Vince. Must be short for Vincent. I suppose he had the complexion of someone with Italian heritage: an olive base with streaks of pink highlights. So maybe he lives somewhere in Brooklyn. So maybe he bikes down to the river just because. He doesn't read "those books", listen to vinyl, or spend hours washing raw denim.
A cloud passed over the park; its shadow creeping over the sunbathers. Vince tilted his head and placed a finger on his lips. I hopped up and snapped my bag closed. An ambulance sped across the north edge of the park.
"Let's hit it," I said. He followed just a step behind me.
Despite the park being one of my favorite spots of the city, it's in one of my least favorite areas. Walking along every sidewalk makes me feel like a salmon. Droves of tourists packed both sides of the street. They take pictures of the most mundane buildings. I almost wanted to ask one of them what they're photographing. Why are you stopped in the middle of the road taking a picture of the manhole cover? Vince kept pace despite the crowds.
"I hate this place," I said. Talking to myself is a nervous habit I developed in college.
"Tell me about it," he said. "It's like, what are all of them doing? This isn't even one of the best areas in the city."
I looked back at him. He had read my mind somehow. Sure, I'm not the only one who hates the area, but I was getting this vibe from him. A Brian Wilson sort of vibe. I think it's easier for two people to dislike something together than the alternative. Maybe I'm just a negative person.
"Right, exactly. Y'know at first I thought you were from around here, but now I'm thinking you're more from Brooklyn," I said.
He nodded, "Fuck yeah, Williamsburg."
"Good to know not everyone lives up to the stereotype."
Hearing him say the word "fuck" was thrilling. This whole time I wanted to know if he had a rougher side to him. As adorable as I had thought he was before, it was nice to know he wasn't sheltered. We were in New York City after all.
We arrived at the desired subway stop. I would be headed uptown and he would be going down. I would have liked to stick around, but he was going his own way. It's rare to meet someone in the city and see them the next day unless they work or live with you. There are the people who pop up every now and then, but they're more like background elements. He'd be another stranger fading into the heart of New York.
"Hey," he said, "I'm actually going down to a friend's party, and I know this is kind of weird, but you seem like a cool guy." He was getting flustered. It was as if he was asking me to prom or something.
"You're asking me along?"
"Well, yeah. If you want."
"Fuck yeah."
I derived a lot of satisfaction from recycling quotes said earlier in conversations. Other people were slow to notice, and most of the times they never did. There was some sense of completeness which was enjoyable for me.
We swiped through and waited on the platform below. The air was laden with heat and humidity. The last time I took a breath of "clean" air was back when I was in school. We stood there and perspired.
"You in school?" I asked.
"Yeah I just finished my second year of college. University of Maryland," he said. I expected he'd be at a smaller school, but it seemed like the right fit for him.
"Cool. I remember how great those days were, and not to get all sappy, but you won't realize it until you're out for a while."
"When'd you finish?"
"Last year," I said.
The train screeched and rumbled to a halt at the station. A few people filed off; fewer than I'd have thought for a Saturday. We stepped on and took a seat. The doors opened and closed a few times with stragglers rushing to catch the train.
"So where's your friend live?" I asked.
"Just a few blocks over from my house. She's got a pretty cool balcony."
She. Did I hear him incorrectly the first time? Did he originally say his friend, or his girlfriend?
He fumbled around with his phone for a few minutes. We bumped up and down as the train sped down towards Brooklyn. A man in baggy clothes jostled a coffee cup at a few people and asked for money, a prayer, anything. Supposedly it's illegal to solicit people on the subway, but I've never seen someone get in trouble for it before.
"What're you doing on there?" I asked. He'd spent a solid couple of minutes on his phone.
"Just trying to figure out who else is going to be there."
"Hiding from someone?"
He gave me a startled look: eyebrows furrowed for just a moment, shoulders hunched. Like I'd read his mind or something.
"Alright, I'm sorry, it's none of my business," I said.
"No I suppose I should say so you don't think I'm being weird. I drunkenly hooked up with this guy once and he never leaves me alone when he sees me. It's kind of embarrassing, like I feel bad for him."
For some reason I felt a great sense of achievement. Like I would act on an impulse to do anything sexual with him. I'd argue it was worse knowing I had a chance than thinking nothing would ever come of it.
We made eye contact. Those dark green irises locked on something fierce. There was a moment where he made it clear there was a lot more to his character than he let on. As if to say he knew what I thought of him and I was wrong. All of communicated in a fraction of a second. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. I was afraid of what he'd see in me.