Gulliver Takes Five (26 page)

Fuck.

I run. Exactly one block later, the sky wreaks havoc. By the time I get to the subway, my shirt and pants have become an additional layer of drippy, cold skin. My sneakers squish and squeak as I run up the stairs to the aboveground station. My hair wilts into my face, releasing warm, itchy drops into my eyes.

I have never needed to smoke more than right now. And that won’t be happening until at least Wednesday night. If I can even survive until then.

I take out my phone to text Servando. Because of the rain on the screen, the text message starts typing itself:
“JHShbvasiahsIUASHHS!?”
Which is a surprisingly accurate transcription of what I’m feeling. I delete the text and stare at the screen.

Fuck. It’s, like, an automatic thing, isn’t it? Stress calls, text Servando. I know he doesn’t want to talk, yet I pulled up our bazillion-message-long conversation without thinking. And since he doesn’t want me adding to it at the moment, I decide to go back to the past, see if I can wring some comfort out of prior correspondence. I scroll up, tapping and dragging for minutes until I get to the top. There, I find a seemingly vague exchange: me telling Servando that I miss him and I’m hungry, and he responds that he’ll only be stuck “here” for another few minutes. Then he’ll pick up pizza on his way home.

I remember now. He attended a coworker’s party on a Friday night a few months ago. I decided to be cute and wait for him to come home before I ate. (Well, I totally snarfed a Hot Pocket,
but could you blame me? I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime.) Servy came back just like he said he would, toting four slices of pizza so hot and wet that they left grease stains on the crinkled paper underneath.

Man, I’m hungry again. I want to be home. I want to be with Servy. Fuck the weed. I need to be in his arms, pigging out, getting sauce all over my face. We could see what’s on the DVR and then threaten to call Time Warner’s customer service center when the playback skips all over the place. There’s a good Manhattan Greetings card in that scenario somewhere...but I can’t find it without Servando.

Instead, here I stand, shivering my face off while sheets of rain fall, somehow sneaking between the cracks of the overhang above to keep me sufficiently soaked.

Soggy shoes. No weed. Even the cash in my wallet is a sodden clump of useless tender.

I want to text Servy so bad. Tell him I’m on my way home so he’s waiting for me with food and open arms when I splash into our apartment and fall on my knees in a puddle apologizing to him.

But something tells me that’s not going to happen.

Something’s different this time.

And THAT is another reason why I won’t date Rowan ever again
.

When Rowan wants something, suddenly that’s ALL that’s important. And, usually, that’s WEED. We need to be stoned before, during, and after EVERYTHING. Seeing a movie? Let’s get high! Going out to the country for the weekend? Better buy a double order! Lunchtime? Not ’til we get blazed!

Jesus!

Yes, I smoke a lot too. But I’m not some Harold and Kumar weed fanatic who absolutely needs to light up every five and a half minutes. I do it when he does it, and not even EVERY time he does it
.

But Rowan? I can’t think of more than five occasions on which he’s been sober. I haven’t seen him without red eyes since we started dating. The apartment always reeks when I get home from work, our studio filled with the nauseating smoke that only becomes bearable if you’re high from it as well
.

I’d probably never touch the stuff if it weren’t for him. No—I know I wouldn’t. It never did much for me. Before Rowan and I met, I smoked up at parties every now and then, and only because everyone else was doing it. It certainly wasn’t with the habitual regularity and dedication of Rowan, who still denies it’s a problem. Because it isn’t harmful like other drugs? Bullshit! If it makes you lazy and stupid and the only active thing you manage to do is eat everything in the house, then what’s the difference? I’d rather date an alcoholic. At least they want to go out! The only reason I join in on his favorite pastime anymore is because I can’t stand being clear-headed when Rowan’s on the green. Everything is so funny to him. I hate being left out of a joke
.

Now I might as well be stoned because I don’t know where I am. I was so pissed when I flew off the train that I didn’t bother checking the signs that tell you where the hell you are. The station smelled like homeless pee, so I didn’t stick around. Just breathed through my mouth and got back aboveground
.

I look around me. I know I’m still in Manhattan—at least I think I am? I just wanted to walk and be pissed, and in so doing have completely lost my bearing. No idea which direction the subway is
.

Around me, the crowds on the sidewalks are a far cry from those in my neighborhood. More diverse and ethnic compared to the tight-shirted and tighter-jeaned white boys of Hell’s Kitchen. A short old Hispanic woman with her hair in a wrap pushes a squeaky, empty shopping cart. Two women with dark-black hair tied back in tight, gelled ponytails are laughing and joking in Spanish. A fire hydrant across the street has been dismantled, shooting water into the gutter. R & B and salsa music pour out of open windows up and down the block
.

Rowan’s probably already at the zoo, meeting up with his number one favorite person in the whole wide world. I’ll bet he’s not even upset. I’ll bet he’s forgotten ALL about me, since his actual boyfriend, weed, is there and in no short supply. Hey, hey! More for Rowan. Om nom nom. He’s surely sitting in the zoo food court with Jack Smack, chowing down on animal crackers, their minds blown by something they saw an elephant do
.

And here I am, lost and clueless. Somewhere
.

It’s getting cloudy. Where the fuck is the nearest Starbucks? I’m pissed, and when I’m in a bad mood, a Mocha Frappuccino is called for
.

I don’t recognize any of the businesses on these streets. Fried chicken, tons of hair salons filled with people just sitting around listening to music
, iglesias
with barbed wire and locked metal gates. A single chain store would put my mind at ease, proof that corporate America is brave enough to tread these streets. But there are none here. The signs above the bodegas are either in Spanish or terrible English
.

