Except, after I waved goodbye and got into a cab, I heard a voice that sounded strangely like mine give the driver an address that sounded strangely like Luke’s before I settled into the backseat. Then that same voice remained silent while the taxi headed west to Luke’s neighborhood instead of north to my own.
A few minutes later, we pulled up to the familiar brick building. I paid and got out of the cab without a word. I wasn’t sure exactly why I was doing this, since I knew that Luke wasn’t here. But something about the combination of alcohol and adieus made me want to see the place, just see it, one last time. My stay here had ended so abruptly that I think I wanted to assure myself that it had actually been real. That I hadn’t just wandered into Narnia for the better part of a year only to be rudely thrown back out of the wardrobe and into reality. In a way, I thought maybe that was exactly what’d happened.
I looked up and, sure enough, there it was. My former home. No signs of life shone down on the street below. I guess that was a good thing, since Luke’s tour schedule had told me that he was playing a show in Portland tonight.
Through the dark windows, I could still see the assortment of old books, CDs, and dead plants that adorned the sills. Yes, I remembered those. I’d looked at them every night that I’d lived there, but I’d never really seen them until now. They’d just faded into the background like props on the set of a TV show. I’d been too caught up in the story unfolding before me to notice all the little things that had helped bring it to life. But like all good series – except for apparently the Law & Order franchise – the fantasy that I’d been living in had come to an end and those props on the sill had become meaningless objects once again.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a tremendous sob wracked my body. It shocked me so much that I actually had to look around to see who had made such a miserable noise. But soon the tears that filled my eyes let me know that it had been me.
Why had I come here? And why was I crying? I wasn’t entirely sure and something told me that it was best not to examine those questions tonight. Still, I stayed out there, weeping on the sidewalk like an insane person for longer than I cared to admit. Maybe I was the type to lose it in public after all.
But eventually, the impromptu tears subsided and I was able to put my makeup-smeared face into another cab. I spent the whole ride back to my apartment creating a checklist of all the things that I needed to do before I got on my flight tomorrow. I wanted to keep my mind focused so that it didn’t wander back to the little street performance that I’d just put on. Soon enough, we came to a stop in front of my building. God bless my driver who refrained from telling me that I looked like the Joker from The Dark Knight when he gave me my change.
I washed my face when I got inside and then lay down on the air mattress that I’d set up in the middle of my bedroom to replace my bed, which I’d already put into storage. When I closed my eyes, I replayed all the conversations that I’d had with my friends at dinner in my head, determined to make my last memories of Chicago positive ones. But as soon as I drifted off to sleep, I dreamed of dark windows lined with old books and dead plants.
New York
I stepped off the plane at LaGuardia a new woman, having purposely pushed aside all thoughts of my mini meltdown the night before. I’d decided while I was in the air that maudlin sidewalk tantrums did not play into the new hardened persona that I planned to adopt for this zip code, so I was officially done with them. It was time to be a boss.
I grabbed my suitcases and took a cab to some swanky apartment that Vulture’s parent company owned in Tribeca. My new editor’s secretary had made arrangements for me to stay there until I could find a place of my own, which I determined to do on approximately the twelfth of never once I saw the view from my temporary digs. Wow. I had to keep reminding myself that this was what it was like to work for a big publication with a big budget. I just hoped they didn’t end up thinking that hiring me had been a big mistake.
But there was no time for self-doubt right now. I only had a few minutes to drop off my bags and tear through one of my suitcases for a change of clothes before I had to report to the Vulture offices for onboarding. A navy blue skirt and cream colored blouse were my least wrinkled options, so they’d have to do. Let’s see, shoes, wallet, keys. Anything else? Phone! There you are. Uhhhh, okay. Here I go.
