Unfortunate Glimpses

A dead dog in the trash.
A broken mannequin on the streets.
Dreams packed up hastily
     in black trash bags.
A loved body in the trash.

A declined credit card.
Beautiful garments in the mall.
Dreams charged up hastily
     on lost credit cards.
Perfect credit and debt on cards.

How could you let this happen?

The sad part now is that I've gotten used to the throbbing pain of loss. It doesn't cause me to wretch in the corner, or to sob in my car. It's numb, it's heartbreaking, but it's always there. Granted, there are the times I encounter my old self. Sadie grabs Nadia's twin bunny from my NY pile. I cry, I watch wedding shows, I cry. But it's more distant now. It's as if no more bad can happen to me, because I already expect it. It already happened, and he fucked it up. Why does he try to pretend when all is already lost?

And I messed it up with Nadia, and I feel it everyday. Her fur is on the carpet, her photos are on my iPad.

I want to stay here to keep them. As the clock ticks, we  become further and further apart. I'm throwing away my NY markers and shunning my CO contacts.

LOSS.

___________________

And this is my norm.
I went to New York and saved the style section, Sunday Style, like it meant something, like I'd be something.
I went to New York and acted like a nothing. Drinking at Ryan Maguire's and sleeping in my traffic-clad room. I went to New York and Nadia trusted me, and I let her down, and Nadia is dead.
My poor baby. Nadia is dead!
And I think about all the ways she went, and how I could have prevented it and how I'm so sorry, and how my little sister says, "HOW COULD YOU LET THIS HAPPEN?"
How, could, I let, THIS, happen?
I'm so sorry Nadia.

Nadia

My baby. 

My tiny Raggedy Ann. 

My baby. 

My cuddle buddy. 

My love. 

My Nadia. 

My cold-hater. 

My lap-sitter.

My licky girl. 

My tiny one. 

My Nadia. 

My best friend. 

My mini-me. 

My gymnastics girl. 

My Pretty-in-Pink.

My love. 

My Nadia. 

My Shadow. 

My baby. 

My baby. 

My baby. 

MY BABY. 

My uptop. 

My arm brace.

My yesterday. 

My love's baby. 

My honeybee.

My booboo.

My child.

My miracle. 

My tumbler. 

My sleepyhead. 

My little ball. 

My easy one. 

My love. 

My kindness. 

My gentle one. 

Pretty in pink. 

My baby. 

My runt. 

My scared one. 

My cuddly one. 

My hidey girl.

My parrot doggy.

My brave one. 

My friendly girl.

My lick-y babe.

My under the covers girl.

My baby with lipstick. 

My avocado girl. 

My reindeer girl. 

Chelsi's niece girl.

My little NY girl.

My blanky girl.

My hiding treats in your shoes girl. 

My teacup girl. 

My GIRL. MY LITTLE GIRL.

My little girl. 

My bark under the covers girl. 

My loves girl.

My quiet girl. 

My bossy girl.
My tiny-pawed girl. 

My baby.

My baby. 

My baby girl. 

My baby, tiny baby.

Nadia was my baby. 

The Story is Mine

I look back as if the story isn't mine. Detach myself, and look back, in horror, at the story of a poor little girl with a tragic story. Only in times of solitude and immense desperation do I realize that the little girl in the story is me.

I know it may be bizarre, but you know that song I liked?
What if we went to France and wrote our names on the Eiffel Tower?
Even if it isn't now, it still existed, and it existed strongly back then. What if we did it for us? Even if it was only for the US back then? Those kids deserve a shot....

_____________________________________________________

I comfort my dog, and my words are for Nadia.
I'm your momma, I'll always be there. I won't let you get hurt.

I want to hire a detective.
Investigate the scene.
Make the one who hurt her cry.
Throw him down the garbage chute.

