Sunday was Pride, Sunday was Julio’s birthday. I haven’t seen Julio since he literally ran into me at the Art & Music Fair, which is something he never attends. But there he was with wife, Stine. I wished him the best. His oldest, Alexander, has graduated from high school and is off to college. The youngest, Christian is still in the grammar school system.
Monday was Bill’s birthday. We had a plan to go to Sandy Hook. Annemarie suggested it Friday but it was overcast. Monday was better. Annemarie had been chauffeuring all over North Jersey and since Bill loves to drive it was decided that he would drive to Sandy Hook. Mike was supposed to join Annemarie, Bill & me but an interview was scheduled so he dropped out.
Once again, a route was needed to be taken without using toll roads. A bit stressful once again but this was Bill’s forte. He knew where to go. Annemarie sat in the back as I sat up front next to Bill. I was trying to be a good DJ, satisfying Annemarie’s taste as well as pleasing the birthday boy.
I had also forgotten or blacked it out of my mind how Bill drives a car. He drives a car like he was driving a bus. It’s nerve-wracking and a bit frightening. It was on Monday afternoon. Bill can be so fucking stubborn, we almost hit another car when he decided to make a right turn from the left lane in an intersection.
Annemarie noticed it as did I. I have a pet peeve about people making turns like that from the wrong lane. The ride back was fraught with disappointment. As usual we had ice cream in Rumson, and on the way towards the highway, where we should have made a right turn, Bill decided to make a left and take us further away from where we needed to go.
It was so fucking stupid, and like I said, Bill could be so stubborn there would be no point in telling him. So suppression was the way to go. It was largely an uncomfortable return and I don’t know if Annemarie ro Bill felt uncomfortable. Not much conversation occurred during that oh so long trip back to Hoboken.
We parted ways in front of my building, Annemarie headed to Garfield, and Bill and I climbed up the four flights. On Saturday, during my grocery shopping I bought a red velvet cake, which Bill likes. But it was not enough and Bill wanted a chocolate mousse cake as well.
I had 2 birthday cards for Bill as well as 2 gifts. He ignored the cards and went right to the gifts which was also another disappointment. He didn’t notice or open the cards until the next day. I was at work, and it was busy yet quiet.
The whole day I kept telling myself to be nice, it’s Bill’s birthday. So I was nice and swallowed anything untoward.
Today it is not busy and very quiet.
Not much going on. It’s a summer holiday week and many people are out, or at least, working from home.
20 minutes before lunch we’re spent watching a man and a woman who climbed to the top of the empire State building to unfurl a flag that said when the power of love overcomes the love of power the world will know peace this is usually attributed to Jimi Hendrix but it might be from somebody else.
I watched with sweaty palms and a nauseous feeling as the man and the woman did what they did.
the man knelt down and proposed to the woman before they descended and were arrested by NYPD.
The guy that I went to grammar school and high school that has a scar on his chest in the shape of a T was in the helicopter flying above and reporting as only some guy from Lodi could.
A Google Gemini rewrite as a David Sedaris essay
Sunday was Pride, which, in our neighborhood, means a kaleidoscope of rainbow flags and men wearing very little denim. It was also Julio’s birthday. I hadn’t seen Julio since he literally collided with me at the local Art & Music Fair—an event he usually avoids with the same fervor one might reserve for a colonoscopy. Yet, there he was, flanked by his wife, Stine. I smiled, offered my most convincing wishes for his continued prosperity, and learned that his oldest, Alexander, has successfully escaped high school for college, while the youngest, Christian, remains trapped in the grammar school system. I nodded politely, wondering, as I always do, how people manage to keep track of their own offspring’s milestones without a spreadsheet.
Monday shifted the celebratory burden to Bill. The original grand design, conceived by Annemarie on Friday, was a trip to Sandy Hook. Friday had been a wash—overcast and dreary—but Monday arrived with a cruel, glaring brightness. Annemarie had spent the weekend chauffeuring herself across the wasteland of North Jersey, and since Bill harbors a baffling love for the open road, it was decreed that he would helm the vessel. Mike was meant to round out our little quartet, but a sudden job interview allowed him to escape. Lucky Mike.
