MS 1 - NY 2

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 4^th 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.