We Love You Very Much 

“So there was this woman and she was on an airplane, and she was flying to meet her fiancé seaming high above the largest ocean on planet earth. She was seated next to this man she had tried to start conversations, but the only thing she had really heard him say was to order his Bloody Mary. She was sitting there and she was reading this really arduous magazine article about a third world country that she couldn't even pronounce the name of, and she was feeling very bored and despondent. And then suddenly there was this huge mechanical failure and one of the engines gave out, and they started just falling thirty-thousand feet, and the pilots on the microphone and he's saying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, oh my god...I'm sorry," and apologizing. And she looks at the man and says, "Where are we going?" And he looks at her and he says, "We're going to a party. It's a birthday party. It's your birthday party. Happy birthday darling. We love you very, very, very, very, very, very, very much.” - Bright Eyes

The storm hit on Monday, and I lost Nadia at 1:00 am. I looked for her, posting up signs on the front and back door of every stairway, all thirty-eight floors. On the 39th hour, I was taping a poster to the outside of the building, where the doormen had set up a makeshift headquarters.

“Oh no, you lost a dog?” says the Mexican man by the brick.

“Yes, have you seen her? She’s three pounds and is colored like a little deer – fawn and tan – she has a pink collar, and her name is Nadia, have you heard anything?”

Every voice is a lead, I keep waiting for someone to say, “Oh yes, she’s in apartment 602, the people couldn't find her owner but she’s safe. Let’s go get her.”

Instead, I hear Spanish (or is it Portuguese?) spoken to the man beside my new interviewee.

“What?” I say. “What did you say to him?”

“It’s nothing, no, it’s nothing.”

But I could tell it wasn't nothing. “WHAT did you say? Tell me, please?” I look at the man in the eyes.

“It’s probably nofing, but our fiend, the guy who clean the tash, he said one you rich kids trow a dog in de trash Monday nite. He found it. But he sed it was bigga. Like dis big.” His hands were wide. “Prally not yer dog.”

“What do you mean, he found a dog in the trash? Who is he? Can I please talk to him?” My heart was sinking, my voice was quivering, but I needed answers.

“He come at for tirty tamorrow. That his shift. Vladamier.”

I came at three thirty the next day, thighs aching from posting signs on every floor of our sky rise, just to make sure I could talk to him.

They spoke Russian, and it took a while to find him. I had my iPod, and I started showing him pictures of her.

The first photo.

“Yes, that her. I’m sorry. That her.”

No, no, no, no, no. 

Happy Birthday!

“Are you sure?” I cried and I showed him more and more until he walked away from me. “Not her right? Are you sure?”

“The collar,” he finally said. “I’m sorry girl. It the collar same.”

Then, I ran.

I ran as fast as I could away from there because I knew she was in the trash and they already took the trash away and I’d never find her and I hurt so bad my outsides hurt. And after I ran, I threw up on the sidewalk, over and over, crying and crying, because I couldn't believe she was with all that trash, and I was stuck in this lousy situation, and most of all because Nadia was dead. And people kept asking me if I was okay, and I kept saying no, because I wasn't and I kept throwing up and crying. And then I kept walking uptown as far as I could go, because there was no cell phone service downtown, and I needed to tell my mom. So once I got there, I threw up again and I just cried and cried, lying on the concrete, because Nadia was not only loved by me, but also by my parents, and they were trying so hard to grieve Nadia while at the same time trying to forgive me.

And at that point, I felt I had had enough sadness in New York City, and after I put the doggy shaped flowers by the trash (the best I could do for a memorial), and left her favorite baby, and cried cried cried, I was ready to get the fuck out of New York City. So I asked these random “Harold and Kumar” fellas to drive me to New Jersey so I could try to find a rent-a-car. I paid over a grand for a car that should have cost me $300. But do you know what? I drove almost the whole way through. I stopped in Iowa, for one night, and it only cost 70 dollars. But the rest of the thirty hours? I went straight through, crying the whole time.

I guess sorrow makes a road trip a whole lot faster, because it didn't feel like thirty hours to me. Maybe it’s guilt that keeps you crying too, because I've never felt so sorry my whole life for not keeping Nadia safe. There’s very few memories in this world that you will remember forever. I’ll forever remember my Nadia, and I hope she forgives me for letting her get lost in the storm. I hope she is with my Auntie Lisa, because I think she’d be the best one to have her. I’m so sorry about everything. I’m sorry Nadia.

