We don’t watch poorly reviewed movies.
We’re not the best minds of our generation but we’re smart enough. We want to get married and we’ll probably get divorced. We make a lot of money but we want more. We buy expensive clothes. We drink a lot. We travel to foreign countries and take lots of digital photos and send them to our friends. We are lonely. We look down on people who weren’t as lucky as us. We cheat on each other. Our bosses like us. We have a lot of student loans. We buy organic groceries and throw most of it out three weeks later. Our parents are proud of us but wish we’d call home more often. We eat brunch. We’re basically good kids.
She had hooked up with him before. The first time she was excited because it might be the start of something. The second time she was disgusted because it wasn’t the start of anything and she knew it. All the times after that she was hungover and slightly depressed.
It was around nine, she guessed, which meant that they had slept for four or five hours. The light shone around the sides of his vinyl window shades. He was still sleeping. She needed a glass of water, but she couldn’t see her underwear from the bed and didn’t want to walk to the bathroom naked. Her phone was flashing on the bed stand. Two new texts:
Her roommate, 2:43 am: U little slut!!! Hav fun :)
Random guy she had hooked up with a few months ago, 3:04 am: What up?
She gently closed her phone and checked to see if he was still asleep. Yes. He was drooling a little bit and his hair was wildly disheveled. The blanket was down around his waist, and she noticed that he trimmed his chest hair. She couldn’t remember if he also trimmed his pubic hair. Probably.
Now he was waking up. She plopped laid down and stared at the ceiling. When she sensed that he was looking at her, she turned her head and tried to look groggier than she was. He half-smiled and let out a long, deep groan.
“Jesus Christ… I feel like shit,” he said, rolling over on his stomach and smushing his face into the pillow. He peeked out of the pillow and looked at her. “How you feeling?” His breath smelled like pickled beer.
“You know. Not great,” she said.
“Yeah.” He thought for a minute. “Didn’t you say you were meeting your parents for brunch?”
She turned away from him, towards the empty wall.
“At one. But I can leave now. Don’t worry,” she said.
He sat up on his elbows and tried to look hurt.
“You know that’s not what I meant. C’mon, don’t be like that,” he said, leaning over and draping an arm over her. He slid up behind her, and his warm, naked body felt good against her back. She could feel him getting hard against the back of her thigh.
“You’re a real asshole, you know that?” Maybe it would be better when they weren’t drunk.
“Yeah, I know.”
After sex they laid in bed and gossiped about mutual acquaintances. At the door he pointed her in the direction of the G train and gave her a high five.
We secretly think about joining the Peace Corps or teaching high school history. We go to museums on Saturday afternoon. We stay in because we’re tired. We buy expensive furniture from Crate and Barrel. We are 25 and sometimes when we’re walking through Park Slope or riding the bus on the Upper East Side we can imagine what it will be like to get old. We value our friends but treat them like shit. We recycle.
My little brother called from L.A. a few days ago. It was around 5:30 and I was still at work, so I closed the door to my office. I can tell from the start that he’s upset, and I’m flattered that he called me.
Apparently he and his girlfriend got into a big fight. Apparently she cheated on him. She was drunk. She's sorry. I've been there. But that's not what my brother wants to hear.
That’s a tough one, I tell him, but what I’d do is pull back, at least for awhile. You can’t let her make a fool of you. It’s like Hemingway.
I love Hemingway, but I don’t think my brother knows much about him so I provide a synopsis. Hemingway’s heroes were all about maintaining their sphere of control. Most of life was completely out of their hands. Their friends died, their women left, their junk got fucked up. That’s the breaks. They couldn’t do anything about it. All they could do was recognize the limits of their control and find pleasure within a small, knowable realm – fishing, bullfighting, drinking, whatever. I realize that might not seem to apply here, I told my brother, but it does.
You really like her, maybe you even love her – it doesn’t really matter. But all you can do is your best, and if you’re doing your best and she’s still treating you like shit there’s not much you can do about it besides hoping she comes around. If not, chalk it up to experience and move on. Her loss. There are other fish in the sea. You’ll find someone else. It took me a long time, but that’s what I eventually came to realize about Christina, that’s how I finally got over her. Not easy by any means, but effective.
My brother seemed to get what I was saying, I think. I gave him a few more tips on how to handle the situation. Honestly, I hope it doesn’t work out, for my brother's sake. He’s too young to be tied down.
