To Do Or, Not To Do
“And when I write the book about my love,
it’ll be a heartbreaking story about love and luck.
When I get down on the pages, all I felt,
it will make the hardest-hearted of critics’ hearts melt—”
August 8, 2004
When I went out this afternoon, I ran into Jen, the coffee shop girl from down the street. She was sitting on the bench outside the coffee shop, killing time before her work shift. Her hair is getting long, and I almost didn't recognize her. Her feet were up on the bench, with a notebook resting on her knees. She was busily writing something down, but she looked up as I passed and said hello.
"Hey Jen," I replied. "How're you doing?"
"I'm good," she said, straightening her legs and stretching her silver-painted toes. "How are you?”
"I haven't seen you in a while."
"I've been here," she said, gesturing over her shoulder toward the coffee shop.
"Yeah, I guess I haven't been."
"What have you been up to?"
"Nothing. Just laying low," I said. "I'll come visit you soon."
"Come see me later. I work tonight."
I told her I'd stop by on my way back from where I was headed. Before I left her, though, I had to ask, "What are you writing?"
She looked embarrassed, and I suddenly felt bad for asking. "Sorry," I said. "Is it a secret letter?".
"Yeah. A secret letter," she nodded, and then added, "to myself."
"Things to do?" I asked. "Or maybe not to do."
"Things I've done," she replied. "Stupid things."
After that, I decided to drop the subject.
I went into Manhattan for a few hours, and as promised, stopped in to see Jen on my way home.
"Hey," she said as I walked in. "Did you know there's an open bar from 9 till 11 at the place around the corner?"
"No kidding," I replied. "Seriously?"
"I think so."
It turned out she was right. There was an art opening featuring paintings by a variety of tattoo artists cluttered on the bar's black walls. A burlesque band from San Francisco played for an hour, as free beer flowed into Styrofoam cups.
"Keep your cup," warned the bartender as she handed me a drink.
I'd been there for about half an hour when I recognized someone.
"Excuse me," I said and tapped her shoulder. "I've met you before. I'm a friend of Brian's."
"Oh yeah, you look familiar. You guys kind of look alike."
"We get that sometimes."
"Brian is officially my most favorite person in the world," she proclaimed. "I went with him to our friend's wedding this weekend—” Brian had told me about this wedding. It was held at a fancy hotel on the Hudson River in upstate New York. Brian was complaining that the rooms were $350 a night and up. The hotel was remote, and there were no other options close by. He felt it was a lot to ask of wedding guests to shell out that kind of money. The only way he was able to stay was to share a room with a couple of people. This girl was one of them. "Brian went fishing the next day," the girl told me. "And he caught our dinner. That was the defining moment for me. I mean, I always liked him. But when he caught our dinner, it became official: my most favorite person in the world."
She introduced me to a friend of hers, a tattoo artist from South Wales named Emma. Emma and I exchanged pleasantries, and then Emma asked how I knew her friend. I mentioned Brian and asked her if she knew him. She couldn't decide. She turned to her friend and asked, "Have I ever met Brian before?"
"You may have," she replied. "He's extraordinarily good-looking.”
Since Brian's friend had already told me that Brian and I kind of looked alike, I decided I was free to store that away as a personal compliment. Though the way she was fawning, I’m sure she’d be quick to remind me that she’d said, “kind of”.
"Oh yeah," said Emma, "I know who you mean. I met him once or twice."
Brian's friend went to mingle, and Emma and I were left to talk.
"Where are you from?" asked Emma.
"You mean, where am I from originally? Where did I grow up?"
Living in New York, you get the question a lot. Nearly everyone is from somewhere else.
"Yes," she said. "Where'd you grow up?"
"New Jersey."
"Oh," she said with surprise. "I thought you sounded British or something. Or maybe Dutch."
"No," I said. "I just talk funny."
This led to a discussion about Amsterdam and Wales, green cards and passports. Another tattooist sat down and joined us. He sounded American, and the girl from Wales and I were shocked when he revealed he was from Sweden. "Wow," said Emma. "Your accent is really good."
"I watched a lot of American sitcoms growing up,” he said.
“Funny, I did, too,” I said. “But it doesn’t seem to have helped me.”
He asked me where I was from, and he was equally surprised to learn I was American.
"It sounds like you have an accent," he said. “Do you get told that a lot?”
“A lot in general, no, A lot tonight? Yes.”
In a predictable progression of getting-to-know-you questions, we moved on from "Where did you grow up?" to "What do you do?"
"I do lots of stuff," I said. "Freelance this and that." Then I let it slip that I'm putting the final touches on a book I've written.
"Oh really?" said Emma. "What's it about?"
I barely opened my mouth before she interrupted me. "Wait. Let me guess. It's autobiographical.”
“Essentially.”
"I knew it."
I explained the plot a little bit, and she nodded as if she’d heard it all before..
"Yeah, yeah," I said. "I know. The dreaded ’breakup novel’. Everyone's got one, right?"
She laughed. "I knew it," she said again.
"Okay," I admitted, feeling defensive. "It's true that everyone talks about writing a book. But I didn't just talk about it. I actually did it. Doesn’t that count for something?"
"I don't know," she said, sounding unconvinced. "Maybe some things are better off not being written."
As a tattoo artist, I’m sure she’d seen her share of things that shouldn’t have been written. But I’ve come this far, it would be a shame not to follow through. Even if people mock me for it.
