The first cut is the deepest (an essay)

I remember the first person who broke my heart. I was six, sitting in the backseat of a volvo. It was the first time I realized that you can't make people feel what you feel. It was the first time that I realized that I feel a little harder than most. Her name was Maude Pinter**, and she was my best friend in the world. She had a pet rat that would sit on her shoulder, short curly hair,  and she was the coolest person I had ever met. She had this magical confidence that only children have, and this quiet adventurousness that turned trees into nature expeditions.  I'd tell strangers about her, starting multiple sentences with "My friend Maude…" which probably prompted a lot of Cat Stevens, and funeral  jokes that I was not aware of at the time.

 She had moved away a few months earlier, and was visiting our suburban neighborhood. We were driving back to my house where her parents would pick her up. I don't remember the pre-amble to the conversation, or if it came from nowhere. Most 'break ups' seem to come out of nowhere for one party. I do remember just staring at the door, at the button you press down to lock it, at the handle that let me out.
"You aren't my best friend" she said.  "I have a new best friend. Her name is Jenn*."

 In two sentences my identity was shattered. I had so many questions; what did I do to be replaced? How could she leave me? I was the one, I was her one. You don't leave your one, right?
 My eyes filled up. I stared at the door handle as the car moved past my elementary school. It's funny, I don't always recall exact conversations but I always remember what I was looking at. My memories of emotional conversations are filled with snippets of looking at street corners, ceilings, chairs, dugouts, but rarely the person involved. I'll remember upholstery fabric but not someone's eyes.   I remember the worn door handle and patch of grass in the school yard out the window. I remember wanting to open the door, and just roll out of the moving car,  but I kept it together until she left. At six I was wise enough to not give her the satisfaction of losing my shit in front of her.

My mother recalls me throwing myself on the ground sobbing the entire night.

"MAUDE!!!!"  I couldn't breathe.  "MAAAUUUUUDDEEE!!!!"

 I was choking on tears, a flailing pink, blonde, bony mess. I asked why it hurt this much,  and when it would stop? She didn't have answers. I imagined this... Jenn. Who was this JENN? Was it 'Jenn' or 'Jen'? Who was this girl was who was better than me, who'd replaced me as the best? Was she seven I bet she was seven! Who was this person who was now the chosen friend of my chosen friend?

 "I want to turn it off!" I said.

"You want to turn off what?"  My mother asked.

"My heart. I want to turn it off."

"You can't turn off your heart Lissa."

"But…I…I…I…want t-t-t-t-t-to."

"You can't, it's what makes you you."

"Then I don't wanna be me! I want to turn it off."

I cried the whole night, and went into the guidance counselor's office the next morning on my own accord. When asked what happened I replied "I lost my best friend." My mother got a call from the counselor asking if there was a death. No death, she just moved to Downingtown. This was the second time in first grade that I had pulled myself into the office. Months earlier I had snuck out of class, and inquired if there was 'a support group for children of divorce'.  This time the counselor looked at my puffy pink blue eyes with pity.

"Well Melissa, perhaps you can make new friends too?"

 Sure lady, and while I'm at it I'll get a new father and new nuclear family. Why don't you give me a pamphlet for that too?


Over twenty years later my mother brought up the 'Maude' incident after a recent break up with a guy.  It was nowhere near as earth shattering, but then again I wasn't six.

"You just crumpled on the floor" she said. "You just couldn't understand, and there was nothing I could do to make it better. You cried until you threw up. You were just in it."

I pictured a small heaving child in a jumper screaming like Brando, and my mother waiting it out by her side.  I asked her if she thought at the time that I was a lesbian; in love with Maude, or emotionally imbalanced?

"No, I just knew then and there that you were going to be incapable of not feeling with everything, and that that would be a scary thing for other people to reciprocate."

 I looked at her and smiled, "Well I haven't thrown myself on the ground since, or vomited. So that's good."


*The girl's named was not actually Jenn. It was something stupid that I kept repeating to myself but now can't remember because I was 6.  I do remember saying "Who names a kid ___?"
** Maude Pinter grew up to be a lawyer in Ohio, and is a pretty nice person.

The Eyes of Troutman

for Annie the best eyes a building ever had. 

