Being Frank
A quote by John Lennon, “If you had the luck of the Irish, you'd be sorry and wish you were dead." OK, Well this is a bit extreme but still the luck of the Irish is shite, and here is why in my case 10 or so years ago. It was St. Patty’s Day. I was 25 living in Philadelphia. I had planned a trip to see Frank, my boyfriend of two years and my first true love who had recently moved to Manhattan to finish his degree at Bard. I was both excited and nervous to see him: It had been two months since his move, and although we talked on the phone for hours and he came to visit, neither of us discussed what this move meant.
I boarded the train via NJ Transit and shared a car with a bunch of Irish revelers. Beers in hand, voices loud and hearty, they bellowed about the parties they were headed toward— and their merriment was contagious. An Irish- American myself, I was anxious to partake in their green pride. I’d looked forward to a perfectly shaped clover sculpted into the head of a pint of Guinness and losing my inhibitions at Flannery’s. Frank, being of English decent, would claim to have 15 percent green blood in him—it didn’t hurt that he knew the words to all of the traditional songs.
Frank, always a gentleman, met me at Penn Station. He made my heart jump upon seeing him: tall, 6-feet-2, big blue eyes, sandy blond hair now shaved. His frame was thinner since his move two months prior. He took my bag and my hand, and we took the 1 train to Tribeca and the huge loft he shared with friends. When Frank and I were living together in Philadelphia, we used to visit his friends here. Back then, the space seemed so New York, and so did his roommates: actors, film producers and art directors—they were arrogant and wild. Although my cool self would feel inadequate in their presence, they would unfailingly create a memorable night of debauchery. When we arrived, I couldn’t wait to get warm, have a beer and head out into the night. Upon arriving this time, however, I realized that this wasn’t going to be the visit I had imagined.
The apartment wasn’t full of roommates: It was just Mike, a mutual friend of ours, and two Australian birds. I felt I had walked in on their double date. Both the girls were drunk and surly, demanding more drinks to continue their St. Patty’s buzz. Frank happily fulfilled them. I focused on the TV so I could grasp the picture that was laid out before me. Basketball was on. I knew how fanatical Frank was about March Madness and how changing the channel would cause him to go completely apeshit.
It was then that one of the girls whined, “Can I change the channel, basketball is so bor-ing.” I looked to Frank and waited for the freak out, but instead he enthusiastically responded, “Of course, whatever you want,” and went to the kitchen replenishing their gin and tonics.
After a few more minutes of nobody acknowledging my presence, one of the girls draped herself over my boyfriend and asked, “So, who’s the ice princess?” “This,” he said, excluding my title of girlfriend, “is Bridget.” I asked Frank where he found such a quality gem. He lowered his voice, asked me not to make a scene and answered. “We met at Flannery’s tonight after I called to invite you down.” Seething, I grabbed my coat, my eyes filled up rapidly. “Bridget, where are you going?” he yelled.
“I’m leaving.” I awaited the lame lines like, ‘what’s wrong?’ ‘Stay’. Instead, he bypassed the bullshit and leaped into, “ok, I’ll walk you back.”
What a fucking gentleman! I ran into his bedroom grabbing my coat from his bed, and even seconds mentally taking in his bedroom, his dresser, the bed I bought him for Christmas for his move, the photo of us framed on his dresser next to the Atlas Shrugged book he adored and read over and over again, obnoxiously.
I threw my coat over myself as I frantically searched for my life support, my cigarettes. I fled down the 55 steps of his, cold, drafty, ugly, run-down, arrogant loft while fishing for my lighter in my left pocket, and freeing a Marlboro Light from the other. I needed to light it before I stepped outside to keep from fainting with grief. The door slammed behind me and I walked down the street in the freezing cold. Frank was trailing behind trying to catch up before I reached the 1 at Chambers. I was sobbing uncontrollably, and shaking. How could he be so cold, so disrespectful to me? Clearly, he no longer felt the same way towards me anymore.
After two years of commitment, I couldn’t understand how he could bring a barfly back to his place while I was on my way to see him. The person he had become was unrecognizable to me, and quite frankly repulsive. Who was this guy? He finally caught up; I was on my way down the subway steps when he screamed, “Bridget! Wait! Stop!” Finally, any glimmer of hope I had in him recognizing his faults, and regretting his actions, he grabbed my arm firmly; I turned towards him achingly looking up at him, my nose red, my eyes swollen and asked, “What”?
“Bridge….. you can’t smoke down there.”
I just stood there astounded, and tried to absorb those ridiculous, vapid words as they vibrated in my head. I ran downstairs underground, through the turnstile and boarded the train. I wanted to let everything rush out of me till I was dry. I was a wreck, falling apart, I wondered how and when if ever, will I ever feel better again? It was then, that I looked up and saw him sitting across from me. I was flabbergasted, not only because he was seeing me back to the station, but because I looked down at his hands, in his lap he was that fucking Atlas Shrugged book. It was then when a grin washed over my face, and thought, I will be just fine.
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