Originally posted 02.23.2006

I was pretty uncomfortable by myself at the Happy Endings reading series last night. Best I can tell, I was the only person in the room who didn’t know at least three other people there, as the bulk of them seemed to have graduated college together. The readings were from a couple of new books: The Encyclopedia of Exes and Homewrecker: An Adultery Reader. In a fit of irony, I wore my wedding band. This may have had something to do with the receipt of a Valentine from an old flame, an old flame with a wife. A wife and then a girlfriend, which demoted me back then to…what? Second mistress twice removed? The other other woman, a status so fringy it couldn’t keep a stripper warm.

I never looked or felt the part—doesn’t that role belong to those who are flirty, flaky, overly romantic, and inclined to disregard the consequences of their own actions? Besides, the only home I’ve ever wrecked was my own, and infidelity had nothing to do with it. But, although I’ve never wallowed in guilt over my romantic conduct, the understanding that something as good as my love (I’d like to think my love is good) could be highly destructive, well, smarts. Which is how I arrived at this lower east side reading, hoping to hear some intelligent justification for why other and otherwise nice people do things like I’ve done.

So that much I got, at least as far as intelligence goes. From the first reading from the second book mentioned above, what must have been the intro. That to turn your back on the desire is in itself a lie. That chastising the cheater isn’t the solution when it’s the institution itself that has broken down. And much more better and convincing stuff than I can reproduce right here. But nice—nice I did not find.

Writers, writers. So much drama. One of them brought her partner and her lover up to the mic for a lingering smooch (each reader had been required to take a public risk, as if reading your work before an audience isn’t risk enough). Despite the few jaw-droppingly good readings, and the impressive credentials of each reader (lots of MFAs and published books and a poetry award nomination), the overall tone was, ‘we’re all superior, no need to actually try.’ The MC was increasingly drunk (not in itself unlaudable) and annoying with repetitive self-deprecation (not at all laudable). Still, I attempted to thank her afterward for bringing together that group of readers, most of whom I’d enjoyed at one level or another. But she never gave me an in to say hi and thanks, and I regretted not having a cigarette to light at the door. (Which would have been way too hip, anyway.)

Even asking the guy outside, the one who seemed friendly, which way was west so I could get the 4 train at City Hall, and he told me the D was near, and also the F, but not so near, the 4, and yes that way was west, was so horribly awkward. I smiled, nodded, “4 yes, City Hall. West, that way, thanks,” and broke for getmeouttahere, plugged into my MP3 player and the lyrical world of ne’er do wells, dim lights, thick smoke….

I turned onto Mott and made my way down through Chinatown, past all those places I’ll probably never step into. It was a mistake to stick to Mott and not jog few more blocks west, cause I got lost at the vanishing point of Center Street, and spent a frustrating 20 minutes or more circling around, trying to determine which way the bridge went, and what happened to City Hall, the wedding building, which had been in such clear sight only a moment before. It’s huge, but had disappeared completely, swallowed by neighboring projects and the glare of streetlights that obscure more than they reveal to a person with night-shy eyes. I had to ask a couple of cops (thank god the base of the bridge hosts a sizeable collection of them), make a couple of wrong turns and backtracks knowing I had only 8 dollars in my wallet and had to get home by wit and not by cab. But I managed to secure my spot at last on a downtown train, albeit frustrated, discouraged, fatigued, a peg shorter than I’d started the night.

After such an ordeal, I treated myself to a nightcap at Mooneys, where my ring and I were ignored by a far friendlier crowd. Adulterous or not, and who knows how literate (I’d venture plenty literate), they were certainly drunk enough, plenty smoky, and somehow welcoming even by the backs of their heads.