Saying Goodbye to a Friend


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May 10th 2010
Saved: July 12th 2020
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I finished my second term of grad school in late April, the joy of being released from school and the coming warmth of Spring mitigated by one of the hardest breakups I have ever faced.

And then it was time to leave Pittsburgh.

I wasn't going to miss it. I've already detailed in much length how much I hated Pittsburgh. True, one does connect to a place more than one will let on, but its not really a connection to a location. It's a connection to the people at the location, the memories at the location...not the actual location itself.

I didn't have too many fond memories of Pittsburgh. Most of the good ones revolved around getting drunk and doing stupid shit with my friends, or talking to my girlfriend—err, ex-girlfriend—through a Skype connection. And all the friends I made in Pittsburgh, I would meet in two weeks.

Plus, I'm a hardened nomad. Though one can never get used to it, I do have experience feeling the sadness of tearing down my old life, and then the mounting excitement as you move to a new location, and having to start everything all over again. I flew the
The one bit of green...The one bit of green...The one bit of green...

in my old neighborhood
coop and escaped to Montreal at 17 for college, then summers had me in Yokohama, Tokyo, Texas and Tokyo. Every year in college, I had a different group I hung out with, even summers in Tokyo I rarely stuck to the same group of friends.

So I don't really feel sad leaving a place. I feel empty parting with friends, but the wonders of the Internet and social networking do help lessen the empty feeling.

But there is one place I feel a connection to: New York City.




It's easy to say New York City is the #1 city in the world, and its exciting and amazing and there's never a boring day (all true), but obviously my connection to it is deeper than that. Fully explaining my connection to this city would make this entry longer than a black man's credit report, so let's just say its my hometown. For anyone who has had the privilege to live in one city for their whole life, they can relate.

Everytime I visit, I'm always harshly reminded that this is the one city I miss. The actual city, and not the friends, or the memories.

But what about family?

Over the past 5 years (4 years of undergrad and 1 year of grad), I've been in New York City probably a total of a month. This is not an exaggeration. My family, though they care and love me like any stable family does, are more American than they admit. They always preach being independent, and not relying on others.

In fact, if tickets from New York City to Montreal or Tokyo weren't so cheap so I could use our house as a traveling hub (let's say my parents lived in Boise, Idaho, for example), I probably would have never visited in 5 years. True talk.

But what about friends?

Though I do have friends in the city, few of them I really care about. All my friends from elementary school (from the gritty Lower East Side hood), I stopped talking to after elementary school. All my friends from middle school (the old money Upper East Side area), I stopped talking to after middle school. And all my friends from high school (in the swanky Financial District), I stopped talking to after I went to Montreal. There's only a few people I actually make an effort to meet in the few days I'm in the city per year.

Yea, its the city.




One of these few friends is L-Kat (I’ve mentioned her before in this blog).

Calling her a friend, though, doesn't serve our bond much justice. We are friends, and we get along well…just…

There’s that odd shimmer in the air when we glance at each other. We’re both mature enough to recognize it, but we’re also both experienced enough not to act on it.

Maybe if we had met at a more naïve and younger stage, I wouldn’t have repressed my feelings and let them build until I gushed them out and she would’ve acted on her emotions and gushed back.

But we both know, there isn’t much point. I’m never in NYC, she doesn't have much intention of leaving. Long distance never works. And its too emotionally hard. Especially after the trauma of my ex.

So every time our eyes meet and my heart jolts and that old tingle starts traveling through my bloodstream, I stop myself. I turn away. Or I quickly introduce a new subject. And if I don’t do it, she quickly picks up the slack.

We are friends. Nothing more.




She invited me to a birthday party for Dragon, a mutual friend of ours from high school. She had organized it for him, and in true Asian fashion, it was at a karaoke joint.

I showed up, a little awkward because everyone else knew everyone else. I was only connected through L-Kat (whom I meet roughly once a year), and Dragon (who I haven’t even talked to since high school, and even in high school, we barely talked).

