When i was 21, I lived in Crown Heights Brooklyn with a 30 year old republican who enjoyed fast food and King Of Queens. We lived in one of the smallest rooms in a brownstone tenement and we were not together too terribly long. That was in the winter and spring of 2001, and while we did not in fact like each other, we claimed to be very deeply in love despite everything about two people like us being all wrong (and truly, I'm fairly certain it was the only reason we were together to begin with... because it was all sooo very interesting). That man was my boyfriend, at one point even my fiance, that man was who I lived with when I one day decided to move to New York for on my 21st birthday.
That man is not who I got the call about at 9:45 on the second last night.
The man I was sleeping with, the subject of said calls didn't even live in Crown Heights, was a year younger than me... the Prat boy with the perfect gray eyes, the one who would meet me at Accidental Records with a bottle of Jameson and talk me into leaving 2 hours early, into claiming I had to work at the club short notice and wouldn't be home that night... he was a photography student-- never put his camera away even knowing I hated, then, to be photographed, even knowing I was terrified that in some fit of jealousy those pictures of me huddled on the train in his jacket, sipping coffee bare-legged in his school sweater perched on kitchen counter, would end up at my boyfriends office, in our mailbox, slid under our door in some moments jealousy or anger or resentment, territorial male claiming of one sort or another. He was the man who taught me "There's nothing you will ever be sorry you have a picture of... always take a picture", advice that to this day, no matter what, I heed.
Even when we met, it was not his eyes that met mine but his flash. 2 weeks in New york, crying outside of the Odessa on the phone to Athena "I don't want to be here... I hate this place, I hate this man, I hate temping, I want to come home!" And, there was a flash (literal), and that night I didn't go home. Nor did I go back to the Brownstone on Lincoln Place off of Kingston. It was the first morning I liked waking up in New York, it was the first time I had liked the feeling of someone taking my picture with no outfit on, no makeup, no pose... just a cup of coffee, a borrowed sweater, a hangover and a lack of obligation.
I still send him pictures of me every now and again. When I was younger, still perfect, they were more like the ones he took of me that winter and spring... in pajamas with hot beverages, gardening with dirt on my nose and my shirt unbuttoned too low, my robe too undone and sliding off of my shoulder resting on my breast as I lounged tragically with the flu. Over the years there has been every few months an exchange of this and that, he's sent pictures of his dog, a tree in his back yard he thought I would have liked the flowers on if the light had been better. And I have sent the pictures truer of our age now... the new place, the most horrible thing he won't believe I've done to my hair, pregnancy, pictures of my new born daughters foot next to a quarter for perspective... most recently of myself combing my hair surrounded by the golden glow of my flimsy bathroom lighting, this one taken by my now 5 year old daughter nearly 10 years after that night in the East Village that he first put me to film (it was real film still, then). That one was sent via email a little under a month ago, the picture as the body of the message, this text added in as formality...
Hello, monster man, thought this may amuse what with the door-frame bit-- it made me giggle anyway. God, let her stay away from Prat boys if she must go photographer on me. Hope you are well, it has been a longer month than usual here, but then I'm always complaining about the month. I plan on visiting a friend late this summer your way, I hope you will find some time. Really, I do, it would be absolutely wonderful to see you. It's been three years since I was living in Bay Ridge hasn't it... I was complaining a lot then too, yes? I'm sure we are neither of us at loss for things to tell, and I don't know if I was clear on it last month, but I was extremely sorry to hear about your breakup. If you don't mind me saying though, she sounded like she had abysmal taste in music. Feel free to write more on the subject any time you need to bounce it off someone, both because I like to hear from you, and because I know things like this just suck.
Fond flashes, Amanda.
And when someone was able to get into his email, they figured from this email that we must have had some thing when we were young, when he was in college, we may in some way be close, and that is why his sister who had never heard of me looked me up to call me at the very precise time of 9:45 PM.
To tell me that he shot himself two weeks ago.
And there's really no one I can talk to about it, our entire bond happened behind closed doors, through his shutter, and via email. It was a secret, and then it was a 'stay in touch' friendship. Last night, I didn't cry. I smoked a pack of cigarettes and remembered all of the things I wish I still had pictures of, wondered what makes a person shoot themselves after the angst of teenage years have passed. And so I'll cry, and so I'll delete the emails and get rid of the pictures. And then, I will watch Lost. Because in the grand scheme of not being able to talk to anyone about something... I'll take my smaller victories today.
About Nanda Sue
- Amanda Kershner
- South Bend, Indiana
- A 38 year old single mother turned wife and stepmother, and over-thinker, my anxiety disorder is more than just acute...it's the cutest. I am a tish bitter, neurotic and well meaning in sometimes equal parts, and am prone to cattiness, wordplay, run-on sentences and misspelling.
