In the early eighties, I lived in a large, duplex apartment on Washington Street and Perry with three wonderful stoners. Danny I’ve introduced, but Richard was a guy who seemed to only eat bananas. My most vivid memory of him was on the morning after John Lennon was killed, and we both woke up to radio alarms of the news. I opened my bedroom door and stepped out, and Richard, a curly blonde with parchment skin, was already there on the landing, in nothing but tighty-whiteys. He was waiting for me, doing what he always did when he was stressed out—twirling his short ringlets around his index finger like a baby.

But the point of the story is not Richard or John Lennon, except that Richard was probably the one that made the brownies, put them out on the dining-room table, and forgot to post a note listing their most important ingredient. I ate one on my way out to cook dinner for my boyfriend, Joe, who was recently separated from his wife, and living in his ex-girlfriend’s loft in Tribeca while she was away. I had never had a pot brownie, nor have I had one since, because of what happened.

Joe, you see, was ailing because of his recent separation, and though he was the cook of our couplehood, he needed some TLC, and I’d stepped up to give it to him; I was going to cook him dinner. The trouble was, though, that by the time I reached the loft, I was whacked out of my mind, like I was on acid or something, and I was a babbling idiot. Joe, though, usually a very forgiving person, wasn’t amused by the fact that I’d shown up for our healing date with my teeth on backwards, and so I had to push forward, as if I were fine.

But I wasn’t. I don’t remember much more of this evening, except standing in Joe’s ex-girlfriend’s kitchen with a butcher knife in my hand, thinking, “Woah! Am I supposed to kill a cow with this thing? How do you hold it?!” Poor Joe. I’m sure he ended up cooking himself dinner.

I seem to be ready to accept all feedback on my insufferable behavior, mainly because I deserve it, and because my sense of humor has returned, though I still miss my girlfriend.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s