But the thing is, I’m rarely awkward for more than a few seconds. Firstly, I can make myself interesting for other people to talk to, and secondly, alcohol makes everything better.

Talking was out because some jackass who thought he was the next American Idol was crooning Lady Gaga and was really into it (“You don’t understand, she speaks to my soul!”). That left alcohol. Problem was, this was a mostly Asian party. They split a pitcher 10 ways. At this rate, I would reach drunkness when an Asian hits the White House.

Time to change it up.

I grabbed Dragon. “Let’s go to the bar, I owe you a birthday drink.”

The bartender sidled up. “What would you like, sir?”

“Three triples of whiskey and two beers.”

He did a once-over at my skinny frame. “Are you sure?”

“With all due respect, you don’t know me.”

I handed Dragon a triple and a beer, grabbed two triples and a beer for myself and smirked.

“Happy birthday.”




After ten minutes, it was apparent I didn’t know myself either.

I had forgotten that due to a busy schedule, I hadn’t eaten dinner. Or lunch.

Swimming in my stomach was 9 ounces of whiskey and 16 ounces of Heineken. And nothing else.

What made matters worse was the exorbitant Manhattan bar prices…those 5 drinks had ripped a hole in my credit card, wallet and credit report, making the buying of any food unobtainable.

And now I was drunk in a room full of sober Asians who I had never met before.

...Time for Gen to go nuts.

I hesitated. I paused.

If I had learned anything this year, it was that I couldn’t force myself into a situation that wasn’t accommodating. If I did my usual thing here, it would just be insanely awkward for everyone involved. It would make L-Kat embarrassed for inviting me, it would make everyone else have a bad time.

I stopped myself. Just try to sober up. Talk to people. Don’t do your usual thing.

I slowly made my way around the room, introducing myself, making small talk (“Oh cool, you’re in medical school? Never would’ve guessed.”), but avoiding L-Kat. I was still drunk, and I was afraid of what I would say if confronted.




After an hour of hearing atrocious karaoke performances and testing the limits of my patience by talking about school with every single person, I walked outside. I couldn’t take this shit. I needed a breath of fresh air.

I stood outside, back leaned up against a wall, hands in my pocket, letting the night air cool my Asian glow face.

L-Kat came out and stood next to me. She lit up and blew a cloud skywards.

She turned to me. “You avoiding me homie?”

I turned to her, “I…” I trailed off, just staring at her.

I jerked my head back forward, intently staring at the fire hydrant straight ahead.

She slowly turned forward as well. Still looking ahead, she raised the pack towards me. “Cigarette?”

I found my voice. “Yea.” I teased one out and placed it between my lips.

She clicked the lighter on, lifted it towards my cigarette and I inhaled.

We spent the next ten minutes silently smoking and staring at the most interesting fire hydrant of all time.




By and by, the party petered out. When alcohol is not prevalent, parties tend to get dull fairly quickly, especially when the same bastard plays “Telephone” by Lady Gaga eight fucking times. And even more so when the guy singing Gaga has the voice of an auto-tuned William Hung with lung cancer.

The party stood outside the karaoke bar, doing the customary, “Oh, we should soooo do this again. Call me up, yea?” and “Yeah, I had lot’s of fun!”, but all secretly wishing cursing Lady Gaga’s existence.

In the midst of this all, I stood off to the side. I didn’t really know any of these people, so I was blissfully dismissed from this small talk nonsense, and Dragon seemed to be comatose from the alcohol. Which left L-Kat…

She turned to hug and we both happened to look into the other’s eyes. And for the first time, our eyes locked.

She transferred her arms from my torso to my neck, cupping the nape with both hands.

She leaned in.

I leaned in.

And just as quickly as it started, it stopped. We paused. She still had a look in her eyes, but it was controlled. I looked down.

Not tonight. Probably not ever.

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

I left.

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