ANNIE, 67

You know they're just trying to kick us out?  I don't wanna call. I call them and then it gives them more reason to have me go. And I'm old and on this thing. This breathing box. This machine that gives me life. Ha! Some life. Attached to a box.   They don't tell you to save, you know? Don't have kids okay? You have kids, you don't save anything.  No I'm not gonna call them, have em get me out so they can sell the place.  No one's here. The girl downstairs, a neighbor said she saw her crying over a lover. She's gone, and that window out front, a crackhead could slip into it. Never underestimate crackheads. I'm sure you've never had to consider them before, but they'll get in.  They're like human accordions crackheads. This whole place is empty except for you and me, and maybe the guy upstairs, and I'm just stuck- with this box.  It gives me the herby-jeebies. It's a siv. It's a cesspool. A siv.  And they don't care cause they sold it, to the hasids. And they probably thought they'd get a million for it and then you sit down and they say 750.  They change their number when they get to the table, and I'm not being racist or anti-semitic or anything. It happens. They get to the table they give them a lower number.  They knock down this place build a high-rise. Drug dealers still live next door. Crackhead's sneak into it as the build it. And you'll go somewhere, back west of whatever, and me? I don't know where I'll go. WIth this box. I lived in Soho, had an antique shop in the West Village. Lived on Mercer. Lived on Jane. This was years ago, when my son Jesse was little. I could have had an apartment in Battery Park, rent controlled but I was stupid. And now they got Brooklyn and I got this thing. I got this box.

Apparently when I leave Brooklyn I turn into Nordic Larry David; A Play in One Act

There are moments when you realize that you are not as mature as people perceive you to be. 

A Conversation with a Tribeca Mom,  while walking the dog  *

Me: So do you work in the area?

Lady: Oh no I'm just waiting. Going with my daughter on a class field trip -we're walking over the Brooklyn Bridge. 

M: That's great. Cold day for it.  You going to go to Patsy's after?

L: Nooo they don't let them eat that. 

M: ...Right. 

L: Yeah. My daughter goes to PS150 over there. 

M: How old is she? 

L: Seven.

M: Oh that's great. 2nd grade? Does she like it?

L: We love it. She could have gone to 234 but we like 150. 234 is good but 150 is comparable to Hunter, or  Chapin, Brearley...Fieldston.

M: ...Totally... That's good to hear about the public schools in New York. I think about that sometimes. 

L: Oh yeah. We're really happy. Do you have kids?

M: No, but I like them...(strange look) 
Or would like  to have them (stranger look)...come out of me someday...(Even stranger look) 
I mean I'm not there yet, but someday I will be there, or here... or wherever I am.  

L: ...Yeah you don't seem like you'd have kids. 

                               (BEAT)

M: Yeah... After conversations like this apparently not..ha...but hopeful...very very hopeful.... Only takes one right? 

                               (Joke not accepted.)

M: Well, nice meeting you, have a great field trip at the bridge. Don't jump!
 (Another awkward look as the dog sits there and refuses to go as I pull him.)
*
*dramatization

Heartbreak before Myrtle Ave

AYANA, 6 sitting on the  J train, to the little boy across from her. 

Okay. Nah. Nah. Nooo! You do it like this.
(She takes her hands and makes a heart over her chest.)
Yeah, yeah yeah, you make a heart and send it to me. No come on send it to me- give it to me.
Like this!
(She places the 'hand heart' on her chest, and pushes it out into the air.)
Now catch it! For serious catch it. You catch my heart. I gave it to you. You catch it. I ain't gonna play with you no more if you jus drop it. Nooooo take it.
(She tries again.)
It's special. You can't jus be dropping it and not even tryin.  Like this.
(She makes a hand heart.)
Now you give me yours...
 (Nothing)
Awhhhhh for real? I ain't give you nothin if you ain't give me nothin back. What you just playin? 'snot funny, 'snot.  Come on! Yeah that's how you make it, not give it. Cause it ain't real till you give it away. Then I catch it and I give it back. I'll be careful.
(They send the 'heart' across the subway aisle, back and forth once.)
Now don't you drop it. It's almost my stop.
(Back and forth again. He gets bored drops his hands.)
IWell ain't you gonna give it back? You took it, you gotta give it back. You gotta give it back. You gotta. You gotta.  Mommy he dropped it! I'm sitting. 'Kay. I'm sitting.
 (She scootches back on the seat. Quiet. Then...)
It ain't stupid, you're stupid. You don't now how to do it right. Like this.
(She holds up her hand heart to her chest.)
I just keep it, I just keep my heart. I don't need yours. I got mine.



