A few years ago I took French class at the Alliance Francais. I always wanted to speak French and since I had booked a trip to Paris I thought that at least learning to how say important things like "where is the bathroom" and "no, I do not have any STD's" in French would be helpful for my trip. The class was small and no one knew a word of the language. I was pleased with that as I am really, really slow at picking up languages and thought that if I was in room full of people who knew French already, I would have to run and hide. I haven't even mastered English. Anyway, I made friends with some people and then also noticed the one cute boy in class. It was easy, he was the only one. Patrick lived in my neighborhood so we'd take the subway home together and talk. He was an engraver at Tiffany's and a budding artist -- really tall and good looking in that skinny Clark Kent sort of way. We had wonderful talks on the way home but that was it. No asking of my digits, no nothin'. At the end of the semester we went our separate ways.
Then a few months later on one autumn Saturday night I was out riding my bike (I was on my way to meet Aaron for a late night bike ride) and who do I see but Patrick. He seemed genuinely happy to see me and this time I took the pen from his bag and wrote my number for him. "Caaaaaaaaall me," I said mimicking that psychic on tv. And call he did. We went out a few times - to dinner, to a movie, for drinks that lasted hours in length. But he never made a move. Hmm, I thought. Is he really that shy or is this a case of a guy being sort of attracted to me but not wanting to make a move because he liked the friendship? Uck, not that again, I thought. Friends told me to be patient, that maybe he was a gentleman and that I shouldn't rush things. Rush things? What things?
One particular night at KGB bar, the night before Thanksgiving in fact, we stayed out for around five hours, talking talking talking about things. I had a coupla drinks and so did Patrick. He sat next to me. It was dark. The wind was howling outside. Earlier in the evening we went to the Upper West Side to see the Thanksgiving Day balloons. This was all kinda romantic -- you know, except without the actual romance. At around 2AM we left the bar and were walking up 2nd Avenue. I lived on 14th Street and thought that maybe he'd finally bust a move outside my door. But at St. Marks Place Patrick decided to "head east" to get pizza. No, he did not ask me if I wanted a slice (yes, I wanted a slice -- of something) and no he did not offer to walk me home. I looked at him, baffled, and sauntered away mumbling to myself. I had decided that was IT. Ok, so you don't want to make out with me, but I am a stickler for being walked home. It's just manners.
The next day I spoke to my friend Lucas, who coined Patrick "Pizza Boy." Let him eat pizza, I thought. Funk him. But a week later I was still thinking about him when the phone rang -- and who was it but Patrick. I mean, Pizza Boy. He was calling to see if I wanted to go out for drinks with him. "I don't think so," I said. He seemed confused as to why I didn't want to see him and that's when I asked him what we were doing. "Have these been dates or what,?" I asked. "That's a very good question," he retorted. He had no idea. Which was just so great for my ego. I mean, he couldn't decide if he liked me or not? Gee, thanks. That's when I said "Well, let's just say they weren't dates then. We can just be friends." I was covering up big-time and no, I had no intention of wanting to be friends with him. Again, funk that. I hung up the phone and stared at it for a good hour.
Life went on and about a month or so later, guess who calls again? Pizza Boy! Seemed he wanted to go out again. Sigh. That's when I asked him if he remembered what I said about being friends. "Well, I lied," I said. "I liked you and you knew I liked you and you were unsure so I let you off the hook. But that doesn't mean I want to be friends. I was just saying that. That's what people who are embarrassed say." "Oh, " he said.
After that, he didn't call.
Months and months later (possibly years - I forget but it was after I met Doug and got engaged to him) I ran into Pizza Boy. Again, he seemed happy to see me, in a really genuine way. He was with a girl and I was with Doug and it wasn't weird. We all seemed happy and relaxed. I felt really grown up. We could all be friends -- yet wouldn't (the way it should be.) Anyway, I'd run into him from time to time, he'd check my website, order my zine, send me nice notes about my writing. Whatta nice guy. All's well that ends well, eh?
