ayjaykay’s blog

Remember when I wrote this post nearly two years ago? Turns out I never revealed the story.

I'm finally moved into my new place, and in honor of the old one, here's quite possibly the best story from the 249 years:

Amanda's friend Andrea brought Sally to come stay with us right before Thanksgiving. Andrea was on her way to spend time with family for the holidays in Southern California, and we were to fish-sit, as it were, for Sally, a 5-year-old goldfish. Yes. She was five. Or so.

Thanksgiving turned into Christmas, Christmas turned into spring, and then it was July and Sally was dead.

She died on our watch. Well, technically, I think it was Caitlin's sister Colleen's watch. Colleen was crashing with us for a week, Amanda and Caitlin were out, and I was up at Salisbury for 4th of July weekend and Ben's wedding. Sally died -- most likely alone -- while we were all out and Colleen was at a dance rehearsal.

In Massachusetts, I got a text message from Caitlin with the news, responded with an appropriately somber message, and answered a few questions from confused relatives and friends:

"Wait, you have a fish?"

"No, it's Amanda's friend Andrea's fish. We were fish-sitting for the holidays."

"What holidays? Over the winter? Why do you still have the fish?"

"Yes, over the winter, and good question."

_____

Why were we still fish-sitting more than six months later? Yes, good question. The practical answer is that Andrea lived all the way over in like, Crown Heights or someplace at the time, and just getting the fish over to our apartment was probably enough of a hassle in the first place, nevermind getting her back in the dead of winter.

The more dramatic and effective answer -- at least as far as this story goes -- is that Sally symbolized Andrea's failed relationship. See, Andrea's ex-girlfriend, Mary, bought Andrea two fish, Sally and Joe, as a gift one day five or so years before. Joe died pretty swiftly and was given a proper burial in the pond at Prospect Park. Sally forged on and saw Andrea and Mary get together and break up many, many more times over the next few years. Andrea and Mary were experiencing a reunion period when Sally came to stay with us that Thanksgiving, but experienced their saddest, most permanent breakup only a few weeks later. I don't blame Andrea for needing some space from that fish.

So, it was July, and Sally was dead and stored in our freezer, and Amanda decided that she had to wait for The Perfect Time to tell Andrea. Amanda wasn't worried that Andrea would be pissed at us for letting Sally die -- the fish was geriatric, in fish years, after all. Amanda was worried that Andrea's relationship would die a second death: a symbolic one, which is, of course, the worst kind.

Amanda waited. And waited. And waited. For The Perfect Time to arrive. To no one's surprise but Amanda's it never came. Amanda couldn't tell Andrea on a number of occasions because:

• Andrea was always drunk
• Andrea worked nights and Amanda worked days
• Amanda was drunk the last time she saw Andrea
• Andrea had just experienced another bout of Mary-induced sadness

You get the idea.
But, Amanda did not wait for The Perfect Time to Tell anyone BUT Andrea about the dead fish in our freezer. I'm pretty sure everyone in South Brooklyn knew the story of that girl who let her friend's fish die and then couldn't bring herself to tell her. I was just waiting for one of those absolutely insane New York moments, where Andrea would be waiting on a table of two people, one telling the other this crazy story about the secret death of a fish.

_____

That didn't happen, though. What did happen was in late August, nearly two months since Sally died, Amanda, Andrea, and a few of their friends were out for happy hour in the neighborhood. They were going to another party, and they wanted to come back to our place to store their bikes for the night. Amanda spaced on the sad, Sally-less fish tank sitting empty on our side table, and she and Andrea burst into the apartment. I was hanging out in my room with Matt, and Caitlin was in her room.

As soon as Amanda walked in, we knew she realized that The Perfect Time to Tell had just been forced upon her. She stammered, "Uh, Andrea, I have to tell you something..."

"Sally's dead, isn't she?" Andrea said calmly.