My new workplace was in a huge building that was really close to my apartment. Like, I-only-passed-one-Starbucks-on-the-way-here close. Although I admired the beauty of the old, ornate structure as I walked up to it, all thoughts of architecture were forgotten the second I stepped through the front door. Holy hell, there are a lot of people here, I gaped in stunned silence. The place was like its own microcosm of the giant metropolis on which it sat: just wall to wall humans. And the swarm of fashionably dressed worker bees didn’t simply walk from one place to the next; they ran. They called out orders and passed papers to each other with a sense of urgency that I had never witnessed before, not even when I’d worked at the Chicago Tribune. I felt like I’d stumbled onto the set of an Aaron Sorkin show, where changing locations was just an excuse to up the productivity factor. So, okay, yeah, I was not in Kansas anymore.
After I picked up an I.D. badge and pushed through a turnstile, I realized that if I hadn’t been so overwhelmed by the frenzied scene, I would have found this strange new world incredibly exciting. I was clearly among a group of people who were passionate about what they did and I was about to join their ranks. Not that the people at my old job weren’t dedicated. It was just that when your readership numbered in the thousands, instead of the millions, you could afford to adopt a more leisurely stroll when moving around the office. But, I mean, this right here was why I’d left Chicago, wasn’t it? I’d conquered the slower-paced local beat, and now it was time to try my hand at this, this mighty and influential machine. I was sure that once I figured out which of the drinking fountains dispensed the methamphetamine-laced water, I’d be good to go.
Upstairs, in a utilitarian-style conference room with my new editor, I shook hands with most of the people that I’d be working with and I was given my first assignment: to cover all of the summer musical festivals happening throughout the state from now through the end of August. Oh thank god, I breathed an internal sigh of relief when I was given my marching orders. Even though it was a lot to handle and the deadlines were extremely tight, I’d covered a ton of music festivals at my old job and I knew that I could do it. Plus, I knew that Luke wouldn’t be out east until the fall, so there was no chance of a close encounter. Not that I’d memorized his tour schedule or anything. I mean, uh, what? Luke who?
So with a newly minted press pass and very little direction beyond, “Write stuff that people want to read,” I set out on the summer of Lyssa.
“Hi, I’m Lyssa Lyons. I’m here on behalf of Vulture.”
“Hey, Lyssa Lyons, writing for Vulture.”
“Hi, can you point me to the press tent? I’m with Vulture.”
“So, tell me about your new album.”
“When can we expect some new music from you?”
“How would you compare playing an outdoor venue like this one to one of the stages in the city?”
“Sorry, but I can’t get drinks tonight. I have a deadline.”
“Yep, I’ll send you a draft first thing in the morning.”
“Um, no, I didn’t see that email yet, but I’ll get right on it.”
“No, I have to work tonight.”
“Excuse me, could you tell me which train will take me back into Manhattan?”
“Hi, I’m Lyssa Lyons, interviewing you on behalf of Vulture. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Hey, Lyssa Lyons for Vulture. Ready to get started?”
“Hi, I’m here with –”
“Hey –”
“Umm –”
“Wait, what? –”
“No –”
“Sure –”
“Where’s –”
“Hey
–”
“Hi –”
It was around lunchtime when I stood at the little counter of the bank branch that was located next to my office building. I was attempting to deposit a reimbursement check from work for last week’s travel expenses. Except I couldn’t get past the first line on the deposit slip. I just stood there, staring at the old school plastic plaque that told customers the date. That can’t be right, I thought. It’s not…it can’t be September yet…can it? But there it was, in white painted numerals on a faux-wood background. I pulled out my phone to double check. Maybe New Yorkers celebrated April Fools’ Day in July and I just didn’t know it. Nope, it really was September 1st. My iPhone wouldn’t lie to me. Well I’ll be damned. But answering that question only led me to another: Where in the hell did my summer go?
