back home
Being home is like seeing all my mistakes laid out in front of me. It is a road map of bad decisions, most made from innocence and ignorance when I still possessed both of those. A long time ago, indeed.
I go shopping with Sheldon, and I see the rooftop where I let Antoine fuck me when we were 17 because he said it was dark and no one would see, and I was just so pretty that he had to have me right then. Halfway through the owner came out and threw an orange at us, threatened to call the police, and we scrambled down the back and fled without any shoes, laughing but scared shitless.
I sit outside sipping a cafe, and there is the doorway I slept in for a week when I ran away at 15, because I was a brash, stubborn rich boy who didn't want to listen to lectures about responsibility. A cat lived in the alley nearby and I fed it bits of my food, and then a car ran it over and I slunk back home.
There are so many of these places. Here is where I had my first taste of cocaine. There is the club where I fucked a guy and didn't even know his name--up against the wall by the telephone, hands in each other's pants, no kissing. This is where Patrice and I got picked up by police, 13 years old and so drunk we were falling down in the street, and our parents hadn't seen us in three days. They would have taken us off to sober us up if they hadn't recognized my father's name.
And there is my uncle's old apartment, still dark and cold, even though he doesn't live there anymore. I walk by that place and look up into the dark windows, and it smells like the back seat of his car, Italian leather and new-car smell. There is a woman living there now; I see her move through the windows, making dinner, watching TV. I wonder if she knew my uncle, if she knew who lived there before her. I wonder if she ever takes little boys to her bed. I wonder if she sleeps well at night, or if she had nightmares like me, nameless faces, faceless names, all these stupid mistakes coming back to me night after night after night.