Sincerely And A Little Surly

B-boys in the living room, birthday phone calls, and waking up in the morning.

I woke up and remembered it’s my birthday. I remembered the security of knowing my dad would be the first to call. I keep remembering the call’s not going to come in between moments of somehow thinking it still could.

A guy called Peter The Jester entertained us at my sixth birthday party. When his routine was over, my friends and I jumped him in the front yard. Just a pile of shrieking, googly-eyed girls in grass stained party dresses falling into his lap, wiggling up on his shoulders in white tights and scuffed patent leather shoes, screaming DON’T GO while the little bells on his red and black fool’s hat jingled SOS.

At my fourth grade birthday party a classmate named Huckleberry kept cutting up inappropriately. He was disrupting the very important gift-giving portion of the afternoon so I put him in a time-out. He sat quietly at the bottom of the staircase watching me tear open my presents. At some point I told him he could come back and join us but he shook his head and stayed where he was. He did not care for any of it and I do not blame him for one second.

I had breakdancers at my 7th grade birthday party because it was the 80s. The crew was supposed to do some high-level breaking on our dead end suburban block but when it started raining, we went inside and pushed couches, chairs, coffee and side tables against the walls. The backdrop for the breakdancing battle had become a mauve and beige living room with portraits of naked ladies painted by my grandmother. My friends and I sat on the floor and looked up at these white, lanky B-boys who stood in the middle of the room trying not to laugh. But when the breakbeats started they were popping-and-locking, top-rocking, and doing head spins. The sound of parachute pants and Adidas Superstars squeaking on the floor was orchestral. There was also a DJ who looked like a teenage John Travolta if John Travolta was also teenage Billy Joel. I decided to have a crush on him. He was not very comfortable at my party and I do not blame him for one second.

My college friends threw me a surprise party sophomore year. Mitchell Baker baked two square chocolate cakes and used silver sprinkles to draw dicks on each one. He stuck the candles into the sides of the cakes so as not to puncture the metallic penis art. The dorm room was thick with smoke and bodies. (Later, I had could-have-done-without-it sex with a guy who drove a green BMW with a Phish bumpersticker on it. Can you hear the sound of the descending four-note trumpet? I bet you can.)

There have been memorable birthdays in New York — during “First Adulthood” and “Second Adulthood,” which are terms thoroughly expounded on in Passages: Predictable Crises of Adult Life. The subtitle alone makes me upset. Birthdays just aren’t what they used to be.

Three years ago I decided that I didn’t want to make a thing of it going forward. So I ate that whole month of September like it was my last meal. I’d have to look up what-all I actually did because my brain is a craggy sieve, but I know I manifested the shit out of Virgo season.¹ And that was that on that.

I don’t dislike birthdays(?). I just don’t want to have them(?). But also I want attention. I mean, what is the alternative? It’s no longer being here or never having been born.

So I woke up this morning and remembered my birthday and I remembered that my dad wouldn’t be calling like he used to. But I can hear the call in my head. I know what he would say and how he’d say it; sincerely and a little surly. I don’t know if the “used to” part is something you get used to, or what.

1. There was one minor issue which I refer to as The Amazing Ratastrophe but that’s a story for some other time but also a story I may never tell at any time.