Actually, I could easily answer that one too. It got gobbled up by a vulture. By the Vulture, to be pedantic. Between the concerts and the traveling and the deadlines, I hadn’t even had time to realize how much time was passing. I felt like I’d only been in New York for three days, not three months. But on the other hand, it wasn’t like I had grounds to complain. I hadn’t lost track of time because I’d been down in a coal mine or anything. I’d been fluttering around from one open air festival to the next, listening to great music, talking to famous artists, and getting paid to do it. The fact that those activities were failing to leave me with any time to make new friends or to just lie around and watch TV was the very definition of a champagne problem.
And now that I thought about it, I vaguely remembered fireworks going off over the Central Park SummerStage one night while I was covering a concert there. There’d been an inordinate number of cutoff shorts and American flag t-shirts out and about that day too. So, okay, that must have been the Fourth of July. Plus, the sublet on my new apartment had started on August 1st. I remembered writing the date over and over again on the lease agreement. Thank god for university professors who went on sabbatical and left lovely third-floor walk-ups in Brooklyn vacant for half of the year. This Humanities professor from NYU was spending the fall semester somewhere in Asia…or maybe Africa? I probably should have listened more closely to where she told me she was going, but I was too busy celebrating the fact that the space was fully furnished, which meant that I didn’t have to worry about hauling the rest of my stuff out to New York until after the first of the year. Winning.
So, anyway, I had to have been at least semi-conscious of the amount of time that had passed since I’d left Chicago. But still, something about seeing the word “September” left me feeling…I didn’t know. It threw me off, I guess. I mean, was this going to be the way I lived my life from now on? Was I only going to come up for air when the seasons changed and then dive right back into the depths of my job and my writing and my career? Was that even necessarily a bad thing? After all, the whole reason I’d moved here was to focus on my career. I’d landed my dream job. What was wrong with devoting myself to it? Nothing, that was what. But then, why did I have this feeling of unease lodged in the pit of my stomach? Hmm. I didn’t know yet. But I did know that I didn’t have time to think about it right now.
Right now, I needed to deposit this check so that I could get the hell out of this bank that I’d been standing in for way, way too long – like, security guards were starting to hover – and then I needed to grab some lunch and get back to my desk. I had a 5 p.m. deadline and that piece wasn’t going to write itself.
A few minutes later, I pushed out onto the crowded city sidewalk filled with hungry New Yorkers all running to their nearest deli. As I fell into step with the rest of the herd, I had a fleeting thought that as long as I allowed myself to be a part of this stampede, I’d probably never be the one who was in charge of where I was going.
It was a Thursday night at the end of September when I made my way back to the little corner of the universe that I inhabited on an island east of an island. The oppressive summer heat had finally let up, leaving the night air cool and calm. But that didn’t stop my neighborhood from positively humming with activity. Its various residents were occupying every bistro table and café chair along the brightly lit sidewalk, all talking and laughing and eating and drinking. Even though I’d just emerged from the subway after leaving a similar scene in SoHo, I envied their comradery. Today had been a particularly long day at work, and afterwards I’d let myself be talked into grabbing drinks with some of my colleagues. They were all native New Yorkers who believed that the world revolved around these thirty-odd square miles of land, so it’d taken less than an hour for my perceived country bumpkin origins to cause the conversation to turn awkward. I didn’t understand the significance of the members of society they were discussing or the humor in their characterizations of certain neighborhoods, and they all knew it. They acknowledged it in such a way that was not ill-natured or mean, but that made me feel distant from them, separate, nevertheless. So rather than ask them repeatedly for clarifications, I’d finished my drink and left. Alone.
I walked into my apartment and immediately kicked off my heels. Owwww. My poor, abused feet did not appreciate the twice daily six-block trek between the subway and my front door. After I dropped my bag on the floor, I padded over to the living room and flopped down on the couch to watch some TV. It was late and I knew that I should just go to bed. I needed to be at the office early tomorrow morning, like I did every morning, and I couldn’t afford to squander what little time I was actually able to devote to sleep on television. But at the moment, I was craving the pseudo-companionship of the people on the screen more than my pillow, so I found the remote and flipped it on.
