A New Address

This weekend I went to the 3rd Ward party in honor of Nonsense's 10th birthday. For a Nonsense event it was tame; I had planned my weekend around being out until sunrise on Saturday night, looking like a raccoon, limping, reeking of smoke - but I was in pajamas and asleep sometime between 4 and 5, when it was undeniably dark out and I even forced myself to wash my face before getting into bed. No less, it was a fun night of mad dancing and Brooklyn nostalgia.

I was recently explaining to a friend that I get a physical, anxiety-driven reaction when I get too far away from Avery. It is where I go to do my thesis research, so the more distance between us makes me worry that all of a sudden my notes and books on my carrel will run away or reshelve themselves in an entirely wrong call number section, somewhere I would never think to look or never be able to find them, like the top shelves of the balconies that I am convinced are just prop books.

But Avery knows when you leave and it never lets you get that far. As my friends and I were exiting a room onto one of the stair landings, I noticed the back of someone's head: a bun held together by a Bic pen. "Like that guy in Avery, the one who reminds me of Devendra Banhart in Converse and a foot shorter," I thought. Then I realized, my life being what it is, that of course this was that guy from Avery, and he was out, with people, with an alcoholic beverage. Maybe it was the tall boots that I was wearing, maybe it was the cold air, or the Red Stripe, but I firmly put my hand up to his shoulder - in other words, grabbed him - and said, "I know you from Avery." He looked at me in that same "Oh, God" sort of way that NE sometimes judges me with; but then, he unfurrowed his brow and said "Yes, yes! How are you?" "Good! I'll see you around!" And with that I sashayed away and probably this is where I tripped on a grate in my tall tall boots and fell down half a flight of stairs. But I had to stop the conversation short. Some things must be left to the abandoned lofts of Bushwick.

Later on in the night, we were dancing on the second floor and I saw him through a mass of hipsters, eyes closed, jumping side to side, his bun perfectly in tact thanks to the pen. I was glad that we were not anywhere near Avery.