The Extra Man

It always seemed harder for me. Something about writers being people who find writing more difficult than others. I am unsure if I know who told me that, but it is only sometimes true. Like how sometimes wearing all black makes you look thinner, but sometimes it just emphasizes things you meant to hide. Like the fact that you sweat. Because white lines on the sides of your shirt can mean only one thing. And sometimes, wearing all black means that you have something else to hide. Like the fact that you have no idea what you’re doing.

The boy I am kissing in front of the Pink should have come a few chapters back, but we never consummate our relationship until this point. Possibly because he almost died after our first date. I mean this figuratively. He has moved away from the city of Buffalo and come back more than anyone I know. Mostly he was trying to escape the wasteland of this city, but he was also engaged to a lady in Tennessee, studying in Texas, and doing nothing in New York City. He has written erotic romance stories for magazines, but he wouldn’t show them to me.

The day I meet him is a sunny afternoon in March. He is sitting at Spot Coffee on Elmwood. I order an iced Americano and he looks at me over a Jonathan Ames book called “Metamorphosis.” It’s a series of memoirs by transvestites. Since no one in Buffalo knows who Jonathan Ames is, I walk over. We walk to the park and talk about things that don't matter now, because the rest of this day is a horrible mess. By this I mean that as we are walking around Delaware Park we are ambushed by a bitch of a thunderstorm. I say bitch because only a woman could cry that hard. We are lackadaisical about getting back to somewhere dry. He walks me to my car and even though he is soaking wet I do not give him a ride home.

I do not hear from him for over two years. Then I see him outside of school one day. I ask to borrow his lighter, just to make sure it is him.

I call him late at night and tell him I am going home to get my portfolio and my toothbrush and that I will be over shortly.

We are too destructive to make it work.

I wonder what it is like not to write about sex or drugs or New York City. What do other people write about if not these things? How do I tap human emotion if I am not sure I am human?