Rock Bottom

Recently, I’ve been a fiend for Sudoku.

My journey had been relatively peaceful, nondescript until now. Today, Sarah told me the New York Times reminds her of me. I’ll take it. (She said it was because I’m the only white American she’s friends with). After admitting I’m a bit of a fraud - recently, I’ve barely made it past the headlines, I told her about my recent habit of doing their Sudoku puzzles.

You know, I’ve never seen Pulp Fiction, but I imagine it’s about a paper manufacturer (tree pulp, fiction). Because of this, and because it’s so well known, my next reasonable conclusion would be that there’s a dramatic, show-stopping scene where some big boss, or ‘the Man,’ tells his employee (a girl with a black bob and bangs) some crushing news. To cope, she walks off to smoke a cigarette. (If you asked me what happens next, I’d say she throws the cigarette on the ground, distracted by her thoughts, and the factory catches fire).

I imagined myself to be the bangs and bob girl, struggling under the weight of this new burden. It felt like I got slapped in the face. “Easy??” “Easy!?” Like many things this summer, it caused me to start questioning my reality. Maybe I DID need to continue soul-searching.

The ‘Easy’ level, I’ll admit, is a breeze. The ‘Medium’ is doable. The ‘Hard’ level, though, while I can always complete it, does take me a minute. Sometimes, I taste the sweet tang of defeat and use auto-check part way through. Hey - who says I can’t be vulnerable?

The rock bottom I landed on brought me back to the story I’ve told most of you, one fateful night on the Brooklyn Promenade. It had been a pretty hot day for early summer, but the temperature was finally beginning to lighten up. With Celeste to keep me company, I pulled my arms tight to my chest.

Right before this, I had discovered the Italian language. While my feelings for Italians as people are nothing short of neutral, I was hyper-fixating on a couple of Italian phrases, ‘molto bene’ being one of them. You know the cliché, hope sets you up for disappointment? I’m not usually someone who subscribes to this; I think it makes life nothing short of boring, but, if you will, on this night, you could find me across enemy lines.

I was so far from hope I wouldn’t even know it if it looked me twice in the face. I didn’t allow myself to believe my Italian accent was any good (this is a lie) because if I believed it, my ego would soar dangerously high. Much like Icarus, I have flown too close to the sun before, and I learned my lesson (I had not learned my lesson).

The conversation continued, and it soon came time for me to use my new Italian catchphrase once more. “Molto bene.”

As if summoned by some greater force, as soon as the words flew off my tongue, someone asked a question.

“Are you from here?”

I wondered if it was what Amelia Earhart felt like soaring in the skies, looking down on the people below her and the vast open seas. Did they think I was Italian? Everything I had ever dreamed of seemed possible. Could it be true? I had never wanted to change my heritage so badly. Maybe I was Italian? Maybe she was right? It could be more than just genetics; it’s a feeling. Italian.

Shaking me out of my daydream, the inquirer continued her question, asking what Pier 17 was and what type of events they hosted.

She didn’t think I was Italian. I was crushed. Gone was the story I had begun imagining for myself, who I could have been if things were different.

I could still compare myself to Amelia Earhart; although, this time it was a little later in her journey.

Pier 17. Later, this same pier would force me to listen to a Yung Blud concert across the water (thank you, particle density). Over and over. When will it stop?