Friday The 13th, 10 Years Ago

So on Friday I had this dream that I was at a dinner party, yammering away and really had to use the restroom but the person I was yammering  away with, wouldn’t give me the “out”. Somehow, the entire dream was about me, trying to make it to the bathroom, clamping my legs, the whole bit. When I finally made it to the can, I pissed blood. It was so graphic and real-seeming that I woke up, like you do when you have a nightmare, just before whatever bad shit that’s going to happen, happens.

Work was normal.

We stripped the seventh floor halls in preparation for next week’s redux. The walls of the seventh floor were painted Valentine’s Day pink overnight and striped with various colors of gaffer’s tape, in several thicknesses and widths, including even brown but not black. The pattern was quite similar to Paul Smith. Just another ingenious decorator shortcut for which Bergdorf Goodman is famous. I partnered that day with Schneider, this guy who used to intern but is now on the job whom I instantly liked.

Several summers ago, Schneider was the talk of the freelancers. He once wore these see-through track pants last spring that clearly outlined his sizable package. After some background digging on his origins no one could figure out why he had to work at all. He lived with his parents in a duplex on Riverside Drive. He was working for a month until he returned to Carnegie Mellon where he’d enter a senior. Schneider has since graduated and adjusted himself and his look.

Schneider and I kept the thinnest strips of the leftover red tape from our project so we could ‘Prada-fy’ our clothing. Tim covered his phone with strips. We put strips on the back of our shoes and shirts and I put two long strips down my nylon flesh- colored (not my flesh) pants which completely transformed them. Now they had become instantly desirable luxe items and a testament to our style, our gall and the absurdity of the business we were in. I wore my new haute couture slacks all the way home and people really stared on the L train, which in NYC is unheard of, since most folks couldn’t be bothered to notice who’s wearing what at least not vocally.

That morning the gas went out in our flat which had never happened since we'd lived there in Williamsburg. There was basically nothing to cook so the mister and me had greasy takeout the whole weekend. It was a drag not be able to make a grilled cheese sandwich or take a shower (since we both had weekend plans and many things to do) but we dealt. I do so like anything delivered, however.

Saturday was my former boss, Boc’s, softball game in Alphabet City. Boc told me that she and her girls were nervous about this actual Olympic pitcher on the opposing team and that it would be great fun if I came to cheer Boc’s team on.

The week before, her team won and it was great because I got to debut my new bicycle, Peewee Herman style. The week before that, I brought Herschel Walker, my now- deceased Chihuahua, who wasn’t feeling well and they lost. This time I got to hang out with Boc and her girlfriend, Maebell’s teammates, their respective partners and their friends. It was sweet!

Later Boc told me that she was really nervous about her girlfriend, Maebell’s ex, who evidently, hadn’t moved on. Maebell was really cute and I could see why the first wife might have had a problem giving Maebell up. Still, it was uncomfortable. Luckily there were no catfights…or was that lucky?

Anyway, I got to the softball field at 16th and C by FDR and there was no one there. I missed the game which I later learned they’d played half a block up. Boc’s team lost again but she had gotten a triple play! I really liked that stretch of the FDR so it was nice to putz around there for kicks.

That evening, my pal Ken, invited us to see his friend, Ross’s gay revue, at the Pourhouse, which is aptly named. We had a nice time, John and me as a couple. Our buddy and John's erstwhile work colleague, Ken was late but we met some of Ross’s people and had some drinks. I left before Kenny’s pal, Lance performed,but as I waited in the corridor for the bathroom, Lance was in man drag a la Elvis. I guess he was trying to stay in character because he was acting like I hadn’t just met him 10 minutes ago. I’m lucky I left according to Ken but I did get to see gender illusionist Lisa Jackson. She was heartfelt and was flirting with John which was cute.

I ducked out to hit my co-worker Rachel’s show in Greenpoint. By the time I got to the 15 Bulls Show, the art show, which ended at 9 turned into the party, which was marvelous. The works were expertly curated and naturally the music was bumpin’. I hadn’t been to a show in a while where I wanted to buy all of the work. Behaving like Peggy Guggenheim, I felt sleek in all black as I’d already re-Pradafied my DKNY polyester pants.

Rachel consoled me when a little while (and many Jamesons later), what had happened in my dream basically happened at her rooftop party. This woman wouldn’t let me get away from her in the kitchen. This time I didn’t have to go to the bathroom at all but I just lied because she drove me crazy. Rachel said she didn’t know her and had been avoiding this chick too, about which, we had a good laugh and bonded. I left after 1 am pretty hammered, which probably had something to do with the nasty spill I took on my bike, about four blocks away, in front of the Pencil Factory. I could have been killed because like an idiot I wasn’t wearing a helmet and, given my disastrous history with anything with wheels, I should have known better.

After brushing myself off and trembling, I stumbled into the bar in search of bandages and a bit of sympathy and, well, scotch. I was bloody drunk literally so the guy behind the bar wouldn’t serve me. I couldn’t remember if I’d asked him for anything but I was a sad mess for sure and couldn’t recall if the LA type bartender/owner had asked me to leave. I was never one to miss last call so it was especially irritating.

I was about to cry like you sometimes do when you’re shitfaced. I locked my bike up across the street and with a heavy dose of pathos and tragedy I walked home. McCloskey, John’s pal from work, told me I had stripped the ball bearings on my bike in the steering column which rendered my handlebars inoperable and undoubtedly threw me from the bike. McCloskey came to my rescue Sunday and fixed my bike enough for he and I to walk it to my place.

I wouldn’t get to the new MoMA QNS because the gash on my leg had bled through my clothes and I was very sore. Somehow, the whole spectacle - my injuries, the drag queens, the lesbians, the blood, the drinks, the pet Chihuahua, the tape, the scarring- made the weekend extraordinary. It was Friday the 13th and being that my name is Jason explained a lot.