Note: A story I wrote about a month ago.

Today, while standing on the subway platform outside, I felt a cold wind blow on my face. I was glad I had on my grey North Face fleece vest under my wool jacket. It kept the wind out and my body warm.

I received the North Face vest as a Christmas gift from my buddy Walter about seven years ago. Walter was an outdoor guy who loved hiking and mountain climbing and wore a lot of North Face gear. I haven’t talked to Walter in a few years, but last I heard, he was stationed out in Iraq doing military intelligence. Hope he’s alright.

I’m not a follower of fashion trends. I usually wear whatever is comfortable for the weather and fits well. I’ll sometimes wear the same outfit for several days until I start noticing any funky smells. I can’t remember the last time I went shopping for clothing other than for boxers and socks. Over the years I’ve accumulated a good number of clothing from gifts and giveaways, and it seems like each piece of clothing says more about the people I know or used to know than it does about my fashion sense.

Take for example my gym wear – a pair of gray AND1 shorts and a black t-shirt with the letters “VOLUNTEER” on the back in bold. The shorts once belonged to my high school friend Jason. He lent it to me once when I went over to play basketball at his house right after school. I told him I would take it home and wash it for him, but ten years later, I’m at a gym in Queens wearing those exact shorts. Jason gave up trying to get the shorts back years ago, but always calls me a cheap ass whenever he catches me wearing the shorts. The t-shirt is one of four identical shirts that I snatched from a corporate soup kitchen event we had at Morrison & Associates when I was a paralegal. I remember my co-worker Julia remarking how she planned to grab four size small shirts since she was always lacking black shirts to work out in. At the time, I had a slight crush on Julia and lusted after her incredibly tight body on a daily basis. I always guessed she was a gym rat, and after listening to her talk about how unattractive it felt to have sweat stains show on non-black t-shirts, I too adopted a policy of wearing only black shirts to the gym. I took four mediums and snatched five smalls for Julia. She was grateful.

Hanging on the coat hook on my closet is a beat-up faded red hoodie from Gap, a perfect wear on autumn nights and spring mornings. It was a birthday present from Katie, a girl I dated for a year in college. I wore it almost daily to classes and to bars around campus. I still wear it these days, even though it’s been at least six years since I last saw Katie. I’ve thought about her from time to time, especially when other girls who’ve come and gone have put on the hoodie, unaware of its origin. I think I still liked it best when Katie would put it on in the mornings while waiting for me to make coffee, with her short gym shorts on and her hands comfortably placed inside the front pocket. Sometimes she’d cover her head.

Thinking so nostalgically about Katie fills me with a bit of guilt. I look over at my girlfriend Megan who’s sitting in my bed reading a book. She’s wearing one of my long-sleeve shirts, an olive green one from American Eagle. It’s a tad bit weird seeing her wear the shirt. It was a gift from my ex Susan, who thought I would look wonderful in green. Susan and I broke up last year after dating for two years. It was a nasty breakup that seemed to erase all pleasant moments we ever shared. I remember the awkward moment when I ran into Susan a few months ago and I was wearing the olive green shirt. We were civil and made small talk, but I could see that her eyes were focused on my chest, probably wondering how I could still wear something from her after our bitter split and the many months of trying to move on. I really like the shirt and it’s not something I’d avoid wearing just because of its history. I blow a kiss towards Megan in a silly way and she responds with a wink. She has no idea, but she looks very comfortable.

Note: the blues are back!
Previous Blues: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

I’ve come out here less and less since I quit smoking a couple of months ago. The first few weeks were tough, but it wasn’t like I smoked more than two packs a week, so by the end of the third week, I didn’t even miss it much. Although it’s turned chilly, I still don’t mind the occasional beer out here. It gives me time to clear my head and think hard about some of the big decisions I may have to make in the near future. Speaking of which…

Two weeks ago, a couple of guys from a company called Trauberg Holdings approached me and asked if I was interested in selling my two stores. At the time, I told them that business was solid and that I had no intention of selling. They gave me a price – a number I never imagined that these two stores would be worth – and told me to call them if I ever changed my mind. At first, I told myself that I would stay strong and continue to grow my business. The stores had positive mentions in both TimeOut New York and New York Magazine in the past five months (NYM even had a decent pic of me) and we were scheduled to have scenes of an upcoming Hollywood movie shot in one of the stores (I only said yes because Rachel McAdams is supposed to be in it). But I kept wondering – was this my once-in-a-lifetime ticket to try something exciting and new? Starting my own business in New York was fun and exciting, but with a big lump of cash – money enough to last me a lifetime provided I don’t buy any crazy mansions or yachts – anything is possible.

