Claire ForrestTHE BUSINESS OF BEING IN LOVE (Part 2)(Part 1 of "The Business of Being in Love" was published in the March issue of this journal. To read it, click here).
Publication day 5:54 AM: So now that you’re a published journalist and everything, I guess I’m going to have to follow you on all the top news sources. 5:56 AM: You’re following me?! 5:59 AM: Look behind you… I turned around just quick enough to see Gabe with his cell phone in one hand and a tray of coffee in the other. The texts from Ruby ended abruptly weeks ago, and the only people left texting me were those I knew. He handed me a cup and smirked. "I figured we’d need coffee if we were going to fit in with all the bustling businesspeople. Because, you know, they’re the only people who come to Union Square at six in the morning." "If you’re good, maybe we can eat cereal afterwards," I teased. He was right. For late May, all the college students were finished sleeping with their heads against desks during all-nighters in the library and had returned to their beds to mark the end of finals week. The only ones in Union Square this early the ones who had to be. I included myself in this category. I may not have been waiting to catch the subway route into Manhattan to start work before the interns got there, but when your first article comes out, it’s practically required that you be there the second it goes on sale. At least, I thought it was. Metal hit metal as the vendor raised the grate on her newsstand, opening it for the day. Our fellow coffee-holding early risers pushed in front to grab a copy of The Wall Street Journal. I waited and shuffled some coins in the palm of my hand. "No," Gabe snatched the change from my hand and replaced it with a crisp bill from his wallet. "You already bought coffee…" I whined, trailing off. "There is no way that when your journalist debut in the New York Magazine comes out that you should have to pay for it with your own money." I smiled sheepishly. "Thanks."Finally glancing at the bill, I tried to give it back to him. "Ten bucks? That’s way too much!" Gabe winked. "There’s also no way you’re getting away with buying only one copy."It had only been a few months since we had known each other, and that time was comprised of mostly cereal aisle run-ins, which only lasts so long before you have to admit that no one needs Crunchy-O’s that often, and run-ins progress to dates. We weren’t too serious yet, but someday soon I knew we’d say I love you. We’d mean it. In exchange for ten dollars, a stack of freshly printed New York Magazines were in my lap and I riffled through the pages: THE BUSINESS OF BEING IN LOVE In college, I babysat the daughter of a university faculty member for extra cash. She was a vibrant girl, as most kids who need babysitting are. When it came time to put her to bed at night, it was often a struggle to get her to relent to sleep, and I found myself repeating the words that so often came out of my mother’s mouth during my childhood: "You should be in bed! You have a big day tomorrow." Now, at twenty-six years old, I’m starting to realize how strange of a thing that is to say. As wonderful as her life was at age five, that little lady faced another day of adventures where the biggest demon she would slay was an imaginary dragon. Perhaps it is just wistfulness, but I’ve come to think that maybe that advice is best savored on those who are a bit older. As twenty-somethings, we stay up all hours in search of something more. Half the time, we don’t even know what we’re searching for, we’re just led to believe there’s always more out there. To the rest of the world, the twenties are this ineffable period of time where we can accomplish anything. In the eyes of the rest of the world, we will always have a big day tomorrow. Over the past couple of months, a literal slip of the thumb allowed me to be in a communication of sorts with a young girl via text message. I know absolutely othing about her besides the fact that she’s a teenager in her first love. I don’t even recognize her area code. Besides, where she’s from doesn’t answer the question of where she might be living or attending college, but I digress. My texts with this girl were few, but I got the jest of the ups and downs of her relationship. I could tell it was slightly illicit, but nonetheless enthralling. Corresponding with this teen, I thought about the girl I used to babysit. She loved everything. She loved me, and she didn’t even know any of my faults. It didn’t matter. She was in the business of loving. The business of loving is where you let love employ your every action. You spread love like spare change; it collects in the bottoms of your pockets, the cup holders of your car, the bowl where you put your car keys and paper clips. No matter how broke you get, you’re bound to have at least an extra two cents or so of love to give. Like spare change, love always collects in some quantity. But like any business, one is in danger of selling out. Instead of spare change, the patron