I left my square space in the same hurried fashion in which I first arrived. After writing my last timed final, French, I rushed back to shower before heading off to Park Slope to say goodbye for nine months.
There was a Social Movements short story waiting to be written and a playlist to summarise. There were books, clothes, and toiletries to be packed. There was a room to be cleaned, keys to be given away. All to be done before a plane at 03:46 p.m. or so I thought.
The Social Movements final was not mailed in until Wednesday night after I had gotten home. The packing was done at 9:00 a.m. and it happened rather quickly. I suprised even myself.
But, there was a transit strike. I had $39 to my name and no way to get to the airport.
All of them entirely unnecessary when put against saying goodbye to Tyler Davis. It’s hard to fathom that someone who I barely knew before February would end up inducing one of the worst separation anxiety attacks I’ve experienced to date. I can be entirely too apologetic to the two boys who had the (un)lucky fortune of coping with that or be grateful that somewhere beneath the hardened cynic, I do care about people. I haven’t quite decided which side of the fence I’m on.
Neverthelesss, the goodbye wasn’t tearful and it wasn’t goodbye either as I saw him the next afternoon before running away to the airport.
Davis arrived in Brooklyn Heights via a gypsy cab and thrust a copy of Oh, the Places You’ll Go my way. It was my second Dr. Seuss book of the last 24 hours (as Cat had given me I Am Not Going to Get Up Today the night before).
Who would’ve thought that I’d buy into motivational speak from someone I’d known less than a year? But, it’s true. I trust Tyler Davis. He’ll tell me the truth, good or bad, when I need to hear it so, if I want to believe the ugly, I better sign up to believe the opposite, too. Thanks, Tyler Davis.
The brilliant boy he is suggested I check my flight status as I lamenting about getting to the airport on time.
“Maybe, your flight is delayed,” he said, “a lot of people won’t be able to make it to the airport today.”
So, I checked. Time of departure: 3:00 not 3:46. Oops!
Some optimistic fool once said, “If it’s not okay, then it’s not the end.”
Every now and then, fools are right.
Bundled into my jacket with my backpack over my shoulder, my bags in the hallway, I hugged goodbye the boys in my life and raced down Henry Street to the car service that rushed me to LaGuardia Airport in less than thirty minutes.
My scratchy throat and I boarded an Atlanta-Hartsfield International flight at 2:30, drank the worst coffee of my life, read the International Fiction issue of The New Yorker, napped alongside minor passive-aggressive indulgement on the War on Christmas. The second leg of my journey included more of the same, sans the coffee and War on Christmas. I was terrified after the first time. However, I did see a budding Buddhist check his e-mail near the restrooms in Atlanta (pictured below).