The primary mandate of the voyage was strict: we were to reach our destination without spending a single cent on toll roads. It is a stressful way to travel, evoking the anxiety of a fugitive fleeing across state lines, but this happens to be Bill’s forte. He knows the backroads like a bootlegger. Annemarie took her place in the back seat, leaving me in the front passenger side to assume the role of DJ. It is a thankless position, trying to curate a soundtrack that simultaneously placates Annemarie’s delicate sensibilities and pleases a birthday boy whose musical tastes are best described as unpredictable.
But the music was a minor distraction compared to the realization that I had entirely blacked out the memory of Bill’s driving technique. Bill does not drive a car so much as he commands a city bus. It is a heavy, nerve-wracking experience. He possesses a brand of stubbornness that borders on the pathological, which we fully appreciated on Monday afternoon when he decided to execute a sharp right turn from the far-left lane of a bustling intersection.
Annemarie gasped; I gasped. I have a deeply entrenched, almost chemical hatred for people who turn from the wrong lane. It feels like an affront to Western civilization.
By the time we began our retreat, the atmosphere in the car was heavy with a distinct, suffocating disappointment. We stopped for ice cream in Rumson—a hollow peace offering of dairy—but the truce was short-lived. Nearing the highway, at the exact juncture where any sane compass would dictate a right turn, Bill gripped the wheel and turned left, steering us deeper into the geographical abyss.
It was so profoundly stupid, so entirely unnecessary, but to speak up would be to invite a lecture on the geometry of New Jersey backroads. Bill’s stubbornness is a fortress. So, I did what I always do: I practiced total emotional suppression. I stared out the window in icy silence. I cannot speak for Annemarie’s internal state, or Bill’s, but the long, agonizing trek back to Hoboken was conducted in the kind of quiet usually reserved for hearses.
We finally parted ways outside my building. Annemarie fled toward Garfield, and Bill and I began the grueling climb up our four flights of stairs.
On Saturday, during my weekly foraging at the grocery store, I had lovingly purchased a red velvet cake, which Bill likes. But apparently, one cake does not a birth-anniversary make. Bill decided he required a chocolate mousse cake as well.
Upstairs, I presented him with two carefully selected birthday cards and two gifts. In a display of raw consumerist instinct that left me slightly hollowed out, he entirely ignored the cards and went straight for the wrapping paper. He didn’t even glance at the written expressions of my affection until the following day.
By Tuesday, I was back at work. The office was busy, yet strangely quiet—the kind of corporate purgatory where everyone moves with muffled footsteps. Throughout the previous day, I had repeated a mantra to myself: Be nice. It’s Bill’s birthday. And I had succeeded. I swallowed every bitter remark, every sigh, every untoward thought, locking them away in the dark cupboard of my mind where they belong.
Today, however, the office is a ghost town. It is a summer holiday week, meaning half the population has decamped to the shore, and the other half is pretending to “work from home.”
With absolutely nothing to do, twenty minutes of our lunch hour were sacrificed to the television, watching a man and a woman who had scaled the very tip of the Empire State Building. They were up there to unfurl a massive banner that read: When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace. People usually attribute this to Jimi Hendrix, though it feels a bit tidy for someone who used to set his guitar on fire.
I watched the screen with sweaty palms and a rising wave of nausea. Height does not agree with me, even vicariously. Right there on the ledge, before a live television audience and a looming squadron of police, the man dropped to one knee and proposed. The woman accepted, and then they descended into the waiting, open arms of the NYPD to be promptly arrested. Romance is not dead; it’s just heavily policed.
The icing on this bizarre cake, however, was the helicopter coverage. Flying circles around the spire was a news chopper, and reporting from the sky was none other than a boy I went to grammar school and high school with. He is a man distinguished chiefly by a large, pale scar on his chest in the distinct shape of a capital T. And there he was, hovering over Midtown, broadcasting the unfolding drama with the unmistakable, unhurried cadence of a guy from Lodi, New Jersey.
It felt entirely fitting. A day that began with a near-fatal right turn ended with high-altitude performance art, narrated by a childhood acquaintance with a letter branded on his torso. It’s a wonder any of us survive the week.