(Apparently this movement was patented. My apologies to google.-mo)

The first sleep

One of the best compliments I ever got from a new boyfriend  involved napping together. To me that first sleep says a lot about a relationship. 

photo by Paul Schnegge 

LIZ, 29 (to her non-live-in boyfriend of less than a year)

The thing is...the problem is you're not good at sleeping, with me. At first I thought it was because of me, that we didn't fit. I don't know, maybe that's it.  You're a horribly insensitive sleeper. And it's not because of the snoring, I can deal with the snoring, that could be cute. It's just sometimes you hold me, obligatorily, and you let go, and I wake up and you're across the bed. And sometimes I inch my hand, my arm, to touch yours and you flinch. In your sleep you flinch. The most real honest deepest part of you flinches minutes, hours after being intertwined with me.  It doesn't matter- it doesn't matter how intimate we are before or after, because then you can't touch me. Unapologetically, you just don't want to. You flinch.

 And i remember the first night, before you told me that you had a problem with it; with sleep. Before I noticed the pacing and Charlie Rose, and that stuff...before I knew that it was a thing with you.  I'm laying there awake, so utterly alone, wanting to just touch you, be held. And I inch over and just let my leg hover near your hand, just hover, and you roll over. You just roll away. And I felt cheap and used and alone. And I stared at your ceiling, and I watched your fan move, and I thought I guess that's it. I'll wake up early and he'll offer to make coffee I'll say no thanks and I'll go and we'll both know what it was. If there was any confusion before, the after always makes it clear what it is.  But we woke up the next morning and I stayed for breakfast, a sympathy breakfast I thought, and we walked to the train and you held me, you held me tighter than I had ever been held in my life. Like you didn't want to let go, like if you did, something would happen. And you do, you always hug me like that with this extra squeeze at the end - like you're afraid to let go. Like if you let go you'll just crumble, and who knows maybe you hug everyone like that? Maybe that's just how you hug?

 I love you. Against all my better judgement I do.  I love you when you're awake but when you're sleeping, when you're sleeping there's a part of you that doesn't want to let me in. It's this unapologetic cold part. It's  there when you're awake too, I guess.  I'm starting to see that. Maybe it's there when you're lost in work, or disappear for a few days. When you go someplace else and just let me talk, and pretend to listen when I go on about school or my family. It's there in those moments where you're just done, and for a split second it's like I'm a stranger. It's rare, but it happens.

 This whole time, nearly a year now, I've been afraid that that's actually you. I've been afraid that you at night, the you that flinches, is actually you. It could be, because you're not trying to be polite, or a good a guy, you just want what you want.  And what if  what you really want isn't me?  Would we both be better off? You spend half your life asleep, and what if we don't fit?  What if you were just nice and made breakfast? What if I just left and you didn't walk me to the train?

Cry to me.

(Just imagine Solomon Burke's "Cry to Me" in the background fading out).

DEBRA , 45 to her younger co-worker, who is in a bathroom stall.  

I don’t mean to do the whole I’m older than you thing, but I am. So I will. I don’t know what this is about, or why you left the room, and I know you’re embarrassed that it happened like that, during the presentation. Okay, that was unfortunate. You can get some extra tears out on that one. But you can stay in the restroom as long as you want. If you want I can tell the guys that you’re on your period and your grandma just died. No, don’t tell me what or who it is, I don’t want to know. Just stop saying, “I’m sorry” Okay? Just stop. Stop. Please stop. Don’t be sorry just get it out.

(She sobs even more.)

It’s fine. Really. And you’re not crazy. Stop saying you're crazy. Stop. Sometimes it just happens. You know me. I don’t feel emotion. I mean I pretend to socially. I fake care so people like me, but it’s not my thing. I get sent cute pictures of puppies and I just sort of feel sorry for them, and the people that wasted 2.5 seconds of their life looking at them. But years ago, this was before I got married. Joe and I had only been dating for a couple of weeks and he ended it, did the whole slow fade thing. I didn’t care, he was just some guy. 