I’ve lived in this city for four years and I’ve never been up here. An uncomfortable sensation in the pit of my stomach worsens as I wander. No subways. No buses. Just gypsy cabs and the corpses of dismantled bicycles lashed to rusty bike racks or street signs on the corners
.

Get me the fuck out of here
.

I need to be back downtown, where the faces are friendly and familiar. FUCK YOU, Rowan! Now I’m lost uptown with no idea how to get home. I don’t have a dollar to my name, and these gypsy cabs won’t take credit cards!

My phone, despite having a signal, stutters and fails at locating me on a digital map. Meanwhile, the sky grows darker
.

People I pass on the street regard me as I would if I saw them wandering by themselves down in Hell’s Kitchen: with what looks
like a mixture of curiosity and defensiveness. I take a deep breath, shove my hands in my pockets, and start whistling a tune I make up as I go
.

What if I got mugged? No. I don’t need to start scaring myself. I just have to hang on to my anger at Rowan, find a subway, and get back downtown
.

On any given day, I usually crash into someone I know on the street, but not here. That would be perfect. “Servy! What are you doing up here? Yeah, can you believe it? We got an apartment—tough neighborhood, but the amenities are worth it! Wanna come by? We’re ordering arepas.” Yes, I would love for that to happen. But it won’t. The only people I encounter are clusters of thuggish-looking guys who are eyeing me like I need to be taught a lesson
.

I’m a fish out of water. A stranger has come to town, and the townsfolk aren’t about to welcome him
.

A loud banging makes me jump and scream, immediately attracting the attention of everyone on the sidewalk. Great. It was just a truck driving quickly over a loose metal plate in the center of the street
.

Fuck, I’m scared
.

Fuck, I want to get out of here
.

FUCK
.

I have friends who’ve had their asses beaten by roving gangs in far more gentrified areas of the city than this. I’m just asking for trouble here
.

I stop my messy whistling, grab my phone, and pretend to have a conversation with nobody. “Hey, Rowan! How’s it going?”

I continue searching for a subway, babbling mindlessly to my dead phone. But is a subway the smart decision? If I go underground, I’m trapped like a rat
.

A RAT? Oh shit! This is karma. Payback for this morning. The rodents appealed to a higher power and asked the fates to put me in this shitty mess. What if a gang of guys is waiting down there? Eyeing my iPhone and wondering how much cash I have on my person?

Fuck me
.

No—fuck Rowan
.

“Hey, buddy. You lost?”

I look up to find a group of five Hispanic men in front of me on the sidewalk. They wear baggy, torn jeans and jerseys that hang off their shoulders, exposing their chests, nipples, and long, detailed tattoos on the sides of their bodies. The one who spoke to me is as big as a house, with a bright-green do-rag wrapped around his head
.

Of course the side street I randomly wandered down is empty. No gypsy cabs. No women pushing shopping carts. No kids chasing
each other in circles. Just me and this gang of guys, arms crossed and muscles flexed, like they’ve been waiting for someone like me to happen by
.

I shake my head and mutter that I’m not lost, returning to my fake conversation as I walk by
.

“ANYWAY, Rowan. Yeah, I couldn’t believe they said that, either. What, no, I’m nearby! Oh, you wanna meet up?”

Now I’m even more on edge
.

They were just asking if I knew where I was, right? Street thugs can be polite citizens too! Right? So that’s the end of that. I can go back to finding my way home
.

Fuck! They’re following me
.

I can feel it: a prickly heat on my back, like I just put on a shirt fresh out of the dryer, covered in static energy. Their footsteps are getting louder. They’re intentionally stomping, quicker and quicker, as they catch up to me
.

I slip my phone into my pocket and walk a little faster, using the full length of my long legs to cover more ground. My God, I’m wishing I hadn’t abandoned Rowan on the train. Would the thugs harass us if we were BOTH passing by? Probably not. Rowan doesn’t look half as gay as me, and he isn’t afraid to throw down. I’ve seen him punch. I’ve seen him scratch and kick and go after people’s eyes—always in self-defense. Rowan wouldn’t pick a fight if you paid him, but when it’s called for, he’s like a caged animal
that’s been jostled and poked and then finally released. Stand back or die
.

I really need him right now
.

“Hey
, pato
,” someone else from the group pipes up. “You ignoring us?”

I know what
“pato”
means. It’s about as close to “faggot” as you can get in Spanish. The last time I heard that was in the stockroom of a clothing store I worked at during college, and I got the dickhead who muttered it fired. Back then, it was merely offensive. Now it’s scary as hell. No managers to mediate, no friends to cock an eyebrow and squeal, “Gurl! Did he just say what I think he said? Oh NO he didn’t!”

I have no fucking idea what to do. I walk faster. Running would be dumb—that’s just throwing meat in a tiger cage. Fuck
.

A few blocks away, a siren starts blaring. PLEASE be headed this direction. Those red-and-blue lights would be like taking two Xanax
.

Please
.

The siren fades instead of getting louder. I have nowhere to go. Every business is locked and boarded up. When the siren goes quiet, my heart has taken its place, doing a breakdance in my chest
.

I curse my outfit. Shirts don’t get any more skintight than the one on my back. My pants are perfectly cuffed. My hair coiffed and swoopy. And this Dora man-bag! You won’t find a more conspicuous
“pato”
than me. Benefits at a dance club, all of these fashion choices are
now a rainbow-colored bull’s-eye, indications that I am far, far, FAR from where I belong
.

“Look at him, swooshing back an’ forth!” another voice says, followed by four mocking, deep-throated laughs. Someone snorts and spits. It hits the back of my head, drips down my neck
.

I should turn around
.

No. I should keep walking. I should wipe the spit off my head. Or should I leave it there? Should I scream? Would that do anything?

Probably not. Not here
.