd spent over the past year and a half, which was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. Now that the last tie had been cut, and I had nothing but their fur on my clothes to remember them by, I sat down and wrote a letter...

. . .
It just isn't the same without you.

I can still feel your warmth, as you snuggled up next to me. I can still see the bright glow in your eyes that you flashed every time I walked through the door.

You turned an apartment built from cold wood and blank white walls into a home, a warm escape from the shadows, as colorful and lively as a coral reef in the brilliant turquoise waters of a faraway dreamland.

But most of all, you taught me what it was to care. To worry. To thrill, to smile, and to laugh. You taught me love. You let me experience joy, sorrow, fulfillment, anger, and ecstasy, not as strictly defined terms in a book, used like tools by some calculating storyteller, but as real emotion, which I never knew, and maybe never would have known, hadn't you broken me free from the prison in which I'd consigned my spirit.

You showed me life.

For that, I can never repay you. And though visions of our time together flash through my mind every day, tightening my throat and watering my eyes, it is the clear, undiluted memory of you that will always and forever make me smile.

I hope you stay well, stay safe, and find happiness wherever you go. I will never forget you. I love you.

And I miss you.
. . .

That goes for the cats, too.

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That was in case any of you devious types were thinking of stealing all my cool stuff. So there.
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