Jeffrey and I in Bushwick
Introduction
I had been awaiting the premiere of “Brothers of the Head” for months. Punk music and filthy looking British twins appealed to me at the time. One of the two still does now. The day turned out to be incredibly important, but for an unexpected reason.
I had been promised a seat as an employee of the IFC Center, but fearing a full house (of people with greater independent cinema worth) my coworker and I arrived early, spiffy and glowing. Both of us beamed through the red carpet and press sign in. In the lobby, where we waited to spy on the others in attendance, I saw a new employee.
I remember two things perfectly clear: I checked him out from toes to crown, while he was facing away from me. This is something I never do and even frown upon. Second, I dismissed him immediately as being too skinny. This sounds absurd, I know, as I am attracted to pencils (being a writer), but that was how it happened.
One week later, across from the fountain at Columbus Circle, I was already discussing with Maggie by obsession over Jeffrey. Much to her dismay, that would be the case for two years.
Jeffrey once told me that based on those first few weeks at the IFC Center, he would have never thought we would develop the friendship we ended up having. I was a hyper little ball-of-light boy trapped in a box. He was dark and cool and sarcastic. It seemed we had little in common. Perhaps we didn’t.
Development
I don’t really know where to go next. It’s all a blur and all about the development of stories. In my opinion, stories are what hold friends together: adventures together, which turn into a story; stories which turn into nostalgia and history.
As soon as he got text messaging I didn’t leave him alone. He would be my last text message of the night, as I’d ask him to tell me a story: about his family, about life, about. We spent a great deal of time together, at work or out of; days and nights. In November of that year, he came to my house in Connecticut for a party. In December, he was the first person I called when my mother confronted me about my sexuality in our driveway in Florida. Outed by a blog, damn googling parents. By Easter, he was with my family and we traveled to Miami. I was in love and it was unrequited.
Upon returning from Florida, he left the IFC Center. It was a terrible day for me, but I adapted. I knew my time there was short lived, as I’d be leaving in the summer after graduation. But we had spent every Friday and Saturday night together, selling tickets and serving popcorn. When he left, however, we started clubbing. Every Thursday, with his best friend, we would go to Hiro Ballroom and every Thursday night I slept beside him in Bushwick. I was a puppy.
Departure
Then I graduated and contemplated departure. Rather than hunt for a job in New York, Jeffrey and I planned a move to Berlin. When we decided we shouldn’t live together in Berlin, I decided my first stop should be Vieques, Puerto Rico. There I wrote a book, and by the end of my island isolation, I was near broke. I decided to delay my trip to Germany and went, first, to Florida. He made his way to Berlin alone. I would call him and he would call me. Berlin: poor, but sexy. Sort of like us. I wanted to be away from family, away from the United States. I wanted to be on the European adventure, with him, that I helped incite.
Friends rescued me from Florida in order to attend a wedding. There, I found myself in New York City once more, surrounded by genuine friends and a beautiful occasion. While back in the city and awaiting my flight to Berlin, I stayed with Owen. Owen had filled in the gap that Jeffrey had left in my life with being in Germany. I met him not so long before I departed for Puerto Rico and from the moment we met, we were on the phone together 20 out of the 24 hours in a day. In a rapid fire decision making process, day of, I decided to miss my flight to Jeffrey and stay with Owen (also, while trying to get my new manuscript seen). I was justified in this action for many reasons. First and foremost, Owen; second, people wanted to read my book. Still, at least once a week I would call Jeffrey. Especially when times got hard. Jeffrey traveled to Paris and Milan, working on the film that I too was supposed to be employed on. Our relationship adapted. He was a long distance friend, a vision, ungraspable and always exciting for me. I was safe from the way I behaved around him. There was no drama. The puppy was gone. It was just communication.
Change
While at dinner with Owen and his family, Jeffrey called. He was coming back to New York City. I was excited, yes, but terrified as to what his effect would be on my new life. I was happy and all of my time was allotted to worthy outlets. When I hung up the phone, I said aloud “he wasn’t supposed to come back.”
We met again, for the first time, at a bar on the upper east side. I swaggered in. I wanted to be mature rather than excited. We were both different people and it was reflected in our friendship. During the next few months, and this is what I’ve come to miss, whenever I’d see him alone, we would brutalize one another. In perfectly choreographed battles of words, we would jab and slice out bits of one another. I’m not sure I’ve felt more alive than with cigarette and wine in hand, his words cut my throat.
Jeffrey once said that he couldn’t imagine two people in the world were having conversation as interesting as ours. We were Auden and Isherwood. We took on the world, yes. But to be so mentally intimate with someone, to have them carve up your deepest darkest insecurities and to know that it was all OK because you loved one another – it’s a place few can reach.
The Beginning of the End
When I was fired from Conde Nast, Jeffrey got me a job working on the film he was employed by. So there the two of us were, living in a hotel and eating for free in my home state. We spent days and nights together. Every minute. When we weren’t in each others company we had to be on the phone. We had a lifetime of ups and downs in a few short months.
In the middle of it all, we had a fight. Jeffrey punished me in the way he knew hurt me most. He stopped talking to me. He knew I felt power in combat, so he cut me off. This was impossible due to our proximity and the demands of the job. We worked through it, but he said something that came back to haunt me: I was crazy and he never knew which Dodger he was talking to. My fear, the minute someone genuinely believes you are crazy, and he did, they stop taking you seriously. The ground, the foundation of everything, was removed. We took a weekend together in Montauk. His restlessness destroyed me. Our cigarettes and conversation was no longer enough for him.
Jeffrey went to LA and I came back to New York City after my job had wrapped. I attempted to ignore him while he was there and did so successfully until he called me once from the desert. He was who I wanted to share things with and I desperately wanted to know how he was. While he was away, however, I reached out to another employer of Jeff’s and struck up a deal that allowed me to remain unemployed over the summer.
When I confessed this to him, he was not surprised. However, he was angered that my ingenuity struck before his.
Only July 15th he texted me that he was leaving for the Maccias Islands to spend time with the puffins and that there would be no way to communicate with me. Offended, or hurt, I asked him why or with who or when I’d hear from him next.
His response, his favorite Royal Tennenbaums quote, “I can’t even begin to think about knowing how to answer that question” was the last of our mutual communication. He committed to removing me from his life and on January 1st, over five months later, I accepted that we aren’t supposed to be friends.