becomes interested in the big bucks. It scared me to think that the little girl I knew might someday buy into what this teenager had bought into: the business of being in love. With time, this teen saw love as only worthwhile in large quantities. Like a business tycoon, she eyed the object of her affection like an international deal, something to be possessed, not given away. The texting teenager became focused on finding the one love, the big love. Like the princesses that five-year-old emulated during dress up, the teen was searching for her happily-ever-after. Now, I’m not saying that can’t happen. I want to believe in it just as much as anyone! But if I could feel for a random girl from an accidently sent text message, what does this say about my fellow twenty-somethings? It says that we all fear we will fall into that trap. We’re all striving for that something more, and when it comes to love; we often throw our spare change into a fountain of wishes. After all, what’s spare change when you could win the lottery? Am I the first to suggest that young people impulsively act on things, like love, that might not always be beneficial to them? Clearly not, and, if anything, I’m a perpetrator. I was asked to write about how society suffers. I think society often focuses on the big, the greater, and the grand. Who is sick? Who is disadvantaged? Who’s left behind? From that, we transition to who is sicker, more disadvantaged? Who is alone? In the same way that we think those in their twenties have something better to look towards, there is always something worse to gawk at under the guise that we are trying to learn from it and to understand. We are all buying into the business of being in love. We are in love with the idea of the biggest sufferer, the biggest love, the biggest anything. I’m not someone who is easy to love. Who is? But to that five-year-old, it didn’t seem to be a factor. And, anonymously, that teenager found some solace in my advice. So why, upon learning of the demise of her relationship did I respond by shaking my head and mouthing ‘of course’? As twenty-somethings, the rest of the world might always imagine there is a magical, perfect ‘better’ out there for me, but I always anticipate the worst. What if, instead, I questioned what I could do to make someone feel healthier, able, and welcome? What it I worked for that instead of anticipating the worst? If there is something bigger out there than the need to be inclusive or the need to improve life, I challenge you to strive for it, because I want to know what it is. From the five-year-old to the teenager to the twenty-something and beyond, we all want the best for ourselves and we all want to be loved. Yes, we might anticipate the worst and from time to time, forget that love is what got us to our best times. Each day, I’ve come to think that we make the choice to either be in the business of love or the business of being in love. As people, no matter how old we are, we gawk at our worst moments and hope for our best. And if that doesn’t work out, there’s something more out there. We’re the ones that are facing the challenge of how to fix the national deficit, please our editors, fall in or out of love, or figure out what to make for dinner. So, get some rest. You’ll need it tomorrow, as you go about your business. It took 268 days to fall in love. On the right side of me, a baby screeched from its stroller. On the left side of me, a toddler raced right in front of me and almost tripped over my legs, and his mother followed suit, following him. I cringed, wondering what I’d gotten myself into. This wasn’t the life I wanted. But this was life on a random Monday morning at the American Museum of Natural History. When my alarm rang at seven-thirty this morning, I didn’t get mad that I’d forgotten how I didn’t have to set it seeing as didn’t have to wake up and study anymore. Instead I woke up, showered and dressed, and ate what was left of the cereal and milk in my mini fridge. The lounge was deserted since everyone was in bed afflicted with a post- finals coma, but the idea of having the television all to myself to flip channels aimlessly had no appeal. I was done with finals, having turned in my last one, a paper on Gertrude Stein’s poem ‘Tender Buttons’ the night before via e-mail, ten pages on Stein’s goal to upset the need to look for meaning in poetry. When you finish all your finals, the last thing you want to do is think about them, much less prove your thesis right. Thus, I wanted to give my morning as much semblance of meaning as possible. So I boarded the subway towards South Ferry and got off at the 79th Street stop in order to be there when the museum opened its doors at ten o’clock. The Milstein Hall of Ocean Life is probably one of the most calming places you can find in New York City. I knew the sound of waves crashing and the continuous video loop of white caps could be re-created with my computer, but here I could lay on my back and close my eyes without my roommate ridiculing me.
