The 1

He doesn’t remember how many men he has walked to the 1 Train and never heard back from. No, actually he does. This is the third maybe, and counting. Why the 1? Maybe because it runs on the west side. New York homos’ bloodline. In red. Through Chelsea, through Christopher Street, through and through.

There was that graduate student who went to Columbia. The guy studied public health and wanted to improve LGBT healthcare, a simple fact that swept him off his feet. Every Thursday the guy would come down to Stonewall for Karaoke night, rain or shine. The guy loved to sing and would push everyone else to get on stage only to prove they all sucked. Super sweet. How nice. The guy had a boyfriend. Of course. Oh he knew. It was fine. They were open anyway. He didn’t feel like a second string. Not at first at least. The guy met his friends, who indulged his little fantasy–a weekly rendezvous with no conventional commitment. They all had a swell time until the last time. The guy was moving to Princeton with his boyfriend. Just like that. No warning. He walked the guy to the 1 on Christopher one last time. They smooched under the harsh, fluorescent light in the station until the token clerk was giving them side eyes. “You have a very nice face,” said the guy, tenderly, glassy-eyed. That was the night he realized there was no such thing as non-conventional commitment. Commitment is commitment and he wasn’t part of it.

There was also the fella he knew for four years from Instagram. Yes I know. Where else. He waited till the fella broke up with his ex to finally meet up. He’d learned after all. It was cute though. Some brunch, some drinks, more drinks, too many drinks before it was even 4 p.m. But four years I mean. There’s gotta be something, right? He thought. Until the fella couldn’t walk a straight line. But oh man did he like taking care of people. He insisted on walking the fella to the train. Once again, the 1. They said their goodbyes, all slurred and mumbled. Then the fella leaned in, to his surprise. And lo, those lashes glistened in the last ray of sun, a glint in those pale blue eyes. He kissed back. And they never saw each other again. Four years. The fella got back with his ex. He could not have asked for more.

Then there’s the man now. They have gone to buy a summer suit today for an upstate wedding the man’s invited to and he’s not. He thought the date would be less sedate than it is. But the man is preoccupied and stressed and always on the phone and has little care for him. The man is older, you know. The man knows more. Who knows what’s on the man’s mind. The divorce is being finalized, the man promised. How silly of him to believe it’s done and done. As it turns out, seeing someone older doesn’t make you feel older, it only makes you feel young and the older even older. He considers drinking the feelings away. Alone. In some bar he’ll never return. He wants to get a tattoo. Some special date they share, a souvenir, to forge a “we.” He is still young. He can do that. But suffering because of some man just feels dumb at this point. The whiz underneath the grate marks the arrival of the train. So that’s it for the day.

Yes, he victimizes himself too much, he sentimentalizes every itty-bitty detail. Yes, he takes a long time to move on. Yes, he is in therapy. And yes, he probably has trouble with men. Sometimes he wonders if there is even “the one” for everyone. Maybe we are all just someone to someone. But as long as the 1 keeps running, he will be on the lookout for that someone, even if there is none.