I dread Brooklyn. I dread heading into Brooklyn. I dread the familiar trains and the familiar train stops and the barrage of memories associated with every step of the way.
Still, I braved it last night. Went to Barcade, which I'd never been to, which was sort of excellent. An amazingly nostalgic collection of 80s arcade games. A selection of beer that changes constantly. Little wooden shelves installed next to each arcade cabinet to rest your drinks as you play.
I went to see off a friend, who's leaving this city for San Francisco because the painful memories of his ex-girlfriend are just too thick for him here. A bunch of his friends were there and there were a lot of laughs. He handed out little gifts to everyone. Everyone was having a good time.
And then his friends gradually peeled off as the night wore on. Till it was just me and my friend standing in the cold, drizzly Brooklyn night, by the Lorimer L-stop. And suddenly, the façade of good spirits dropped from his demeanor. And he began to openly weep. In mourning for the pending loss of everything he's ever loved.
Inconsolable. I was the last friend standing beside him. Not about to run from the raw display of emotion. And yet, there was no consoling him. A new life out West, slate wiped clean, no constant reminders of all that was and all that could have been... all of that going for him—all that I envy
—and yet there was little sense of hope last night. On that dark corner, under the freezing rain.
He got into a cab, I got into a train. Little did I realize, the L-train is fucked up during the late hours. Basically, I passed out for a little while and suddenly found myself at the end of the line in Brooklyn. Had to ride the train all the way back to the first stop in Brooklyn then transfer to another
L to get back into Manhattan.
The L stopped dead at Union Square. I walked out into the frigid, unforgiving night and hailed a cab the rest of the way home.