My First Hurricane

“Heed to local precautions and warnings,” he said, and he meant it.

I should have listened to that statement with all of my heart.

I didn't think I’d need to evacuate. I asked locals, and they spit out mediocre stories of Irene, which sounded like less of a commotion than a Colorado snow storm. Half the people were staying. I had nowhere to evacuate to. I looked forward to the excitement of a storm.

Key Foods closed early Saturday, so we tried Jubilee. The bread and imperishables were gone, and besides, the line was around the aisles and out the door. We would come back tomorrow.

On Sunday, we accumulated a few supplies from a less-than-crowded Key Foods (evacuation A zone was long gone at this point). Cookie crisps, macaroni & cheese, salsa, chips, soda. Later, we watched football and ordered delivery wings. We talked to the people we cared about far away and reassured them that everything would be alright.

On Monday, we waited for the storm. We smoked cigarettes outside, listened to the news, walked to the water and told our friends the weatherman was full of crap. At sunset, the hurricane started playing games. The news of water kissed my lips, seducing me to the streets. I lived at 200 Water Street, at the intersection between Fulton and Water, near Pier 17. We went outside. The rain was light. The water was about an inch high across the street from my building. No one was outside. Looking back, I saw the calm before the storm. I remember the ecstatic happiness, we have the city to ourselves.

We decided to walk the two blocks west to grab some beers. It took us about 10 minutes to return to my apartment. At this point, the water was to my ankles, so we ran. We knew danger was near.

We ran inside. The doormen were frantic. There were several people in the lobby (and one dog) who wanted to get upstairs as soon as possible. They told us no until the water broke into the lobby. “We all have to get upstairs!” a girl with dyed ebony hair shouted. They told us to wait. We started exploring options.

Within two minutes the water was well past our shins, and the building staff started realizing that the water was coming no matter what. “Okay,” the aggravated Russian said. “Follow me, and stay close.”

We followed him, needless to say, around the back entrance, where none of us had ever been. Down the concrete stairs, and it didn't look like the luxury rentals that we paid an arm and a leg for.

When we filed through the maintenance hallway, we soon realized that we would be “swimming” to our entrance. Trash bags floated in the basement like ruptured balloons in a swamp. The current was so strong that I felt like a goldfish being flushed down the toilet. And still, it got deeper as we got closer and closer to the only way back to our homes. The guy with the dog was pulling his submerged golden retriever through the wreckage that smelt of New York sewer waters. My heart beat out of my chest as three of the men couldn't open the door because of the current. I felt like I was surviving the Titanic, except the ship was New York City, and I didn't have a Jack to save me. I wasn't a Rose.

And suddenly, the city had us to itself.

Reaching solid dry concrete was like reaching air after you've dived too deep in a pool. The relieving escape when waves have been rocking you back and forth too deep. We walked up the eleven stories and when I ran into my apartment, I scooped up my dog. “Nadia, I won’t leave you again, I promise,” I told her. The eye of the storm screamed at our high rise windows.

As I was looking out above the street lights, the power went out. Our building swayed back and forth as Water Street turned into a literal Water Street. I called my Dad and told him it looked like Venice. The cars, like little boats, submerged. The buildings little islands in a beautiful city. I wanted to take a picture, but New York City was too dark for that. It was the first time I’d been in the real dark in the City.

The people that didn't evacuate wanted to converse. There was no panic, but rather a sense of celebration. Twenty-somethings smoked in the hall. Music blared from the lofts. The sixth floor, in the lounge, was a congregation. Our 11^th floor group all descended to try to get news. I brought Nadia in her New York purse.

The lounge was lit up with candles. We all looked the same, privileged kids with high expectations, rich over-sized adults with so many dreams, yet no cares in the world. Playing pool like there were still lights. Drinking beers like there were still resources. Dancing like we were in Venice.

I told Frank that I had to leave. It was too loud for Nadia. She was a cherished addition to the party, but she could get lost, or hurt, and she was confused. I told him he could still play pool, to go to Brad’s. He said he’d walk me upstairs. I got into my New York apartment and set Nadia down. Frank lit up a cigarette. I reached into my purse for mine, and I realized that I left them two doors down in Brad’s apartment. I told him that I would be right back.