I scrolled through the guide, looking for something that appealed to me. No, no, no. Bingo. The most recent episode of a series that I used to enjoy back when I had time for such frivolous things as out-of-work interests and leisure time. The show was already about halfway over, but I just wanted to watch it for a few minutes. Then I’d brush my teeth and crawl into bed. I swore it.
I selected the channel at the same second that my phone buzzed on the coffee table in front of me. A text? I wondered hopefully. Nope. Just an email from my editor. Didn’t that guy ever sleep? I opened it up to read it, but before I even made it down to his signature line, I heard something that made my lungs stop working and my heart stop beating in my chest.
The TV…the show…the song! My head jerked up toward the sound. It was one of Luke’s songs! It was playing in the background of the show while the characters on the screen acted over it. But I couldn’t hear their dialogue. I couldn’t hear anything except for the lyrics, the melodies that had been written just for me.
I stared at it, open-mouthed and dumbstruck, until the scene changed. Then, without thinking, I picked up the remote, rewound, and watched it again. And again. And again, and again, and again. It wasn’t until my long-forgotten phone tumbled onto the area rug at my feet that I was finally able to pull myself from my trance. I pressed pause.
Oh my god. Oh my god, I thought, as the most intense wave of loneliness and longing that I had ever felt crashed into me.
Oh my god.
They say that it takes something monumental, like a near-death experience, to bring about the type of paradigm-shifting revelation that rocks you to your very core. Well, I guess you can also have that same type of revelation on some idle weeknight while you’re doing nothing more than sitting on your couch, catching a few minutes of TV. Because right at that moment, I became excruciatingly, agonizingly aware that I missed Luke Davies with every fiber of my being. I’d thought that I was over him, that I’d moved on, but I wasn’t. I hadn’t. Hearing his song had suddenly made that abundantly clear. I missed him. I missed him. I missed his smile, I missed his voice, I missed his touch, I missed the curve of his body against mine. The thought, the sensation, consumed me. It was so strong that I had to join my phone on the floor in front of the couch and hug by knees to my chest. Fuck.
Fuuuck, I thought as I squeezed my eyes shut against the profoun
d ache that actually took my breath away. Right then, I knew. I’d never been more certain of anything in my life. I wanted to be with Luke. Now. Right now. I didn’t want to be broken up anymore. I wanted to be with him, with the person who made me laugh and made me think and told me he loved me and wrote beautiful music about me. God, I wanted to be with him.
But I wasn’t. And why was that? Because I threw him away. For this. For here. What the fuck was I even doing here anyway? What the fuck was I doing in New York?
I opened my eyes and looked around the room, suddenly seeing it in a new light. An honest light. I didn’t even like it here. I didn’t even like this city. In fact, I hated it. I did. Not because it was a bad city, but because it wasn’t my type of city. I hated the pace and I hated the congestion. I hated the people here. Not because they were bad people, but because they weren’t my type of people. I didn’t understand them and I didn’t care about the things that they cared about. And worst of all, I hated my job. The whole reason I’d come here in the first place. Not because it was a bad job or a bad place to work. It wasn’t. It was an amazing opportunity and a great place to work. But the hours, the deadlines, the atmosphere, they weren’t for me.
I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be with Luke.
Well, there you go. Admitting that you have a problem is the first step toward recovery, I thought dryly. Then I rolled my head back onto the couch cushion and sighed before I hoisted myself to my feet. I needed a change of scenery, to be somewhere that wasn’t this area rug with the sight of blurry figures still frozen on the TV screen and the weight all of these feelings pressing down on me. So I grabbed my phone and climbed out onto the fire escape through my bedroom window. I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to look at the constellations, like Luke and I had done that first night at the beach. But when I gazed up, I realized that the neon lights of the city were too bright. They cast a pale orange glow against the night sky that made stargazing impossible. Just as well. I wouldn’t have known what I was looking at anyway. For that, I needed Luke.
Chocolate Page 17