So that’s what I’ve been mulling over in my head the past two weeks. The what ifs. What if I sold my stores and moved out to the West Coast? Start up something small in San Francisco and see how it’s like? I’ve always loved going there for various conferences and have some friends I’ve kept in touch with. Or how about putting a good portion of the money in some high interest-earning vehicle while I travel the world for a year or two? I could have extended stays at all the places I’ve ever wanted to visit: the Piedmonte region of Italy, the southern coast of Spain, the vineyards of New Zealand, the heart of Tokyo, and so on. If I don’t take this opportunity now, as a young 28-year-old, would I enjoy it as much when I finally do it on my own terms, perhaps much later than I would like? And is there any guarantee that my business will continue to flourish for me to plan such a trip?

And what about writing? Part of the reason I can never write anything more than a short story is because of my daily commitment to the stores. I have competent managers and solid employees, but because it’s ultimately mine, I’ve never been able to go a day without worrying or trying to come up with some new idea. Just the other day, I had to make my staff redo the window display at one of the stores because the books we were showing were too much like the ones you’d find on display at Barnes & Noble – too mainstream and too base. I said “no way” to the new Michael Crichton novel and had them supplement Martin Amis’s new novel with one of his older hits – nothing extreme, but still an important detail. If I were to be relieved of such daily concerns, then perhaps I would find the time and frame of mind to focus on a novel-length story, a constant item on my lifetime To Do List.

But there are pitfalls to selling out on my business. What if I miss it? What if it does poorly after I’m gone? Or, what if it does extremely well without me? And is it really that bad? I mean, I do take week-long vacations from time to time and if I really wanted to, I could leave for three or four weeks. And I could take those days to really get some writing done. I sat down and reviewed some numbers on Excel the other week and using the latest sales trends, I’m on pace to make a good chunk of change in the next few years, although still short of the sum I was offered by Trauberg. What is it that I truly want? Could I have it both ways? Not sell but still enjoy myself, as if I was totally free?

All this thinking has me pretty stressed out. I could surely use a smoke right now. Maybe a pack won’t hurt – only for as long as this big decision-making thing drags on.

note: a 30-min exercise!

One summer when I was in college, I went fishing on the Delaware River with a couple of my friends and their girlfriends. I was the only one without a girlfriend at the time, so I played the role of “third wheel,” although for this trip, it was technically the “fifth wheel.”

We set up along the river bank. We opened two blue folding chairs for the girls and carried out the cooler from the car. We took out the large styrofoam bowls that contained dirt and fresh nightcrawlers. The three of us squatted down and stuck hooks through these fat worms. My friend Mike teased his girlfriend Liz by dangling the hooked nightcrawler in front of her. She screamed and laughed as she waved her arms frantically.

We passed around bottles of Amstel Light and took our spots on the bank. I tried casting a few times until I finally got it out to a favorable spot. I took sips from the bottle and waited patiently. It was cloudy and humid, and I regretted not having sprayed myself with OFF! before I came out. I looked over at my friends. Scott let Jessica hold on to the rod as he explained what she had to do if a fish bit. Mike stood patiently and waited like me. Liz was still in her chair, reading InStyle magazine. I looked across the river at the thick green forest and wondered how long it would take me to swim to the other side.

“Any luck?” I heard from behind me. Liz had walked over, a bottle of Amstel in her hand.

“Nope, nothing. Maybe it’s not the right time of day,” I said.

“Hmm. Can I try casting with your rod?” she asked.

“Okay, sure. Do you know how?” I asked.

“I think so,” she replied. I reeled in my line. The nightcrawler was now soggy but still intact. I handed the rod to Liz. She bent her arm to raise the rod and swung forward. The line did not release and the violent jerk forced the nightcralwer to fall off the hook.

“Damn it!” she said.

“You forgot to unlatch the spool cover,” I told her. I put on a new nightcrawler and showed her what to do. She nodded. She took the rod again and tried a second time. She swung forward as hard as she could but nothing went forward. She jerked once or twice before realizing the hook had stuck to something. She turned around and looked at me, frozen with horror.

“Oh my God! Dave! Are you okay?” she yelled. I winced in pain and reached behind my head to locate the hook. I tore off the nightcrawler that was wedged against my head. I then pulled the hook out. My hand was covered in blood. By this time, Mike, Scott, and Jessica had come running.

After several pieces of paper towel and a painful application of anti-bacterial cream, I put a bandage over the wound. It wasn’t big, but the cut felt deep. Liz kept apologizing and wore a worried expression for the rest of the day. I told her I was okay and eventually continued to fish. She didn’t come near me after that.

We left in the early evening. I had caught a couple of catfish, none too big, while Mike and Scott each caught one small catfish. We decided to let them go and packed up our things. As we loaded everything into the car, Liz came up to me.

“You’re not mad at me, are you?” she asked.

“Of course not. It was just an accident,” I said.

She leaned closer to me and lowered her voice.

“What if it wasn’t?”