Self portraits by Felix
Felix barges into my bedroom with unnecessary belligerence, slamming the door into my desk, in turn causing my desk lamp to fall to the floor, smashing the bulb. “Uh, sorry,” he says, groping for the light switch in the dark. “Was that my fault or yours?”
“What do you want Felix?”
“It’s my last day in New York,” he says. “I thought maybe we could do something fun, together. I realized I’ve been here for three months and have barely seen anything besides Bushwick and the insides of bars. I want to spend my last few hours being a tourist.”
“So what do you want to do?” I ask, looking out the window. It’s snowing. What is normally a view of a vacant lot has morphed into a bazillion swirling white speckles.
“Well I was thinking about going to see the Statue of Liberty,” he says, scratching his head, “but then I was like, ‘Eww I don’t want to see that.’ And then I thought maybe I should go to Ground Zero before I leave, but to be honest I really don’t even care. Now I’m thinking maybe I’ll go to Wall Street, but like, what even is Wall Street anyway?” He begins to walk from his position in the doorway toward the window, but on the way trips over nothing, falling face first onto the floor.
“Dude seriously,” I say. “What’s the deal with all the falling and smashing and breaking stuff? I can’t have you in my room, you’re a liability.”
“I’ve told you a million times!” he says into the floorboards. “I have developmental dyspraxia!”
“Oh my god that’s not even a real thing. I Googled it once. It’s basically just a fancy way of saying retarded.”
“It is real!” he shouts. “I have a serious disease! My brain can’t communicate to my body properly! Or wait… is that it? Whatever, basically it means I have bad coordination.” He peels himself off the floor and limps back to his room. He spends the next two hours taking Macbook photos of himself in various locations around the house, followed by an additional hour spent superimposing images of acorns onto said photographs. He never makes it out of the apartment.
When it’s finally time for Felix to leave for the airport he hugs me and says, “I’m glad we’re friends.”
“Are we friends?” I ask, suddenly realizing that even after three months I barely know anything about him, and that I can’t remember a single conversation we’ve ever had that lasted longer than five minutes. Although I have heard him orgasm quite a few times–the walls in this apartment are super thin–which I guess is pretty intimate.
“I don’t know, are we?” He scrunches up his nose and crinkles his forehead. This is the face he makes whenever he’s trying to work something out, so like always. “Yeah, I think we are, probably, I guess,” he finally decides. And I smile and shrug my shoulders as if to say yeah, I think so too.
On his way out Felix drops his suitcase down the flight of stairs that leads from our apartment to the building’s front door, dislodging two wooden rods from the staircase banister. “TTYL!” he shouts as he stumbles out the door into the falling snow. I hate myself for saying this, but I sort of miss him already.