Amanda continued:
"Yeah, and I'm so sorry, because, see, she died last week and it was terrible because like, three weeks ago when she died, I just didn't know how to tell you, and you've just been so busy over the last two months that she's been dead that..."

"It's okay, Amanda," Andrea said, "You know? I kind of knew it in my bones. I saw Mary a couple of days ago, and things just felt so over to me."

Everyone laughed, and no one was too sad, or angry, or anything, really. Except Sally -- she was dead, and in our freezer, awaiting her burial near Joe in the pond in Prospect Park.

Almost two years later, Sally's still there. Well, not in our old freezer, but in our new one. She made the move with us, because now everyone's waiting for The Perfect Time to send her off and really let go.

Yeah, I knew I couldn't come up with 249 stories. Oh, well. Here are some weird things I found while cleaning out my "closet" (it's really just slanted shelves with a door attached):

- Three posters from when Matt ran the New York marathon in 2005. They said: MFB Holla!; Run, MFB, run!; and just MFB with little hearts all over it. That one was bright pink and mine. Ah, young love.
- Old papers, syllabuses, tests, and quizzes from every Spanish literature class I took in college. Once upon a time, I could write a 10-page paper in Spanish. Based on a 200-page novel that I read. In Spanish.
- About a dozen unfinished crossword puzzles from the Boston Globe, circa 2004. This seems to be a trend.

In a few weeks, I'll be moving to a new apartment. I've only lived in this apartment -- 249 -- since I moved to Brooklyn four and a half years ago, and I'm a bit sentimental about it. I thought maybe over the next few weeks, I'd try to come up with 249 stories about 249. We'll see how it goes. Might as well start now, right?

1. My dad and old neighbor, Bob, move me down to New York. My roommate is at work, but she's told me that a girl named Amanda is working at a video store a few blocks east of my new place, and I can go pick up the keys from her. Amanda moves into our apartment six months later.

2. In 2004, Thursday nights are reserved for watching The OC with Caitlin and Allison. Caitlin stops by our apartment on her way home from her job in Brooklyn to the place way out in Yorkville she shares with her sister. One night, Allison teases me for still owning the large, plastic cups I bought in college. "We're adults now!" she says. It doesn't stop us from eating brownies straight from the baking pan.

3. My college roommates are all in town during the summer of 2006. Kate has also brought her mom. We all manage to fit in beds, couches, and air mattresses, for an entire weekend during 85 degree heat with only our one air conditioner attempting to cool us all off.

4. Kate, Sarah, and Ben visit for a joint November birthday celebration in 2004. I make them walk over the Brooklyn Bridge in 30 degree weather, get them lost in Tribeca, and we finally resort to whisky and English beers at a fratty bar in the East Village in the middle of the afternoon.

5. Caitlin and I make Sunday brunch for Erin, Mark, and Siri when Meghan is still just a few months old. We drink mimosas til 3, and Meghan falls asleep on my chest as we're all talking and laughing the afternoon away.

More signs you're getting old:

- There's this mix CD your old college boyfriend made you during the summer of 2002. First of all, 2002 was seven  years ago, holy crap. Second of all, there's this lyric of one song on the mix that goes, "When July is gone/I'll be 24." The song comes on your iPod's "Shuffle Songs" playlist during a long bus ride home from Boston and you remember when 24 seemed really freaking old.

- You just emailed your friend to remind him to send you those recommendations for cordless drills. You're really excited about buying a cordless drill.

- You're about to sign a new lease and, since signing your last lease, the following things have changed:

- You no longer need your parents to be guarantors.
- Your BFF is now an attorney who is qualified to look over your lease for you and give you like, real, live, legal advice.

More signs you're still on the youngish side of things:

- You wore sort-of fishnets to work today because you knew they'd put you in a silly mood even though you knew you probably should've stuck with basic black tights instead.
- That BFF who's now an attorney? Yeah, you guys have matching tattoos.

