Gay Club Jet Lag

Y’all no tea no shade but I would fuck up a cheeseburger right now. Who cares that it’s seven in the morning? I’ve been out since 1 and missed dinner anyway. I stumble out of the club’s man-made haze into the city’s natural fog and the change of scenery washes over me. There’s something delicious about watching the sun peek through the club windows and knowing I’ll step out into broad daylight later. Walking outside to see the fresh new day gave me the energy to walk home instead of taking the train or an Uber. I’d already been busting my ass for a good six hours, what’s another thirty minutes? 

It’s a quiet Sunday morning, hushed and precious. Something feels sacred about today. The rumble of cars on the highway sounds like prayer. I look into apartment windows, wondering who lives there, who used to live there, and who might live there soon. It’s the end of July and I’m moving this week. It dawns on me why this morning is so special. This is my last walk home before I move. Suddenly, every precious sight becomes all the more special. I’ve always been overly sentimental, but I can’t help but wonder- will I ever embark on this walk again? Could this be the last time I pass the buildings, the strangers, the street cats, the junkyard dog, or the broken e-bikes that await me today? 

If I encounter anyone on this silent march to Williamsburg, they’ll never know how dear this morning is to me, how significant each footstep feels. They’ll just see my bewildered face reacting to my surroundings and after analyzing my outfit, wonder if I’m still coming down from some club drug. Really, I’m just high on life and my own whimsy.

It’s not like I’m leaving the city, hell, I’m not even leaving Brooklyn, but I cherish this journey regardless. I’m about to leave my first apartment. Suddenly, I no longer care that my cramped bedroom cave for the past two and a half years didn’t have a window. I know I won’t mind the heat or the steep climb to my front door. I don’t want to rush to get home, but I’m not in the business of delaying my walk either. I’m still tired as fuck.

I think about the future, beginning with the question of whether I’ll ever find myself at this specific intersection again, impatiently watching this specific streetlight. I cross the Metropolitan Avenue Bridge and chuckle. I never even knew this existed. I look back at the morning light and feel the sun’s embrace, blessing my journey, the next chapter of my life. After crossing, I see two cats, one sleeping under a truck, and the other lounging next to a hole in someone’s fence. I take one step towards her and she bolts through the opening. Beautiful creature, one that I’ll never meet again. 

I start dreaming about what I’ll get to eat, and from where. Is this the time to try something new, something a little farther away from my apartment? My cheeseburger fantasy gets interrupted by someone’s guard dog. My vision was so intense that he could probably smell it. Maybe it was the club smell reeking off my body. Either way, he spooked the living daylights out of me, and I conclude that this is a face I’ll be happy to never encounter again. I decide to focus on getting home.

As tired as I am, I know it’ll feel real good to crack open a sandwich, chug some chocolate milk, kick back, and watch some Drag Race. My friends left a good hour before I did, but I was in love with the DJ’s selections for the back half of her set, and I had to stay. My only thought for that final push was “thank god for house music.” My dream was to stay until they kicked us out and then run to IHOP for a post-club feast. Less eager, the boys dipped and I’m not about to go to IHOP alone. At least not yet. 

Passing several businesses I’d never tried, nothing caught my attention. Before I knew it, I was back in my neighborhood, a few blocks away from home, and I hadn’t settled on what would be for breakfast. Slowing my pace, I invited myself to reminisce a little more. Love it or hate it, East Williamsburg is the ex-lover factory. Passing the bars and looking down the streets, I find myself thinking… “Hmm, I ran into that guy over there… that place too… that’s also where I saw him… I always wondered if he would be there again or at the other spot, but that’s also where I ran into that other dude… Did we make out that night?” However you slice it, you’re bound to run into someone whose penis you’ve seen. 

This gets me thinking about ghosts and the fact that my apartment is certainly haunted. Nearly two years ago, my roommates found a branch in the bathroom while I was away. This talisman had a dark aura, and to me, it looked like a set of antlers. Did Baphomet show up to one of our parties and leave that behind? To be fair we threw a few solid ragers in our time there. 

For one, there was my 22nd birthday, where I didn’t know half the people there. It smelled rank and ever since then I’ve made it a point to tell people to wear deodorant before coming to my house. At two in the morning, I popped open a bottle of pink champagne I bought specifically for the event and no one wanted to drink it. My then co-worker said, “I bet you can’t finish that.” Bitch? Who do you think I am? Bravely, I chugged it in fifteen minutes and as the party moved to the gay bar down the street, I remained on the couch. I woke up to a two-day hangover and only Lana Del Rey’s new album to get me through it. 