Then today I got a card in the mail. This card has a map on it that points to the tree in Tompkins Sq. Park that commemorates Patrick's death. Yeah, DEATH. The notice came with no note, no telephone number, no explanation. What tha? So I googled him. And unfortunately this is what I found. (third item)
R.I.P. friend.
Then a few months later on one autumn Saturday night I was out riding my bike (I was on my way to meet Aaron for a late night bike ride) and who do I see but Patrick. He seemed genuinely happy to see me and this time I took the pen from his bag and wrote my number for him. "Caaaaaaaaall me," I said mimicking that psychic on tv. And call he did. We went out a few times - to dinner, to a movie, for drinks that lasted hours in length. But he never made a move. Hmm, I thought. Is he really that shy or is this a case of a guy being sort of attracted to me but not wanting to make a move because he liked the friendship? Uck, not that again, I thought. Friends told me to be patient, that maybe he was a gentleman and that I shouldn't rush things. Rush things? What things?
One particular night at KGB bar, the night before Thanksgiving in fact, we stayed out for around five hours, talking talking talking about things. I had a coupla drinks and so did Patrick. He sat next to me. It was dark. The wind was howling outside. Earlier in the evening we went to the Upper West Side to see the Thanksgiving Day balloons. This was all kinda romantic -- you know, except without the actual romance. At around 2AM we left the bar and were walking up 2nd Avenue. I lived on 14th Street and thought that maybe he'd finally bust a move outside my door. But at St. Marks Place Patrick decided to "head east" to get pizza. No, he did not ask me if I wanted a slice (yes, I wanted a slice -- of something) and no he did not offer to walk me home. I looked at him, baffled, and sauntered away mumbling to myself. I had decided that was IT. Ok, so you don't want to make out with me, but I am a stickler for being walked home. It's just manners.
The next day I spoke to my friend Lucas, who coined Patrick "Pizza Boy." Let him eat pizza, I thought. Funk him. But a week later I was still thinking about him when the phone rang -- and who was it but Patrick. I mean, Pizza Boy. He was calling to see if I wanted to go out for drinks with him. "I don't think so," I said. He seemed confused as to why I didn't want to see him and that's when I asked him what we were doing. "Have these been dates or what,?" I asked. "That's a very good question," he retorted. He had no idea. Which was just so great for my ego. I mean, he couldn't decide if he liked me or not? Gee, thanks. That's when I said "Well, let's just say they weren't dates then. We can just be friends." I was covering up big-time and no, I had no intention of wanting to be friends with him. Again, funk that. I hung up the phone and stared at it for a good hour.
Life went on and about a month or so later, guess who calls again? Pizza Boy! Seemed he wanted to go out again. Sigh. That's when I asked him if he remembered what I said about being friends. "Well, I lied," I said. "I liked you and you knew I liked you and you were unsure so I let you off the hook. But that doesn't mean I want to be friends. I was just saying that. That's what people who are embarrassed say." "Oh, " he said.
After that, he didn't call.
Months and months later (possibly years - I forget but it was after I met Doug and got engaged to him) I ran into Pizza Boy. Again, he seemed happy to see me, in a really genuine way. He was with a girl and I was with Doug and it wasn't weird. We all seemed happy and relaxed. I felt really grown up. We could all be friends -- yet wouldn't (the way it should be.) Anyway, I'd run into him from time to time, he'd check my website, order my zine, send me nice notes about my writing. Whatta nice guy. All's well that ends well, eh?
Then today I got a card in the mail. This card has a map on it that points to the tree in Tompkins Sq. Park that commemorates Patrick's death. Yeah, DEATH. The notice came with no note, no telephone number, no explanation. What tha? So I googled him. And unfortunately this is what I found. (third item)
R.I.P. friend.
when i knew him. so so sad.
The weird tale of the day. Who do you think sent the post card about the tree?
Judy
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