And I’m uptown at Fairway or Zabar’s getting something to go visit my great aunt.-  I think it was a knish- and I just start to cry. And I’m crossing 72^nd street, standing in the middle of the street, and I’m just sobbing. Sobbing gripping onto this knish for dear life.  I almost fall into the ground I’m crying so hard, and I’ve never… This went on for what felt like three minutes, just squatting and crying like I was going to throw up.  Heaving. I was crying so hard that I just started laughing, laughing like an insane person in front of Urban Outfitters, just laughing through sobs.  Teenage girls were just staring, and I’m in a standing fetal position on the cement with a knish.

The thing is I wasn’t crying about Joe, he wasn’t important enough for that. I was crying about me.  I was crying out me. I was crying out everything that I hadn’t. Everything that I was afraid of that I knew and that I didn’t know about. I was crying for everything that I hadn’t felt, and then I was happy that I had the chance to feel all of it.  I was ringing out my system.  So I finished. I've completely lost control, which I don't do. I have mascara just pouring down my face, my eyes look like raisins, and my hair is a mess. I look like a mental patient. And I rounded the corner, and the fucker is standing right there. Joe -who lives downtown mind you- is standing right there, and I thought. “Okay now I am ready, now I can do this, now I have space for this”.

It’s like getting the flu. If you get it once a year it’s healthy because it purges your system. Not to be gross, but you get things out. And I think that’s what you’re doing now. You’re cleansing the system. You're making space. And that’s okay; it’s just easier to put it on a person.  But that person's just a person. I'll watch the door if you want to keep going. 

 Listen to this.

Drunk Girl Prophet

SARAH or MEGHAN (You're not really sure, it was loud). 

You ever want to say to someone- to a guy- ‘You can’t treat me like that, because I am magic….because I am special.’ But you can’t, you can’t say that because you’ll sound like a fucking insane person. It goes beyond being immodest you’ll sound like a nut job. And why? You know, why can’t we say that we’re special and we deserve that back? I mean everyone’s special relatively right? Actually no that’s wrong everyone isn’t… that girl over there...not special. But we deserve like the same level of specialness…speciality. Magic-ness. I don’t know, it’s the wine. I’m saying this cuz of the wine. And like that, like I’d feel stupid saying this without the wine. So, thank you wine.

But yeah, no, we can’t like call people out on their shit, because that like makes us weak. That means like we’re sensitive when really we’re just like sensitive to people being assholes.   No we have to pretend that we’re okay, that we don’t care, that we’re okay with these random texts of "Hey how r u?” How am I?  “I’m confused as to why you can text me yet not see me like a human. I'm confused as to what you're getting from this. I’m confused as to why I’m even responding, I’m generally just confused.  How am I? Confused. I am confused that is how I am.” Like my grandmother didn’t get random phone calls of ‘Hey what’s up’ and then a hang up.  Like you had to have like an actual conversation, like you had to be human, like you had to connect or at least pretend to connect. You didn’t like waste your time.

            (She touches both your shoulders, pulls you closer)

You, you are MAGIC, and I’m just gonna be like some girl you met saying it. And you can like write it off like those crazy people on the subway who spout prophetic things after insanity. But you ARE.  So YOU are NOT going to SETTLE. You have these eyes, these eyes and they see stuff, they see too much, and it’s like hard you know, to like float. Like this, this right now for you this, this party, this bar, this is hard because you see all the bull shit. I like just met you but I can see that you see the bull shit. You you are MAGIC so don’t you dim that for anyone. Don’t you float on the surface, and if you have to leave shit like this early you leave… you leave.  But just like trust it, okay? Cause you like listen, beyond your eyes and ears you listen. And it hurts to hear and see so much, but you hold out. Okay?  You hold out for that person, where you're like 'Yeah that's it', and you'll like know cause like you'll be nervous in a good way. And in the meantime when those guys ask you how you are “How r u?” like 1:00 AM you say “I’m fucking magic”.