Recreating the Magic

NOVEMBER 10, 2009

In free fall, having been violently ejected from the exploding fuselage of a dysfunctional relationship, plummeting through blck smoke towards foreign terrain at terminal velocity with no reasonable expectation of survival, I started this blog.

My luggage was strewn for miles, getting stuck in high tree branches, or burned beyond all recognition. Some of the lighter things were carried by the wind far from where I’d ever find them again, and the heavier things were too cumbersome to carry. I grabbed what I could, what I thought was worth saving at the time, and began to write my way through the jungle.

In a lot of ways, I would’ve been better off not writing everything down — the whining, the crying, the drinking, the fucking — or at least not sharing what I wrote with the Internet. Although more people visited this blog when things were messy, the people I was meeting, or already knew, weren’t always keen on my compulsive sharing.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

Fast forward to when I met my wife. We met on MySpace, did you know that? During the brief window between Friendster and Facebook. We traded emails for nearly a year before we finally met, which meant that she had plenty of time to follow the pointless shenanigans on my blog and have second thoughts. Looking back, I don’t blame her for having them.

Last night, we decided to retrace the steps of our first date. I don’t know why — it’s not an anniversary of any kind — we just did.

First stop, a bar in Williamsburg called Savalas, where we each had the same drink that we had on the night we met. The bartender clapped when we walked in, because it was nearly the end of her shift and she hadn’t had any customers.

“What are you guys up to tonight?” she asked as she poured our drinks.

“We’re married,” said Deborah, “And this is where we had our first date.”

“Oh, cool. Is it your anniversary?”

“No. Just decided to come here for some reason.”

“Cool. How long ago was your first date?”

“Five years.”

“Oh wow. I’ve only been working here for two weeks.”

“Cheers.”

The original “Night of the Living Dead” was playing on a projection screen against the bar’s back wall.

“Do you guys know this movie?” the girl asked. “It’s the original.”

“Of course,” I said. “Deborah grew up outside of Pittsburgh, not far from where this film was shot.”

“Oh, cool.”

“Zombies terrify me,” said Deborah. “I was just talking about them the other day. About how scary they are.”

“Oh, I can take this off if you want,” the girl said. “I have a couple of other movies here…”

“No, no, it’s fine. I like zombie movies. I mean, I purposely watch them. But they terrify me.”

Deborah and I don’t drink much these days, and after only two drinks, we were starting to feel loopy. “We should grab some dinner now, don’t you think?”

We thanked the bartender, put on our coats, and headed to a place called Hurricane Hopeful for some food. Neither one of us could remember what we ate the night of our first date. “I think you had a lobster roll,” said Deborah.

“No way. I wouldn’t have ordered that.”

“I think you did. I remember thinking it was expensive for a lobster roll.”

“Maybe. I don’t think so. I’ve eaten here maybe five times in my life, and I always get the same thing: clam chowder and a burger.”

Regardless, neither of us stuck to the rules anyway, and we each ordered something new: Fish and chips.

My blog used to be littered with pictures of my reflection in graffiti-strewn mirrors, and Deborah told me to take a picture of myself in the bathroom for old times’ sake. Out of practice in the self-portrait department, however, this one didn’t turn out very well.