We read the New York Times online. We get coffee and read magazines at Barnes and Noble and feel good about not spending the afternoon drinking. We spend the afternoon drinking. We talk about how horrible the Lower East Side has become. We’re growing comfortable. We have casual sex. We look up kids from high school on Facebook and usually feel better about ourselves. We talk about real estate. We go to the gym three times a week. We do cocaine and pills when they come our way. We’re pretty much cool with gay people. We have resigned ourselves to a mid-life crisis. We’re going to buy a bike off Craigslist in the spring. We have good benefits.
It rushes past him, and he hopes it didn’t mess up his hair. As the train slows, he stares ahead and watches his image become increasingly stable in the slowing windows. He pushes back his bangs. When the train stops he’s between doors. He looks into the windows of both, doesn’t see any cute girls, and randomly settles on one.
After sitting down he checks out each of the other passengers. He stares. What do they think of him? His imagination flatters himself. A Hispanic woman and her young son are sitting across from him. They are laughing about something, and he wonders if they are happier than him even though they’re poor. He knows this is entirely possible, even likely. He doesn’t hold it against them.
The train rises out of the tunnel, and lower Manhattan rises over the monolithic lofts of DUMBO. He’s looking north, towards Midtown. He can’t go over the bridge without appreciating the knowing grandeur of New York City. The buildings flash through the spires of the bridge like pieces of a jigsaw skyline. The City thrills him – he is thrilled to be here, thrilled to be twenty-five years old with a good job and no attachments. He reminds himself that he’s missed out on so many chances to really make it, so many coattails to have ridden, like the friend who’s on TV or the guy down the hall who’s a millionaire or the kid in his English class who’s getting published. This no way to think when you’re high, and he cuts it off. As the train sinks between the tenements of the Lower East Side he reminds him that it’s Saturday afternoon in the City, and soon it will be Saturday night.
We take our health for granted. We love our families. We want to be famous. We read Page Six but not on the train. We will never move back to the suburbs not ever. We look back on our childhood with great nostalgia. We save a little bit of money. We like shopping. We’re selfish. We’re not yet desperate enough to try online dating but we’ve thought about it. We’re thinking about grad school. Some of us sort of believe in God but most of us don’t. We’re Democrats. We used to smoke cigarettes. We’ll look back on these days with undue fondness. We have medium dreams.
************
She had hooked up with him before. The first time she was excited because it might be the start of something. The second time she was disgusted because it wasn’t the start of anything and she knew it. All the times after that she was hungover and slightly depressed.
It was around nine, she guessed, which meant that they had slept for four or five hours. The light shone around the sides of his vinyl window shades. He was still sleeping. She needed a glass of water, but she couldn’t see her underwear from the bed and didn’t want to walk to the bathroom naked. Her phone was flashing on the bed stand. Two new texts:
Her roommate, 2:43 am: U little slut!!! Hav fun :)
Random guy she had hooked up with a few months ago, 3:04 am: What up?
She gently closed her phone and checked to see if he was still asleep. Yes. He was drooling a little bit and his hair was wildly disheveled. The blanket was down around his waist, and she noticed that he trimmed his chest hair. She couldn’t remember if he also trimmed his pubic hair. Probably.
Now he was waking up. She plopped laid down and stared at the ceiling. When she sensed that he was looking at her, she turned her head and tried to look groggier than she was. He half-smiled and let out a long, deep groan.
“Jesus Christ… I feel like shit,” he said, rolling over on his stomach and smushing his face into the pillow. He peeked out of the pillow and looked at her. “How you feeling?” His breath smelled like pickled beer.
“You know. Not great,” she said.
“Yeah.” He thought for a minute. “Didn’t you say you were meeting your parents for brunch?”
She turned away from him, towards the empty wall.
“At one. But I can leave now. Don’t worry,” she said.
He sat up on his elbows and tried to look hurt.
“You know that’s not what I meant. C’mon, don’t be like that,” he said, leaning over and draping an arm over her. He slid up behind her, and his warm, naked body felt good against her back. She could feel him getting hard against the back of her thigh.
“You’re a real asshole, you know that?” Maybe it would be better when they weren’t drunk.
“Yeah, I know.”
After sex they laid in bed and gossiped about mutual acquaintances. At the door he pointed her in the direction of the G train and gave her a high five.
************
We secretly think about joining the Peace Corps or teaching high school history. We go to museums on Saturday afternoon. We stay in because we’re tired. We buy expensive furniture from Crate and Barrel. We are 25 and sometimes when we’re walking through Park Slope or riding the bus on the Upper East Side we can imagine what it will be like to get old. We value our friends but treat them like shit. We recycle.