Other great parties that come to mind include the one where my roommate made a boy cry and I cheered her on. My going away party before my semester abroad ended with me over the toilet, six hours before my flight to France. Not to mention, many of these soirees left few survivors. A guest shattered the shower door and tried to pretend she was innocent. I’m pretty sure she also yakked all over the other bathroom that night and came to another party where she vomited on the floor of our bathroom again. Because of this girl, we entered 2023 with a New Year’s Bash, a broken couch, and the addition of “New Mop” to our list of resolutions.

In other words, this apartment was lived in. Life was so golden that even the ghost didn’t want to leave, no matter how much incense or sage we burned. It’ll be strange not sleeping in pitch black every night. As tough as the cave was, it built character. There was also something delightful about waking up hungover and not knowing what time or day it was. 

Of course, I won’t miss all the bruises from wading around in the dark, trying to find my bed, or traipsing to the bathroom. I won’t miss the way this place traps heat. I definitely won’t miss not having a buzzer at the front door, which, as I look to my right, I see I’ve arrived at. 

Man. All this thinking, and I still haven’t gotten a sandwich? What’s there to do? The answer becomes clear. A block away is my favorite deli in the area. What better way to pay homage to the last walk home than with a classic BEC from my favorite spot? I skip over to the bodega, put in my order, and wait. It’s a long one. This mission is made better, however, by the presence of a new black kitten. My jaw drops. The angel immediately took to me, begging for head scratches and crying out to bite my finger. 

I’m trying not to take it personally that they adopted the cat right as I’m leaving, but it’s hard. When I finally receive my meal, I run home and climb the staircase into the apartment. I sweat more in here than when I was outside. Home, sweet home. I squat on a chair, turn on the TV, and tune into the season finale of All-Stars. 

Nothing’s stopping me from doing exactly this at my new apartment– in fact, I’m already certain I will– but I can’t help but hold on to the fact that this is the last time I’ll do this in this specific way, in this specific room, in this specific apartment with its specific quirks. The next few days are marked by clearing the space and packing everything in boxes, and by Tuesday night, I’m on an air mattress with the last of my things packed into a suitcase in front of me.

I chuckle. Maybe nothing’s changed, I think. Distinct visions of when I first moved into this apartment come to mind. At the time, I was living out of my suitcase and only staying for a month. The only thing in my room besides my luggage was the same air mattress and the same power strip next to my pillow. I look around, and what I see is essentially the same. I first arrived at this apartment with a sprained ankle and needed to walk around with a brace. While less severe, I’m also coming out of this apartment with an injury, given my scooter accident last week. 

It’s my last night here. I can’t sleep because I’m so nervous and stressed about the move. My back is killing me. The forces of despair tickle my ears and say I’m stuck in the same place I was three years ago. But as I look around the same empty white walls on the same air mattress wearing the same clothes I slept in that first night, I know that’s not true. I don’t know who I owe money here– Drake or Taylor Swift? Because all I can think right now is that nothing was the same and that everything has changed. 

I begin to fear that in the move, I’ll lose some of the things most dear to me. Will I lose touch with my old roommates or with their friends who became my friends? What’s going to happen to impromptu movie nights and spontaneous karaoke? Moving has been an enormous responsibility and I wonder- has it been challenging because that’s the nature of such a process or do I need to reevaluate my priorities? Over the past few weeks, I’ve indulged in a rave or some weeknight drinking when I should have been cleaning and packing this place. Must I shed this reckless skin and live differently? Not to mention, what’s going to happen to the ghost, when we leave her behind, all by herself?

The process of moving has felt like parkour, leaping from building to building without being certain I’ll land somewhere, but knowing I will because I have to. Whether I smash onto the concrete or slide onto the next rooftop, I will land. I think my life is beginning now. The same way I felt when I moved in for the first time. Finally, I quiet the voices in my head, afraid of the future, gripping onto the past, and I thank the moldy walls and dusty floors of this apartment for sheltering me in the first phase of my adult life. Goodbye to the ghosts, invented and created, real and unimaginary, the temple of my early twenties, my first apartment.

…

If you enjoyed this piece and missed an opportunity to visit this apartment or simply want to reminisce, I invite you to watch my 73 Questions Video, where I give a proper tour. For other adventures about my life here, read this piece about my beef with the owner of the laundromat.