“I love you. And no one else ever will.”

Tonight I’m doing my own bit of hosting.  My stepmother, Gay, is visiting from home and is currently fast asleep in my bed as I type from my friend’s leaky air mattress.  She’ll be here for the weekend which means I get to do what so many others will be doing for me in the months ahead- check out silly tourist spots and be slightly put out in return for quality time.

In order to preface today and why it was so tiring I should first explain last night.  

I begin the evening at my local pub, Hibernia, where I play cards with Erik.  In an unprecedented losing streak I lose both four dollars and my ability to decide what will happen after Hibernia.  In a desperate move to get Erik to accompany me to Ninth Ave Saloon I agree to a bargain.  I agree (and this feels silly to admit in a sober light) to provide Erik with unlimited high-fives for the remainder of 2014.  I think that I’m getting a deal considering I’ll be traveling for much of the year and Erik couldn’t possibly want to high-five all that often.  I’m horribly wrong.

In our five block walk we high-five no less than fifteen times.  I order a drink at Saloon and Freddy, my bartender, says “I see you’re doing a travel blog, that’s so 90’s.”  To which I reply “That must make you feel almost young again.”  Without missing a beat he cracks a wineglass hard against the bar and it shatters everywhere.  He holds the broken stem out and glares.

“Is everything ok?”  The other bartender turns, shocked.  Freddy glares for a moment longer and gets back to making my drink, smiling now.  Freddy will do anything to land a joke and he knows theatrics are why I come to Saloon.

As I stand at the bar, the high-fives continue at an accelerated pace, though at this point I refuse to look Erik in the face.  As my hand begins to lose feeling I meet an Ecuadorian man who tells me his name which I hear as “Rafiki” but whose name is not “Rafiki”.  We talk for a bit.  He moves in to kiss me and I whisper to him (mid high-five) that this is a regular spot for me and kissing makes me uncomfortable.  He does not seem to understand and continues to lean in every few moments.  Five minutes later he says it.

“I love you.  No.”

He begins shaking his head.  An accident.  I pretend not to hear.

“I love you.”

Again.  I pause a moment and smile.  It’s a matter of translation, right?  Or this is normal in South America?

“How long have you been in New York?” I ask him.

“Twelve years.” He responds.  “I love you.”

“…Tell Kenny what you just told me.” I tell Rafiki.  I point to my friend at the bar.  I high-five Erik, who has been waiting for my hand impatiently.

Kenny perks up having heard his name.  “Yes?”

“I told him I love him.” Rafiki says.

Kenny smiles silently and turns back to the bar.  

“We should go.” I tell Rafiki.

I high-five Erik goodbye, and we begin to walk.  Rafiki stops me twice to look me in the eyes and say nothing.  When he does this a third time he says it.

“I love you.  And no one else ever will.”

I burst into laughter.  This is the funniest and strangest thing that’s been said to me in recent memory.  I want to know what it means but I also think it’s perfect the way it is, encapsulated in this moment.  I stop laughing and look into Rafiki’s eyes.

And I run.  

As fast as I can, I clop down the street toward home, looking behind me only once to see if I’m being chased.

I get home and get four hours of sleep before my phone rings.  It’s Gay and she’s landed.

We have breakfast together and then walk half of Central Park to The Met.  We walk around there for a while and I tell her I’m nervous she’s going to knock over something priceless.  My stepmother is a character.  She is originally from Georgia and has health problems which require her to be heavily medicated at all times.  She is a bundle of energy and enthusiasm that stops only when she has tuckered herself out as she’s done now.  I found it hard to keep up, given my hangover and lack of sleep.  But tomorrow I should be in better shape.  We’re off to Coney Island (my first time) to do… whatever one does in Coney Island.  

Sweet dreams, all.