Reduce, reuse, rekindle

My springtime pseudo-boyfriend, the lovely and kind-hearted Kiwi, resurfaced this weekend.

Several months ago, Kiwi and I had a little two-month pseudo-relationship just after Fauxhawk smashed up my heart, and smashed it up good. Since I was an emotional zombie and Kiwi was an itinerant wino, we made an unspoken pact that involved drinking our body weight in Sauvignon Blanc, eating at good restaurants, and distracting each other from longing (me) and loneliness (Kiwi). Then Kiwi ended our little pseudo relationship with admirable grace and returned to New Zealand for work.

Then something strange happened. I received an email from Kiwi assessing my potential as a mother, followed by a passive-aggressive drunk-dial from a bar somewhere in New Zealand. I began to suspect Kiwi had broken his own vow to keep our brief relationship light, breezy, and temporary. I had a suspicion that he wanted to rekindle the relationship and start again, but this time with no rules.

But when Kiwi returned to New York two months ago, he divined that Fauxhawk and I had gotten back together. After sending me a forlorn and drunken text from a bar in Midtown Manhattan, he went radio silent, swearing off all contact. I wallowed in misplaced guilt, feeling sorry that I never had a chance to explain and smooth things over.

Finally, Kiwi texted me out of the blue to see if I wanted to have brunch this weekend. I was simultaneously relieved and full of dread. Having heard several reports that Kiwi was spotted on the street looking a) drunk, b) depressed and c) lonely, I was a bit worried about what I might find. But there he was, jaunty and boyish as ever, looking like a ruddy, fresh-faced prep school kid just off the rugby field.

“Kiwi! How are you? I’m so happy to see you.”
“I’m fat.”
“Me too!”
“Excellent. Let’s eat.”

After ribbing me about the disreputable state of my shoes and handbag, Kiwi’s face suddenly darkened.

“What the matter?” I asked.
“I’m lonely. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I think I’m going to go back to New Zealand early.”
“But you have so many friends here…everyone adores you.”
“I’ve been drinking too much.”
“How much is too much?”
“I keep falling asleep on the train and ending up in the bowels of Brooklyn.”
“Oh...”
“And last week I woke up in a recycling bin.”
“Oh Jesus.”
“I know.”

I imagined poor sweet Kiwi drunk, alone and disoriented in a dumpster, and it plunged me into a state of panic. All I could think was, I’ll create a diversion, the way they do in Scooby Doo. I’ll do the Haka. I’ll beatbox. I’ll start the electric slide. And then everything will go back to normal, and Kiwi will be Kiwi, but without the pain and loneliness. I will act like an ass, and Kiwi will smile indulgently, just like he used to, and then all will be well.

But I didn’t, and it wasn’t.

Finally, after what seemed like a decade, I asked:

“Paper or plastic?”

It was all I could think of to say.

He thought for a moment. “Paper,” he said.

“Good choice.”

After all, if one is going to be chewed up and spit out by this big bad city, one might as well be recycled. At least there is something noble in it.

Kiwi agreed. And then we laughed.


Artwork by Eduardo Recife