The Game of Charades

This is the first edition of what I hope to be a long relationship between you and I, in which I tell you all my secrets, and you skim through them.

Megan Novak

6/25/21

WARNING: What you are about to read is extremely fab and probably a little boring. Do not continue if you are not:

• A bad bitch

• A queen who slays 

• A queen who snaps

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You step outside and reach into your mailbox, and find that for the first time in months, a piece of mail is addressed to you, from a sender who isn’t asking for money or your common app. “What’s this?” you ask yourself. With adrenaline coursing through your veins, you tear open the seal and toss the purple sparkly envelope to the side. Inside, you find hundreds of words of some kid gushing his random stories and thoughts. This is that cute little letter. To be honest, I have nothing better to do this summer than to log each week in the form of a small novel. As Cher once said, “who gives a f*ck?” (Not sure if she actually said that, it just feels like something she would say). Anyway, get yourself a San Pel, get comfortable, and let me tell you about my week. 

Last Friday was spent in my natural habitat gallivanting around Manhattan fully immersed in the act, the charade, the pantomime, that I am a native New Yorker. I was prepared to play the part. The ‘New Yorker’ tote was full. The sunglasses were on. The AirPods were in (no music playing, obvi). And I was charging down 33rd street, yards ahead of my sister and Zoe. I suppose this ….condition could come from the angst I felt after getting waitlisted at ***, but that isn’t important. The morning began with Zoe and I doing a pre-calc quiz on the train because we were not about to get a zero on the last assessment of the year, and even though we couldn't make a straight line due to the turbulence, we snapped and slayed. Once we arrived, I humbly took the position of Navigator. My impeccable sense of direction with the help of google maps made me virtually unstoppable in our 10-mile journey around lower manhattan. We started down 8th ave for our first destination, the Grey Dog Cafe (Flat Iron), which ended up as a sad way to spend $26 on strawberry pancakes, an oat milk chai, and a shocking lack of photo ops. But the food was yummers, and the nice waiter made up for the wobbly table. The first time I dined at the Grey Dog was in February of 2020. Then, my experience was ameliorated by the cozy atmosphere inside, rather than the scaffolding setting on the sidewalk. We also spotted Alec Baldwin sitting not ten feet away from us during the first trip, which Maggie found really exciting. I assessed my perfectly timed notes app schedule, and we began the march to the next destination. To my Virgo rising's dismay, we had selected a thrift shop all the way on Third ave in the East Village. I knew that I would have to engage my New Yorker walking skills if we were going to make it in time to stay on schedule. Inside, Afro-French rap played, setting the scene for this little store with wall-to-wall racks of uninspired clothes. We started heading west after a few minutes. This was like moving from the appetizer to the main course, if you will. The main course being a decadent display of quirky pieces at Beacon's Closet near Union Square. We muddled around the tastefully designed shop, surrounded by intimidatingly well-dressed twenty-somethings. Zoe and Zosia picked out matching sunglasses with funky green frames which we considered to be a step in the right direction of fitting in with the locals. We headed toward Washington Square Park, where a homeless man asked us for change (another opportunity to connect with the locals). The next destination was Buffalo Exchange, another consignment store full of marked-up rags marketed as "cute statement pieces" aka "we know its shit but you'll pay $30 for an ugly skirt because we said so". Back at the park, we got vegan Chinese takeout and sat on the grass to eat our buns and noodles. The food was so delish, I highly recommend Spicy Moon if you're ever downtown. After lunch it was boba time, then it was off to the Whitney for our next cultural experience. I rolled my eyes at a posse of thirty-year-olds from Jersey who were pitifully trying to locate their next roof-top bar, "ok I'm looking it up right now I think it's this way.... wait no." Tourists am I right?  We took a selfie at Gay Street, and I guarded Zosia's bag while she fixed her hair using the window of a gay bar as a mirror.... pretty iconic if you ask me. I asked Zoe to discreetly take some action shots of me walking, striding, with my tote bag, which I posted on insta. At the Whitney, we started on the top floor and made our way down, stopping at the interesting paintings, and ignoring the boring ones. Zoe and I deliberated over a painting titled "Sailors and Floozies'' which depicted what looked like drag queens stomping on U.S. Navy sailors. My New Yorker fantasy was still going strong, even as I was losing steam from power-walking 15,000 steps by 3 pm. I pushed on to stay on schedule as Zosia took a seat and complained about the sun on the terrace of the museum. Our next victim was the High Line, which offered welcome shade and views of Chelsea. The motif of the day was 'slay', and we used the word in any way we could, our modest way of celebrating pride month. By the time we got to the bitter end of the High Line, my phone was at 1%. "Zoe," I said, "You need to become Navigator". The Earth started to tremble, a symphony of drums and horns came down from the sky, thunder surrounded our petrified bodies. "Ok," she said. Luckily, we weren't far from Penn Station, and we found seating (and charging ports) in the stunning new Moynihan Train Hall. We equipped ourselves with Krispy Kreme and boarded the train after a busy day in my home...err... NYC. I found that it's tiring being a New Yorker. So much to do, so many people to be annoyed with, so many paintings to look at, SO much money to spend. Even so, I was happy to play the part, just for a day. 

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I tend to get myself caught up in “charades” often. It’s not that I enjoy lying (although who doesn’t sometimes), but pretending has always been a fun way to pass time. It’s not just, like, theatre acting, but I will get myself so caught up in some fantasy that I need to remind myself that I am in fact not living in a perfectly decorated studio in Greenwich Village. I used to reject my Pisces identity because I didn’t see myself as ‘sensitive’, or ‘artistic’, but I think it's time that I embrace who the universe is telling me I am: ill in every sense of the word. At night, when it’s just my Christmas lights on and everyone else is asleep, I will stare into the dirty bathroom mirror and make myself cry. This sounds really bad…..and I agree. Maybe it's because I haven’t shed a real tear since January. Or maybe it's because I just finished ‘Big Little Lies’ and I was so inspired by Nicole Kidman’s stellar performance that I had to practice my dramatic acting skills at one in the morning. It’s probably the latter. But for whatever reason, I pretend by myself a lot. Like right now! I’m pretending that I’m not graduating today so that I don’t have to deal with the mental obstacles in my brain that say it’s not scientifically possible that I never have to sit through another BC class, or read another dumb ass ‘Happy Friday’ email (now I get to write my own). It would have been fitting for me to make this Pilot newsletter some love letter to high school, to our lives at BC. But, I decided not to do that. Mostly because I don’t feel like it. But also, no one would want to read that shit. 

I’m not sure what I think about this new medium of brain dumping. It’s like my failed journaling endeavor, but electronic. I don’t think I’ve written in that dumpy composition notebook since maybe September, after telling myself I would write in it every day of Senior year...and Junior year. But this is mostly for me. I don’t expect many people to actually read these letters, I just wanted something to motivate me to write/ journal this summer. Also, it’s fun! It’s like that project that your dad started three years ago and never finished...replacing the air vents in the bathroom, was it? Hopefully, I’ll remain more consistent than he was. 

I’m thinking that next week we might enjoy the company of another writer (identity unknown). We can make this a fun space, I think. 

Thanks for coming along, I’ll talk to you next week. 

xoxo

Henryk 

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