The giant model whale on the ceiling was beautiful and breathtaking. It made me want to read Moby Dick. I felt victorious in a small way. Topher could break my heart and my confidence, but he hadn’t taken away my love of a good story, even though ours hadn’t ended well. It didn’t really have an ending yet, at least not in my mind. He was gone from my life, yes, he had gotten rid of me. But that didn’t mean the bad guy was going to win. I wasn’t going to let him. Weeks previous, I made my roommate venture over to Topher’s apartment with me to claim my things. This meant coming clean that I hadn’t been spending all those late nights at Drama Club sleepovers, and instead saying that I was terrified and ashamed to admit to my relationship. When we got to the door of his apartment, she first faltered when I told her I’d rather not go outside. Then, for the first time, I rolled up my long sleeved shirt, part of work uniform, because I treated hiding my problems like a full-time job. At the sight of my bruises, she did not wince, whisper "Oh, Ruby,"cry, or shake her head. She simply grabbed the cardboard boxes I’d brought along and went inside. Twenty minutes later, she returned with all my things piled inside them, and grabbed my hand, pulling me away. "Hey!" I yelped, and my feet tripped trying to keep up with her. "You should thank me!" she hissed. "It’s about time somebody forced you away from here." I knew she wasn’t mad, just concerned. The printouts of articles from the Internet with titles like ‘Healing from Your Abusive Relationship’ and the post-it note with the number of a teenage help hotline that she placed on my desk proved that. I hoped maybe someday she would understand why I wasn’t ready to consult them. She had never been in love. My cell phone buzzed and my eyes opened. My roommate was now awake, and recently she didn’t like not knowing where I was, so she contacted me constantly. That was preferable, because recently, I didn’t much like texting strangers anymore. I told her I’d meet her in an hour and a half for lunch. After all, I’d only eaten a little cereal so far. I smiled, pleased to be getting my appetite back bit by bit in the last week and a half. I also smiled because the reason I couldn’t meet up with her sooner was because I had to stop by the drug store. Suddenly, the errand to purchase tampons didn’t feel like a nuisance in the slightest. On my way out of the museum, I found myself sitting on the floor of the main entrance staring up at the skeleton of the Barosaurus. It wouldn’t be a complete visit without it. The first time I came here was in September, after first moving to New York. My college arranged it as part of our Freshman Welcome Week. In retrospect, I probably scared off several potential friends by squealing how this place was "just like The Catcher in the Rye! " I walked out of the museum counting the cash in my wallet as I waited for the light to change. I thought about how the dinosaur might have qualities that Holden Caulfield and I didn’t. The Barosaurus had a strong backbone. It didn’t let insecurities and a weak heart take control. And because of that, its strength lasted and kept it standing tall for centuries. In the meantime, Holden and I were outside using telephones, desperately trying to connect with anyone, regardless of if we knew them. I boarded the subway to meet my roommate, my cell phone in one hand and my bag from the drugstore in the other. I took my seat and looked around. Obviously, towards the end of this semester I’d contemplated not coming back to New York next year. I was a rural girl, no matter how much I tried to tell myself I could adapt. I thought it possible that my broken heart was proof positive I wasn’t meant to be here. A month into our relationship, Topher had told me I wasn’t allowed to go to a film screening with him and his friends one Saturday night. What I had thought was a need for a ‘guy’s night’ was a harbinger for things to come, like controlling my life and never fully letting me into his. He told me about the film the next day, in-between forceful kisses. "It was about urbanization. "His hands grasped a little too tightly around my midsection. "It basically painted New York as the worst place in the world." "Maybe it is, "I said. "Get out of my apartment." "What? "I gasped as I half fell off the couch. "I’m just kidding, baby. "He pulled me back to his body. "It just that—this is the city for everyone. Always has been. Always will be." "LCD Soundsystem didn’t seem to think so," I flitted, nervously. His eyebrows rose. "Their song? ‘New York, I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down?’" "Well, if someone doesn’t belong here," Topher said, "this city will make sure they know that." But ultimately, I decided that in that, like in so many other ways, he was so very wrong. I understood something that he never would. On this train, I was only another girl. No one knew who I was. I was just someone else in transition on the subway, not quite where I wanted to be yet, but a little more traveling, and I would get there. I knew that in life, like in literature, there were always more characters that could influence a story. And in New York City, there were seven million more characters. There was always the chance for a sequel. The victim could become the hero. I got off at 14th Street in Union Square. I could see my roommate waiting for me, her back towards the Zeckendorf Towers. As I stepped off the subway, I stopped to help a guy lift a woman in a wheelchair up the step onto the train. I grabbed one wheel as the man grabbed the other, his free arm clutching a stack of magazines. "Thank you,"she called to me."No problem,"I smiled, "this city doesn’t make it easy for you, huh?"I said, gesturing towards the terribly inaccessible subway. "They like to see me suffer, I guess,"she laughed. It was a nice reminder that everyone struggles here. But somehow, we got by. |