Alphabet a History

The following piece of creative nonfiction is part of a series I started on my personal blog a few years ago called “Alphabet: A History,” which is a collection of short, autobiographical vignettes, focusing mainly on relationships (familial, romantic, platonic, and self).

It’s spring 2005 and I’m single again after two back-to-back failed relationships. I’m 28 and it feels like absolutely nothing and everything could still happen to me. I buy a bike at a thrift store for $40 and start riding for the first time in 15 years. Soon, I’ll upgrade to a different bike — one with actual gears — that I’ll buy brand new for $180. I’ll ride that one up and down Chicago’s lake front hundreds of times before I move to New York in 2007. I’ll ride it all over the city, from the north side to the south side, from the lake to Eden’s Expressway.

If I’m going somewhere, I like to ride my bike, but in my neighborhood I walk: to the Hopleaf for a drink; to Augie’s for brunch; to Chad’s place for a nightcap on his deck. Best of all, I walk to Cafe Bong Ho for karaoke and escape. In Cafe Bong, nothing on the outside matters — not my career indecision or my failed relationships or my empty back account. [Click to continue]

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by Wendy on October 17, 2012 · in Alphabet a History

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The following piece of creative nonfiction is part of a series I started on my personal blog a few years ago called “Alphabet: A History,” which is a collection of short, autobiographical vignettes, focusing mainly on relationships (familial, romantic, platonic, and self).

It’s June, 1997, and I’m spending the summer before my senior year of college in Springfield, Missouri, working at the school library. My roommate has gone home for the summer and subleased her room to another friend of ours, but she comes back for her birthday and we throw a little party to celebrate. There’s this guy I know from the theater circle, Chad, who comes to the party. He has purple hair and a dancing bear tattoo on his calf and he makes the girls swoon even though we’re all pretty sure he’s gay. Chad comes to the party and he and I decide to go for a walk and we talk about everything and nothing and eventually watch the sun come up. [Click to continue]

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by Wendy on July 12, 2012 · in Alphabet a History

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The following piece of creative nonfiction is part of a series I started on my personal blog a few years ago called “Alphabet: A History,” which is a collection of short, autobiographical vignettes, focusing mainly on relationships (familial, romantic, platonic, and self).

Alphabet: A History (M) Mattress

It’s June, 2004 and I’m moving into a 1-bedroom apartment on Winnemac Street. I’m a ten-minute walk from the park in one direction, a ten-minute walk from the lake in the other, and I’m right around the corner from the Hopleaf. It’s the first time I’ve lived alone in almost four years, so I’ve bought a new mattress to honor the occasion. It’s a Sterns and Foster, which is the only kind my mom said is worth getting.

It’s hot and I’m wearing a t-shirt and underwear while I paint the place and wait for my mattress to be delivered (none of my other furniture is here yet). I’m painting the kitchen the color of a watermelon because the black and white splash board reminds me of seeds. I paint my living room mocha, my bathroom light purple, my dining room apple green, and my bedroom a golden yellow. I don’t have AC, but I’ve got the ceiling fans on high and all the windows open. I’m playing a song by Wheat called “I Met a Girl” over and over on my little CD player and I dance around my empty apartment, barefoot over the newly-varnished hardwood floors.

A year and a few months later, after another date that leads to nowhere, I spend an evening lying on the same floor, staring at the ceiling, listening to Mazzy Star’s “Halah” on repeat. It’s getting cooler now, the bars and cafes have moved their outdoor tables and chairs to wherever it is they keep these things in the winter. I ride my bike around aimlessly, with the left leg of my jeans rolled up, my blue jacket zipped to my neck. I eat mussels for two at the bar at the Hopleaf, sharing my meal with a rotating cast of friends and forgettable dates, most of whom I meet online these days. Saturday mornings I spend at the bookstore, a stack of magazines and a small skim latte by my side.

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by Wendy on April 25, 2012 · in Alphabet a History

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The following piece of creative nonfiction is part of a series I started on my personal blog a few years ago called “Alphabet: A History,” which is a collection of short, autobiographical vignettes, focusing mainly on relationships (familial, romantic, platonic, and self). I will be publishing the series on Fridays.

Alphabet: A History (L) Lake Michigan

It’s May, 2008, and I’m visiting Chicago for the third time since I moved to New York less than 8 months ago. May is tied with October for my favorite month here and the colors at the lake today are a big reason why. I’m with Chad who took a day off from work and we’re the only people here. We run around and cartwheel with our shoes off and do a photo shoot on the spread of bright green grass between the water and Lake Shore Drive and for a moment it feels like I never left.

I don’t feel at home in New York yet, not like this. From the lake I can walk to three of my old apartments in less than 15 minutes. I can peek into the windows from the street below and imagine the lines of my bookshelves, the curve of my couch, the shape of my cats peering from behind the pane. These images are like lifelines across a palm, filling the gaps between stories I tell, the moments between the events. [Click to continue]

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by Wendy on December 16, 2011 · in Alphabet a History

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