Signs you're getting old:

- You go to bed when you're tired.
- You stop drinking when you start to feel drunk
- You thought Bella's dad in the "Twilight" movie was way hotter than Edward Cullen

Signs you're still on the youngish side of things:
At a birthday party, you and your friends spend the night inventing a game where the goal is to clip as many clothespins on people's clothing and hair without them knowing. Everyone loves it and it's the best part of the night.

You know that song? The one that goes do do do do doo...do do do do doo...? No, you know it. Have you ever seen Say Anything? John Cusack is all excited because he's falling in love with Ione Skye (who wouldn't have in 1989?) and he's giddily telling his friend, played by the amazing Lili Taylor, all about it in this guitar store. He picks up a guitar, and plays the opening lines to that song. Yeah, that one. You know, do do do do doo...do do do do doo...

During the first few weeks or so of freshman year of college, Kate and I ventured out late one night to the old Tower Records on the corner of Newbury Street and Mass Ave. to buy a copy of Say Anything. We were 18 and craving some Lloyd Dobler, or John Cusack circa 1989, or both. Sadly, we must have known that we would eventually part ways as roommates, because we both bought a copy on VHS.

We watched the movie in our cramped dorm room, 820C of Warren Towers, and became obsessed with that scene in the guitar store. For the next three years we could often be found half-muttering, half-humming do do do do doo...do do do do doo... or accosting random friends and strangers with do do do do doo...do do do do doo... The lyrics, or at least the chorus, always seemed to be on the tips our our tongues. We were certain someone must know what song it was. But in the movie, he doesn't sing a word -- he only plays the opening bars.

More than three years later, I was waitressing when the song came on the oldies station that someone had set on the satellite radio. I took out my notepad and frantically scribbled down whatever lyrics I could catch, so I could Google them when I got home.

Later that night -- at probably 3 a.m. after many beers at Solas on Boylston Street followed by a slice of greasy pepperoni pizza from Natalie's in my neighborhood in Allston, as was my lifestyle in early 2004 -- I Googled some lyrics and found the everloving goddamn song.

It came up on my iTunes playlist tonight:

"She marches to the beat of an instrument that might not even be a drum."

...BUT:

There are a lot of benches outside of my office building, and if I'm leaving work on the lateish side, I often see teenage skateboarders and rollerbladers out breaking the rules. You know, grinding and the like.

Tonight, on my walk to the subway, I dodged a couple of tall, lanky rollerbladers wearing black on black leather Yankees baseball hats. I remembered late one night during my sophomore year of college, Beth and I laced on our rollerblades (I can't believe I ever even owned a pair?!) and skated up and down Bay State Road for hours...or what seems like hours in my memory.

It was really warm, so it must've been sometime around finals or the end of the spring semester. We were probably antsy and feeling cooped up. How could we not have felt cooped up? We had been sharing a twelve square foot room along with Kate for eight months at that point. I think it had just rained, and the pavement on Bay State Road was perfect for rollerblading: hot top, we would've called it in elementary school. We were the only ones on Bay State Road that night. It was so dark, with barely any light cast from the windows of the fancy brownstone dorms where everyone else was inside studying.

After a gajiliion laps up and down Bay State Road, we sat on the curb just before the corner of Commonwealth Ave., our massive dorm looming off to our right. We talked about boys for a long time, and then I think it started to rain again, so we went back inside to finish studying.

Amanda and Caitlin are recommending that I read Fingersmith by Sarah Waters, which Amazon.com describes as a "slice of engrossing lesbian Victoriana*."

Amanda: I really think you'll like it, even though it has a gay storyline. I mean, I loved it, and I never like gay books.

Me: Why?

Amanda: Because they're never as good.

Me: Never as good as real life?

Amanda: No! Never as good as other books.

Me: Can I post this conversation on my blog?

Amanda: Sure, but what if you out me?

Me: I'm pretty sure that the seven people who read my blog know you're gay. Me being one, you being two, and Caitlin being three...

Caitlin: Oh my god, Amanda. You're gay?!

*Incidentally, what the hell is "Victoriana"?