From time to time I think of leaving DC, permanently, in defiance of my ten-year record of lauding the place top to bottom. And that record is voluminous; just ask those poor fools, among my friends, who insist life's worthwhile in the far-off hinterlands of Bethesda and Arlington, not to mention those more distant upstarts Fairfax and Loudon counties. I've refused many an invitation, in lieu of the polite "no, thank you" my mother has long suggested, with a sophisticated reply of my own choosing, modified as circumstances require, but generally amounting to something like this: "Huh? You want me to go where? I'd have to drive you know. (Sigh)... When are you going to move downtown?"
There's something lovable, I've found, in each of the many inconveniences linked with living in the District, from obvious nuisances including petty street crime and public urination, to the lesser troubles induced by ridiculous taxes and incompetent bureaucrats. Under the right conditions - lots of booze, the psychic safety net provided by one's cushy Northwest surroundings - even the city's most discomfiting sights can prove endearing. The homeless looking man meting out compliments for your spare change. The woman parading down 12th St. in too high boots and a tiny fur coat, and little else, hoping to strike up some impromptu social engagements.
I've found it easy to love them all, but have had a helluva time getting anything resembling reciprocity out of them. I'm a vote to the city councilman, a score to the street hood, an ATM to the man begging for small money by the upscale coffee shop. Yet despite this, I consistently choose the solitude of their company - walking the streets in my law-abiding way, or watching them over the top of my newspaper or book - over that of my friends, the people who care about me, in concept if not fact. Unlike these other folks, the flacks and hucksters I know only by sight or smell, my friends are stubborn organisms. They are forlorn when I demand happiness, inert when I'm looking for action. So often not what I expect and command, so disappointing.
As for those others, they never seem to deviate from my notion of what exactly they are.
Whore. Alcoholic. Homosexual. Whatever. All neatly categorized, all serving their purposes, drip dropping muted smiles and blunted heartache in the day-to-day of my existence, a facsimile relationship borne of familiarity but not knowledge. I've spent countless hours in this milieu, passing up actual human interaction in defense of the pure archetypes, unchanged by time or experience, in my mind. The friends, well, they're consumers, not unwittingly, of the non-stop charming, arrogant, childish, bullying, insightful, combative, hilarious performance that is whatever me I'm trying to sell at that moment in time. You might call it the Un-Me. Or Facet of Me.
I've been in it for the laughs, but, of late, those laughs are mostly bouncing around in my head, echoes of the mirth of yesteryear. Families and careers, or perhaps some problem with the tired haunts and routines of the deposed ringleader, have left me laughing at myself. It's still fun, but with each lonely cackle, another tiny link to everyone else fails and breaks away, like a fleck of paint chipping away from a high-gloss figurine, and I retreat further into my mind and the nameless characters that inhabit it.
People want more than good times, I think. Authenticity. Open arms. Vulnerability. These are the requirements for the new age, my new age, the fourth decade. With some laughs, sure, but with honesty too. I've understood this for some time, but it's amazing how one weekend, 36 hours at an out-of-town wedding, can crystalize the difference between bullshit, the freaks and cads from my beloved hometown, and those wonderful people who've been dragging me down life's path all these years, trying to get me to see.
The irony - and what would this disjointed tale be without any? - is that I stopped kicking and screaming, and took a good look around, not at the behest of my stalwart friends, but through the contrivances of a lovely five-year-old.
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