I had spent
all day trying to get F to invite me upstairs. He, being his usual inscrutable
self, acted as though I were asking for a pound of his flesh. Several
unanswered phone calls later, I briefly regained my sanity (or perhaps just my
sense of shame) and decided to pointedly avoid him during the Anatomy Closing
Ceremony. But this proved impossible. When J pretended to light my hair on fire with his candle, F dared to laugh. For one moment near the end, as we were all putting out our candles,
he even stood near me and made small-talk, as though nothing had happened. I wanted to jump out of my
skin with unease. Why was he being like this? I needed to let him leave when my
back was turned. I forced myself to focus elsewhere and not turn around until the
very last people trickled out of the anatomy lab.
By some
bizarre twist of fate, F and I lived within 20 steps of each other. Phone calls
between us usually meant that one was right outside the other’s front door. As
soon as I was out of sight of the med building, I called him again. I nearly
jumped when he picked up. “Hey, I’m just about to head
out,” he said, sounding far away. “Well, I’m leaving for New
York in two hours,” I countered, “And I wanted to say goodbye.” When I
finally found myself in his room, sighing as his hands gripped me hard enough
to bruise, I remember wondering whether I’d won or lost this round.
My roommate, T, and I dashed downtown, half-open duffels slung haphazardly over our
shoulders and a pair of shoes clutched in each hand. A missed bus and five or
so cramped hours later, we staggered out of Penn Station and into the middle of
Times Square. A few more hours were spent taking advantage of a massive Sephora
and waiting anxiously for our last adventurer, S, who’d arrived via a friend’s
car but somehow ended up wandering around Times Square alone and quite lost. But
the three of us reunited at last and piled into a taxi to surprise our friend, Dan, in
the city for his birthday. Dan lived in a building with a doorman, one
who eyed us three gypsies suspiciously, with our numerous overstuffed bags and
heavily-eyelinered eyes. When we finally burst in, yelling
SURPRISE, I wanted to add that it was really a surprise to us, too, that we had
actually made it.
Birthdays
are a wonderfully dangerous environment. One feels unable to refuse anything,
whether out of understanding that the day only happens once a year or fear of
offending the celebrated host. We were pumped full of adrenaline, coasting on
the joy of escaping med school and the endless possibilities our new environment
offered. The three of us took shot after shot of all manner of clear spirits. A
wayward arm knocked my glass out my hand to shatter musically on the kitchen
tiles. Someone asked, “Have you ever tried Four Loko?” I turned to see four
cans of it, their neon garish against the ornate dining table. S vanished for a
moment only to reappear with a huge cookie cake that she had somehow
transported all the way from Providence. When we had fully exhausted the
wonders of the apartment, we trooped downstairs, pausing to cheerfully salute the
doorman, and then downstairs again into the subway.
The
unfortunate man playing “Wonderwall” and accompanying himself on a guitar in
our subway car was soon drowned out by our much louder and drunker rendition. We
made our way to a bar offering “10 for $20.” 2 rounds were ordered. By the time
I finally regained a sense of who and where I was, I was standing before a very
tall man, who was tenderly clasping one of my hands in his and asking, “I know
this is useless, but I’ll try it anyway – is there a chance I’ll ever see you
again?” T and I broke off from the rest and walked out into the open
air. We walked aimlessly until the delicious smell of hot grease awoke our
primal instincts. We followed a long line of other night creatures and somehow
managed to wedge ourselves into the hopelessly crowded Pommes Frites, an
internationally renowned hole-in-the-wall French fry shop. What time was it? Two
Cornell 4th years offered to share their fry sauce with us if we’d
let them try ours. I forgot exactly what we talked about, but we sat with them
for a while. The rest of our ragtag crew trickled in and boisterously saluted
us. “They’ll never let us get near them,” one med student told the other,
eyeing our sudden five male companions. They got up and left soon afterward.
“I own the
whole Carlton,” said Marc. “Yeah, his family owns the whole thing,” someone chimed in. T and I were trying to think of where to spend the night. A five
star hotel was awfully appealing at the moment, as we sat with bellies full of
grease and alcohol. “Or you could just come back with us,” came another
suggestion. “There’s lots of room back at my place.” His apartment was indeed
very large, with lovely and probably very expensive views of the city below. We
finished up the fries, sweeping the insides of the paper cones to catch every
last crumb before discarding them on the table. T and I walked slowly down the
street with the birthday crew. S had left at some point during the night to
find her sister. The fog in my brain was wearing off. It had gotten very cold
outside. T caught my eye and announced, “We’re going to find Mel. Her
apartment isn’t far from here.” We exchanged our last pleasantries for the
evening and went on our separate ways.
“I called Mel earlier asking if we could sleep over at her place, in case things didn’t
work out,” T said, as we walked quickly through steadily emptying streets. I
still didn’t know what time it was. Innumerable blocks later, we found the
cross streets to her friend’s apartment near Chinatown. She had instructed T on
finding the keys – they were hidden in a small black plastic bag next to the
stairs. I picked up a stray bag and, as if by magic, they jingled inside, just
as she’d promised.
