Pov Joe:
I never go to Greenpoint.
It's a place where people usually order a glass of whiskey mixed with juice. Many show off their jewelry or their new monthly profit records at their companies... we all know they're just fronts for money laundering.
I'm worried that you'll see me here and think I'm one of those people. I'm really nothing like them. Because I'm yours. You couldn't be with someone like them.
My back hurts. Falling out of that window was the reason, Beck. I didn't want you to find me while I was trying to see you, while I was trying to get to know you.
And for some reason I feel like you already have, but that's not the case. The police never came to my apartment while I was getting ready for our second date. Although it's one-sided. After all, we never talk on these "dates": I just take care of getting to know you a little better and protecting you if necessary.
I order another vodka and Sprite while you're on the other side of the bar ordering more alcohol.
There's no way you can see me; my outfit helps me go unnoticed. Although this time I'm not wearing a hat, so I run the risk of you discovering me.
"What are you thinking? Using a microphone is for models, for singers. No one wants to hear a failed writer read poems about the weaknesses of life, or whatever."
Your friends aren't loyal. Peach is the least loyal of them all.
Now you come over with everyone's drinks and they laugh. You don't realize anything. They're making fun of you, Beck. When we're together, I'll advise you to find better friends.
"Pretty quick, Beck," says Lynn. But Lynn is dead inside.
She posts on Instagram methodically, just to justify that she "has a life." Her existence boils down to proving to the world that someone notices her, even if it's fake.
You look at your phone, still not taking a seat.
"Who are you texting?" asks Lynn.
"I invited Benji..." Your face betrays your guilt, as you wait for your friends to scold you.
"Beck..." Peach shakes her head, disapproving of what you did.
I agree with that bitch Peach this time.
"What's wrong with him? He likes poetry too." "I'm sure he doesn't. He's just a stupid kid."
"Sure..." Lynn replies, expressionless. She doesn't believe it either, Beck.
I'm starting to like your friends better.
"And did he text you that he's coming?" Peach asks the questions I might ask you myself.
"Well... he sent me some emojis forty-five minutes ago... Anyway, I invited another friend..." Your face blushes a little.
Your friends aren't drunk yet, so they notice that slight blush.
"Wow... And who is this guy?" asks Annika, who hadn't spoken until now.
"He's a guy I met at a bookstore."
"Pff. Is he at least the owner of the bookstore?" Let me answer that for you, Peach: no, he's not the owner. I'm the owner, and Beck didn't invite me.
I checked my phone to make sure. She didn't invite me.
She didn't talk to Ethan either. So...
"Don't be like that, he's a nice guy. He's not the owner, but I think I like him a little. He knows a lot about literature, he's reserved... or so I think. He's Japanese, and I swear, when you see him, you'll understand why I talk to him.
"Is he that handsome?" "Definitely not as handsome as me. At least I know how to smile. I didn't have to hire that apathetic piece of shit."
"Anyway, I highly doubt your perfect man will show up. We've been here for a while," says Peach, taking a sip of whiskey.
"He sent me a thumbs up, so I guess he's coming."
"Very expressive of him... Are you sure he's not another drug addict like Benji? Besides, if he's so great, why wouldn't he text you and let you know he's not coming?"
You don't know how to respond. You just sit there and drink. Drink a lot.
It took half an hour for you to get up. You had drunk too much, so it was understandable that you passed out before getting up to the microphone. But you did it. You read a poem. You lost your way. Some jerk got up and started criticizing you publicly. That humiliation filled me with rage. If you had invited me, I would have defended you. I would even have punched him in the face.
I can't stay here anymore, Beck. I hope you understand.
It's obvious what's going on. You're blinded by love.
And the things you love—this city, writing, your friends, men like Benji—they all have one thing in common: they don't love you back. You give everything... and you get nothing in return.
After an hour of walking, it was late. It was time to go home.
It's amazing how life works, Beck.
Look at it: it's simple, I just found you in the subway.
There are three of us waiting at the Greenpoint station at 2:45 in the morning.
I'd like to tie your shoelaces.
They're untied, and you're too drunk, too close to the edge of the tracks. Your steps are unsteady, from the yellow zone backwards. You could fall. And I couldn't do anything.
Or maybe I could.
It hurts that you invited my employee and not me, but I wouldn't hesitate to save you.
You have me to protect you. The other guy in this hellhole is a bum, probably with more drugs than blood in his body. He's sitting on the floor, holding a cardboard sign.
On another planet. Singing.
"Engine, engine, number nine, on the New York line. Engine, engine, number nine, on the New York line."
He keeps singing on repeat. And you, distracted, are typing on your cell phone. Drunk. Fed up. Between the two idiots who ignored you and this bum who keeps repeating that shitty song.
I don't get it, Beck. You're too drunk. What if a psycho had followed you? You could easily get raped here. And I doubt this bum would do anything to save you.
Beck! Beck, stop texting that asshole with his shitty club soda.
"If my train jumps off the tracks..." The son of a bitch bum won't shut up for a second.
You want Benji. Or Ayanokoji. I don't know for sure, Beck.
But you must want me. I'm here for you.
I highly doubt you've gotten close enough to Ayanokoji to fall in love. You need Benji. You hold that phone as if it were him. Because it's the only way you feel connected to him.
Forget Benji. Back up. You're too close to the tracks.
Your phone vibrates. Someone's calling you.
To hell with that phone.
Shit.
You fell onto the tracks. The train could come at any moment.
"Engine, engine, number nine on the New York line..." I swear I'd beat the hell out of that damn bum, but I have to save you.
I ran.
As fast as I could.
I reached out my hand. You have to grab it.
"Grab it, grab it, grab it..." Engine, engine, number nine on the New York line.
"Hey, hey! Are you okay? Can you get up? Stay still, half of that shit can electrocute you. Just give me your hand."
"Grab it, grab it, grab it!"
"Sir, shut the fuck up!" "I'll never give a coin to a homeless person again."
—Give me your hand.
—The train's coming, you say, still on the ground.
—Grab it, grab it, grab it!
—Give me your hand now! —And you did.
I don't usually go to the gym, but after this I think I should start.
The train almost ran you over. But right now you're on top of me, breathing unevenly... and I promise you that the next time you breathe like that, you'll be naked on top of me.
Your hair is blowing in the wind from the train. It looks like a romantic scene. Are you going to kiss me?
No. You threw up on me.