I smoked a cigarette in Brad’s apartment. I wish I would have never done that. Near the end of my smoke, Frank entered. I put my cigarette out and we went back to my place.

I wanted to go to bed, and so I called Nadia. I called Nadia. “Nadia, come here boo boo. Nads, come here love na night time.”

She didn't come.

I called again, this time with more urgency. “Nadia! Come here baby! Where are you? Come on baby!”

She didn't come.

The flashlight touched all the places she would go. Under the bed, under the covers, on the couch, in her house…She wasn't there.

“Nadia! Nadia! Nadia! Nadia! Nadia! Nadia…Nadia!”

I wanted more than anything to be able to turn on the lights. I lost the one thing that mattered to me that I brought to New York City and I started to feel the panic set in.

We ran into the hall, calling her, scouring the floors for the thing that mattered most. Knocking on every door, frantic. “Did you see a little Chihuahua with a pink collar? She was just here.”

“You go down, I go up,” I said to Frank. “And make sure you write down what every apartment says, or if they even answered.”

1216 – Didn't see her, gave me an additional flashlight

1215 – No answer

1214 – No answer

1217 – No answer

1212 – No answer

1211 – No answer

1210 – No answer

1209 – No answer

1208 – No answer

1207 – No answer

1201 – No answer

1206 – No answer

1202 – Didn't see

1204 – Didn't see

1205 – No answer

1203 – No answer

The notebooks are full. Did we miss a door?

There’s a thirteenth floor, then a fifteenth, then a sixteenth, then a seventeenth, but there’s an eighteenth. What about the nineteenth? Oh, and there’s still the twenties…21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29…

Is she below us? What about the 2^nd floor, or the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth? She’s not on the 10^th? Where is she? Oh my God, where is she?

There’s the 30s. She must be on the 30s.

30. 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38?

Why can’t I find her?

Maybe someone found her and decided to evacuate.

Once the phones work, they will call the number on her collar.

I listened at every door.

Do you hear that bark? Are they barking for her? Do you think she’s in here?

When is the power coming back on?

I left my apartment door open. Nadia knows her way home. Do you think she went back?

And I’m crying on the floor on the halls. No one, but maybe Sandy, hears me, and she laughs. I don’t want to believe Nadia is a victim of the storm.

“Where are you Nadia? Where are you? Please come home!”

Loving a Stranger

There is still conversation between you and me.
Even if it's in my head, it's what you would say.
But somehow, I still can't "get it."

"Why don't you love me anymore?"
"I do, I'm just so busy and I'm not ready."
"Love me."
"I do."
"Kiss me."
You do.

But somehow you can''t be mine forever. Not ever even anymore.

"When will you be ready?"
"I don't know, Courtni. It's not that easy."
Never.

I'm mad at you for letting me believe forever even existed.
I'm mad at you for being everything to me and now nothing means anything.
I'm mad at you for not letting it all be easy, like it was supposed to be.
I'm mad at you because you should be here, or I should be there, and we should be together.
I'm mad at me because it was my fault too.
I'm mad at me for never caring about myself.
I'm mad at my mom for helping me feel that way.
I'm mad at human emotion, because I should be over you by now.
I'm mad at my computer for holding your Valentine, and I'm mad at me for watching it a million times. I'm mad at the magazine, because no matter what I accomplish, you still are a part of it, and you shouldn't be.
I'm mad that I didn't have a smoothie waiting for you after you passed the BAR exam. I'm mad that some random people helped you celebrate.
I'm mad that you live in your grandmas's duplex without me.
I'm mad that I sobbed at your grandppa's funeral and I couldn't take my eyes off of you at my own grandma's funeral.
I'm mad that I have this picture in my head, of us, and a baby, our baby, and that he probably won't exist.
I'm mad that you cried when I was moving to New York and how it didn't mean anything at all.
I'm mad that we both exist, yet I'm not with you and you don't see how universes and sunsets and harmony exists for us. Only for us. For us.