Ghosts of Brooklyn

We are the ghosts of Brooklyn. We are the infamous star-crossed lovers with a tragic past. We are no Romeo and Juliet. We are just two souls who found each other in the darkest hour. As I am telling this story, I am writing it down on a loose sheet of paper. I will light a candle and burn the edge off. I do this to remind myself when the times are darker than the charcoal. To remind me that all hope is not lost. I know there is so much more to come for him and me. That we can get through this chaos and that we can conquer all the non-believers and our families who stand in our way. I am staring out of the window into the cold dark night in November. I hear the sirens wailing as they drive down past the 10th street. The neon signs make me wonder who else is awake this late at night. The raindrops are chasing one another across the window pane.

I start writing on it with my finger. A secret message to you- wherever you are. “Come back to me,” I whisper. I hum a melody which I know you love, and I hope it carries over the city skyline. I am looking at all those people. As they run aimlessly after their next lover. They are checking their phones one too many times. They wish for a message - one more phone call from that special someone that sends a shiver down their spine in the best way possible. That little something that gives them a false sense of security. Then it hits me like a hurricane in my chest. It’s the same old story every time. Why can’t we learn? This will never be us. I scoff, “How could this ever be us. We will always keep on hiding in dead alleys and anonymous hotel rooms under fake names. We are misguided silhouettes dancing in the smoke. We are hiding in the shadows like nocturnal animals.  I see them laughing, crying, screaming, arguing…dying.  I want to go out there. There is this voice deep, deep down, telling me to give you up. Never! I tell myself firmly. But it keeps nagging me. It tells me to find someone who won’t leave me shattered in a million pieces and begging for just one second of your time every time you go. But I am still sitting here on the unmade king-size bed in this hotel room on the 10th floor all the way in Williamsburg holding the unfinished glass of Pérignon. I can hear a couple arguing next door. I think they are speaking Spanish- or perhaps it’s Portuguese. I don’t know what they are saying, but I can tell they mean every word they say. “Que sera sera,” I say out loud, almost like an affirmation. That’s the only phrase I learned. 

I turn the TV on - there’s one of those soap operas that don’t seem to have an ending. I click the remote- once, twice, three times. Then the static goes on, its humming noise is so gentle.  

I am waiting for you to show up like you always do- just a few minutes after midnight. With your hair disheveled from the wind in the subway. With the breath that smells like an inferno, with your eyes wide and black as the darkest night of the year.  I swear demons are hiding there somewhere if I looked hard enough. You appear like a vision in a dream. Or is it more a nightmare? Wish I could tell the difference. But as each minute drags along, I keep wondering maybe this time you just won’t show up. I catch myself as I am jumping to conclusions like only I can. That something happened to you on your way here. I can already visualise the worst-case scenario in my head.” I am so stupid for thinking this could have actually lasted.” I laugh like a crazy person. Maybe I need to learn the hard way. Maybe this will finally teach me. You found someone else with whom you don’t have to hide anymore. You found someone whose mind is not broken like mine is. I need you to know that I wouldn’t blame you if you did. I pour myself another glass of Pérignon (yes, I know I haven’t finished the last one) to block out the noise.

 I almost remember, I think. Those secret rendezvous with memories that don’t want to leave us. They talk, talk, and talk all night, hoping they might eventually recover. Some of them left me speechless. I wrote them down into my diary. I sigh and force a smile. I used to be like this too once. Until I met, you and my world turned upside down. Now I just ache for a conversation without words. God, I wish I could snap out of this reverie. It is doing me no good. It’s sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. As this room leaves me, once again, sleepless, I start roaming around it. Maybe I can find some secret treasures. Maybe the previous occupants left something behind. A letter perhaps or maybe an old photograph of a couple from the 1940s.

Then another thought struck me like a lightning bolt- why can’t I see what’s right in front of me? Why can’t I just admit the painful truth? You aren’t coming- of course, you aren’t. I am such a fool. Silly, silly fool. I know the risk you are willing to take to sneak out of your room. Or used to - I should say. Should I just dial those familiar numbers and get it over with? It should be simple, right? It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid. It is like slamming a door behind you. I wish… But then- three knocks on the hotel room door. So subtle, I can barely hear them. I have to remind myself I am not dreaming. 

And there you are- standing there in the doorway. You are drenched from the rain. The unapologetic look on your face never goes off. The smirk you always wear so well is plastered all over you. I suppose you are a ghost, after all. But I don’t mind as long as you are here. You are keeping me away from my insanity, keeping me safe from my own destruction. A few hours later, your body is in the back seat of my 1950s Chevy Windsor. We are smoking cigarettes all night long.  I lace my fingers with yours. “I beg of you, my love- hide me in your losing game because we’re doing this all wrong.”

So instead, we dwell on the little things we don’t really care about. The things that don’t matter in the long run but always make me giggle- your clumsiness, your terrible taste in music, and your sense of humour that no one else could ever understand but me. The clock just struck two am. We are standing inside the liquor store. You are chatting away with old Jimmy Cordero- the owner who always has so many stories to tell from the Second World War. He is one of the few who know our story. Then- eventually- time stopped once again. When we hold our cups filled with liquor up to the sky. We make a promise none of us will ever, ever break- you say it yourself. Now we are drowning pain in the empty bottles of tequila and rum. But if we fuck up, there is no coming back. Not this time around.

To ignore this inevitable end, we go off the track in a telephone booth, in an empty alley. Anywhere away from the prying eyes of strangers who have nothing better to do. With our heads full of neon lights and broken headlights, we wander aimlessly as the fog draws the way out of this concrete maze. We watch the burning strip lights as we walk the unlit underpass. I let you spray a quote on the wall as a reminder of this night and pledge to everyone out there who’s going through the same. Then I turn to you, and I whisper, “Can we just drop our guards tonight? Like there’s no one watching. Like there is no care in the world. When the chaos outside is about to get madder. Can we pretend we are someone else for once? Like Bonnie and Clyde.” You smile, but there is sadness in your eyes. “Yes, love. We are fugitives, outlaws, pariahs. We walk the world close to the edges. We are wondering which day will be the last.” The surrounding is dizzy around me- just the way I like it. I can let go because I know you will catch me when I fall. Eventually, we walk all the way to Williamsburg Bridge. I jump on the railing, and I scream from the top of my lung the Joy Division lyrics. “Love will tear us apart!” I laugh until I start crying. You hold my hand tight in the dead of night as the breeze moves on. The voices echo in the distance. The sirens drown the sudden screams. I turn to you and smile. “Can you see the neon lights blinding us again? This is infinity.”

The liquor runs wild in my body, and the thoughts stop for a little while. I can’t shake these pins and needles in my body. There is this bitter aftermath in my mouth. I walk on the railing like it’s a tightrope- one foot in front of the other.  Over the stone walls, I see the sun slowly rising, and it’s a big ball of orange redness. I feel a lump forming in my throat. My legs wobble as I lean against the construction. I could just go back to that sweet floating sleep. I could embrace the ugly truth. It is ending with the sun rising between the concrete buildings of the city that never sleeps.  But no- I shake off any doubt that tries to get inside of my head. No more hiding. No more running. Not again. I swallow hard and take your hand, and before I change my mind, I say, “Let’s just stay. Let’s fight. We can win this war.” You smile and nod.