************
My little brother called from L.A. a few days ago. It was around 5:30 and I was still at work, so I closed the door to my office. I can tell from the start that he’s upset, and I’m flattered that he called me.
Apparently he and his girlfriend got into a big fight. Apparently she cheated on him. She was drunk. She's sorry. I've been there. But that's not what my brother wants to hear.
That’s a tough one, I tell him, but what I’d do is pull back, at least for awhile. You can’t let her make a fool of you. It’s like Hemingway.
I love Hemingway, but I don’t think my brother knows much about him so I provide a synopsis. Hemingway’s heroes were all about maintaining their sphere of control. Most of life was completely out of their hands. Their friends died, their women left, their junk got fucked up. That’s the breaks. They couldn’t do anything about it. All they could do was recognize the limits of their control and find pleasure within a small, knowable realm – fishing, bullfighting, drinking, whatever. I realize that might not seem to apply here, I told my brother, but it does.
You really like her, maybe you even love her – it doesn’t really matter. But all you can do is your best, and if you’re doing your best and she’s still treating you like shit there’s not much you can do about it besides hoping she comes around. If not, chalk it up to experience and move on. Her loss. There are other fish in the sea. You’ll find someone else. It took me a long time, but that’s what I eventually came to realize about Christina, that’s how I finally got over her. Not easy by any means, but effective.
My brother seemed to get what I was saying, I think. I gave him a few more tips on how to handle the situation. Honestly, I hope it doesn’t work out, for my brother's sake. He’s too young to be tied down.
************
We read the New York Times online. We get coffee and read magazines at Barnes and Noble and feel good about not spending the afternoon drinking. We spend the afternoon drinking. We talk about how horrible the Lower East Side has become. We’re growing comfortable. We have casual sex. We look up kids from high school on Facebook and usually feel better about ourselves. We talk about real estate. We go to the gym three times a week. We do cocaine and pills when they come our way. We’re pretty much cool with gay people. We have resigned ourselves to a mid-life crisis. We’re going to buy a bike off Craigslist in the spring. We have good benefits.
************
He’s waiting for the N train to Manhattan. It’s early Saturday afternoon and his calves are sore from a morning run in Prospect Park. He smoked a bowl before leaving the apartment and he’s jumpy; weed does that to him. But it’s pleasant as long as he can keep his mind from spinning off its axis, and right now things are at a pleasant whirr. A young Puerto Rican couple is arguing behind him. He walks to the track and sees the train coming.It rushes past him, and he hopes it didn’t mess up his hair. As the train slows, he stares ahead and watches his image become increasingly stable in the slowing windows. He pushes back his bangs. When the train stops he’s between doors. He looks into the windows of both, doesn’t see any cute girls, and randomly settles on one.
After sitting down he checks out each of the other passengers. He stares. What do they think of him? His imagination flatters himself. A Hispanic woman and her young son are sitting across from him. They are laughing about something, and he wonders if they are happier than him even though they’re poor. He knows this is entirely possible, even likely. He doesn’t hold it against them.
The train rises out of the tunnel, and lower Manhattan rises over the monolithic lofts of DUMBO. He’s looking north, towards Midtown. He can’t go over the bridge without appreciating the knowing grandeur of New York City. The buildings flash through the spires of the bridge like pieces of a jigsaw skyline. The City thrills him – he is thrilled to be here, thrilled to be twenty-five years old with a good job and no attachments. He reminds himself that he’s missed out on so many chances to really make it, so many coattails to have ridden, like the friend who’s on TV or the guy down the hall who’s a millionaire or the kid in his English class who’s getting published. This no way to think when you’re high, and he cuts it off. As the train sinks between the tenements of the Lower East Side he reminds him that it’s Saturday afternoon in the City, and soon it will be Saturday night.
************
We take our health for granted. We love our families. We want to be famous. We read Page Six but not on the train. We will never move back to the suburbs not ever. We look back on our childhood with great nostalgia. We save a little bit of money. We like shopping. We’re selfish. We’re not yet desperate enough to try online dating but we’ve thought about it. We’re thinking about grad school. Some of us sort of believe in God but most of us don’t. We’re Democrats. We used to smoke cigarettes. We’ll look back on these days with undue fondness. We have medium dreams.
posted by rd at 10:34 PM
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