COUPLES

People use the expression, “you can never go home again”, or, “there is no way home”, and though I understand to the expression and appreciate its sentiment, this essay has nothing to do with it.

I literally cannot get home. I was watching an episode of, Couples, an awful British sitcom at my girlfriend’s apartment. She has season 4 on DVD. The basic premise of the show is the physical manifestation of the most typical stereotypes dealing with men and women in their relationships as played out in obvious scenarios like bar scenes, or lamaz classes. Somewhere weaved into the simple fabric of the particular episode I was watching is the fact that, Patrick, wants to go home after he and his girlfriend, Sally, have sex. Over dark beers Patrick and Bob discuss why all men want to go home after sex. This little anecdote matters mostly to show, if you can remember all the way back to the beginning of this paragraph, I am at my girlfriend’s apartment, not at home.

I live in Flatbush Brooklyn, off the Parkside stop of the Q train. If you are like most people, even most New Yorkers, you have never been to my neighborhood. It is six stops into Brooklyn, about twenty five minutes from Union Square, and roughly one hour from any of the places you can usually find me. My girlfriend lives in the East Village; her apartment is most specifically the place where you can usually find me. I have a duffle bag of clothes, my school bag, a bag of baseballs, a suit, and the bottom draw of her dresser there.

Give or take a couple, I am home ten hours a week at this point, that includes sleep time. I pay $900 a month meaning the I am being charged about $30 an hour to live there, or the rate of an expensive hotel. When I walk into my apartment I open the door slowly thinking maybe someone else has moved in. I have a plant that I rush to check on first thing when getting home to see if it is still alive after 5 days without water. Sometimes I leave it out on the window sill and hope it rains, but the weather is changing and I don’t know if the plant will make it through the winter months. I do not have a television. I do not have food in my refrigerator. I have a desk, two turntables, a couch, a coffee table, and paintings everywhere. If I ever had a visitor they would not have a place to sit.

The one redeeming quality of my little place in Flatbush is that I get a lot of work done in those ten precious hours there. I am actually going to take the 20 dollar cab ride home right now to get some work done. As soon as I watch one more episode of Couples.