First names I'm fairly good at knowing. Last names need to be indisputably visual.
My friends, (all of my dearest few) can attest not to my anti-socialism, but to my non-socialization.
I don’t consider myself naive, as I am probably in the second half of my life. But it has only been recently realized one could talk to strangers and they would decently talk back. I had seen this done, my mother being a champ. She would get off the phone after 20 minutes of conversation just to say it was the wrong number. But I had always imagined if I talked to an unknown someone they'd get a far off look in their eyes as though they were in State Fair and start singing as they walked away.
The rules change the reaches.
It is good to remember.......all is fleeting.
87 The apartment’s kitchen was situated inside what used to be a walk-in closet. The Fridge door opened only half way as it was wedged in and the sink edged out of the door frame. If there had not been a barred window, making it seem expansive as you looked out over the gray rooftops, it would have seemed you were cooking in a closet. We worked okay, side by side, Kyle and I, since he was so much taller than me we used different elbow space.
He had to have that damn piece of furniture. We hauled it 16 blocks uptown from the salvation army. This huge buffet counter thingy, as long as a coffin, on high legs, that you store china and linen in for fine dining. We trudged it, stumbling, having to stop every 20 feet or so. I remember someone passing with the quip, “Why don’t you put a handle on the top to carry it?” To the cop we pretend it wasn't ours. (What credenzas?) When it got so late we discussed using it for an overnight bunk bed on the street. We fibbed to the door-man by saying a friend had won it. Up the freight elevator...
I'm reckoning it’s in that apartment on 23rd street today still. It would be fun to know.
I carved a note on the outside back of the drawer for posterity.