I hate Maryland. I graduated from grad school with next to nothing—at least financially. I have some decent clips, celeb profiles and album reviews mostly. And a degree from NYU, which when working in the arts, is about the equivalent of having the latest Louie V. at Fashion Week. It practically stamps, 'artsy and articulate' on your forehead. The problem? No one gives a remote damn about "artsy" down here. If you're not a lawyer or some sort of government contractor/ worker/ affiliate, you're pointless.
It's during an attempt to get wasted one Thursday— and indication that I'm getting worse— when I'm out to to dinner with Sabby (yes, that one) that I meet a guy.
Let's call that guy Pooah, since that was my nickname for him at the time. He was pouring drinks behind the bar and I noticed that he fit my quals—dark brown, wide nose, broad shoulders, diesel arms. Sabby said he'd gone to school with us, but I don't recognize him.
Within 24 hours, I'll be back at his bar. And I'll quickly learn that I like him because he's as dysfunctional as I am. He'd dropped out of college 3 credits shy of his degree. The university let him walk for graduation (they assumed he'd get the three credits in summer school), but didn't issue the diploma for obvious reasons. His mother had attended his big day in May, of course. I think he's the first in his family to "graduate." His mom still has no clue that her son doesn't actually have a degree.
Anyway, he'd gotten a job as a bartender with the intention of raising enough money to pay for that last class. But the hours at the bar were long and the money was too good. That and he'd rather ball at our old-college gym than go to class. So he kept earning, and stacking even, and balling, and never went back. That was about a year ago.
Anyway, Pooah and I make a great match... especially since he lets me, Ace, and Sabby drink for free at the bar every weekend. Won't even let us leave a tip.
Pooah is what finally lifts my mood. Slightly. I start doing my hair again, take it out of the ever-present bun it has been snatched into for almost a month. I actually put make-up on, and unpack more than sweatpants. I still chain-smoke on the backsteps multiple times a day, but I don't do it all day since Pooah hates the smell of smoke. I'm miles from my usual self, but some would call this progress.
My parents also take mercy on me a few times and put me up in a hotel in NYC. There was about a month where I stayed at a hotel for week, then my girl's spot, back to the hotel, back to my girl's. At some point, I notice that I barely consume anything beyond a casual drink and never smoke when I'm in New York. I feel invigorated, inspired. Like myself. As soon as I got on the Amtrak home, I start crying.
My godmother saw it and was livid. "When a man gets a new car, he cherishes it," she says. "He polishes it, he shines it, keeps it clean, smelling good.
"Get out," I tell Pooha.
I smoke more than ever now— and in public, which I haven't done before. I'm more mad at myself that I've gotten caught up in a man instead of keeping my eye of the prize — getting back to New York— than I am he'd been sexing some chick. I wonder when he had the time. I was on the phone with the man constantly. But I guess if there's a will, there's a way.