“It’s tough to marry a young girl (you have to be out of your damn mind)…” M*****a Lawrence; August 1, 2013 The invite came in the mail with little fanfare. The letters where in Times New Roman and were flushed to the left with a small red flower graphic that could have been done in Microsoft Paint 1.0 as the header. The cardboard it was printed on was white and flimsy with one side completely neglected. No calligraphy no gold glitter inside the envelope tied by a white ribbon or anything that young girls dream of when planning their future weddings while they’re playing with their Barbie’s. Just an email with 2 phone numbers in case you wanted to hear the voice of the stranger that would be taking your RSVP. Personally I’ve seen flyers for secret parties in even more secret locations with more information. But I knew what this was: I, along with my girlfriend, was being invited to M*****a’s & T*’s backyard wedding. “The first time I met M****** I thought to myself who is this girl looking at me with these big beautiful eyes and she is smiling at me!! Then she bought me a drink and we talked for a bit. She invited me for a smoke. So we walked upstairs from the basement of Lit and I remember thinking what an amazing booty she had and I couldn’t make out what she was. Italian? Mexican? I’ve never seen a girl like this. When we got upstairs we smoked and she played me some music from her headphones and we talked about Kool Keith. I then thought to myself I met the one…”
T* Lawrence; August 1, 2013
I met M*****a a couple of years ago in a bathroom at Webster Hall. I was backstage doing my usual as a human party favor vending machine for urban ravers and the inebriated industry that caters to them. A**x E*****h – one of the head promoters of this weekly neon & sweat fest – needed my services and led me to the bathroom in VIP. Inside were two five foot nothing girls with faces not far from when they both hit puberty. The other girl was a fiery chain smoking red-head with a raspy voice and freckles that betrayed it. M*****a had these eyes that reminded me of my crush from Steven King’s “Sleepwalkers” film, Mädchen Amick, who I swore for a while did Cover Girl commercials. She had jet black Paul Mitchel curls and a skimpy tank that she wore braless likes a teenager with breasts that were a day old. Both of them where rolling on mushrooms and wanted to buy some coke to take the edge off their rollercoaster of a trip. Both of them received my presence with suspicion even after my Super Bowl introduction by A**x. The red head fumbled for several 20 dollar bills while we all did a line off a grimy paper towel dispenser. Melissa shot me a dirty look after I took an overhead unsolicited photo – the redhead took my phone number – A**x gave me some drink tickets. “I was coming off a double shift at Porchetta, and an even longer hangover. I pushed on to Milk studios after and got dragged to Lit partially against my will, because the girls wanted to hang out with DJ Medhi… And thank God for them because that decision changed my life. We get into that old familiar basement and the only thing I thought that would keep me standing that night was cocaine. We were with our friend Sophie from Bristol and she remarks “Oi that’s my friend T*!” I had never seen anyone like him before… There was something about his eyes that projected this sort of kindness that you knew could do no harm. I asked her if she was talking to him in any way… She said no and I said “mine!” I had no money in my pockets when they were buying T* a tequila OJ. I told them to let me take it to him. I was wearing my good butt shorts so I asked him to come outside for a cigarette (I’d be bumming them from him for years to come) and wiggle my way up the stairs in front of him. We talked about Kool Keith. We talked about dub music. I played him the Zombies from my iPod and we fell in love. He tokes my number as “M*****a NJ musical genius” he’s in my phone as “T***y Longstroke” … we talked all night and he was the first boy in a long time who didn’t try to take me home.”
I don’t remember when I met T*. But then again I never remembered much when I hung out with this best friend B** J**z who introduced us. Every night it was a game of chicken with our brittle & drug addled hearts. I never left J**z side before sunrise and I never left without my body sweating out whiskey and my nose clogged from shoveling a nor’easter in there. Somewhere in between every single night and every single day I met T*. We bonded over our love for 90’s backpack rap and sleep inducing house music. When they filmed for their electric – disco house – rap group I brought a bag of fried chicken and they included a shot of me eating it in the video. T* had a wild coke jaw and a wild sense of humor that wasn’t lost on anyone and did not spare anyone. It went perfect with B** J**z self-deprecating narcissism and my sponge like need for the darkest of all experiences. Somewhere in between empty fifty bags that were split opened and licked clean and cigarette filled beer cans I wound up in a loft on South 4th & Kent Avenue and TK and Melissa were engaged.
I chipped in $120 for the party bus that drove us upstate. My girlfriend wore a black asymmetrical dress from Oak with one sleeve cut off and huge Breakfast at Tiffany sunglasses to hide her hangover. I wore a navy blue blazer embroidered with preppy patches, khaki’s, brown Cole Haan shoes with investment banker tassels, a peach Ralph Lauren polo, and Spanx to hold in my beer gut. My wallet had a couple hundred dollars in crumpled up 20’s and a zipper compartment that held about $700 in nose candy I forgot to remove before leaving my apartment. As I found a spot in a bus filled with all of my insatiable nightlife friends/ perpetual clients I promised myself not to tell ANYONE of my illicit cargo.
And then we all saw Paz.
Paz Del La Huerta was an actress I discovered in the pages of Page Six. She was a party girl with a mouth full of dirt and the hands to throw it. The more I read about her in the gossip rags the higher she went up on my list of celebrities I would fuck if given a hall pass by my girlfriend. She was the Hipster’s Lindsay Lohan with lips the size of throw pillows and perky pornstar titties that stole every scene she was in. Her acting reminded me of a swirly sailor on leave burdened with one to many shots of whiskey and one too many secrets. We were all mesmerized by her, our eyes inconspicuously glued to her waiting to see if she would do something Gawker worthy. Maybe she would drink herself into a fistfight with one of the girls, take her dress off and wear the uncut wedding cake over her chest. Maybe she would pass out on the lawn spread eagle with her baby rat of a vagina in plain sight or maybe she – we didn’t know and we didn’t care but we couldn’t stop looking and waiting.
Then I made the mistake of suggesting to my girlfriend how cool it would be to do coke with her. Soon enough the word got out and everyone I knew ran out of the wedding reception looking for the nearest ATM. We were upstate. Everyone was one eye opened drunk. I was the only “guy”. No one took no for an answer. I went from being a guest – to a drug dealer – at a wedding. The bride wore a white vintage bodysuit with a matching skirt tailored to her size and no shoes. The groom wore sunglasses. The minister was a popular LA DJ/ producer and the cameraman was a Hollywood film actor. The aisles were filled with family and friends. The weather was perfect. The location was a beautiful lake house in the middle of a wonderful nowhere. After the “I Do’s” we all ran into the nearby lake baptizing ourselves in the newlywed’s eternal commitment to each other. We all ate and danced with each other exchanging adult pleasantries with the sincerity of people that didn’t stay up for 36 hours feeding their adolescent demons every immediate urge their selfishness demands. No one asked me for a bump or to help them cut some line to some club and instead asked me when I was going to get married and posed graciously for my photos. As the groom’s dad played his electric guitar and the guests shuffled through the greenest blades of grass I’ve had ever seen I thought of my one life under the sun. I rarely got to see the sun except when leave some degenerate after hour’s party – clothes ratty and nose caked up like a busy bakery. I thought about the type of husband I would be. The thought got me sick to my stomach like week old milk. I saw the much younger bride as my wholesome side, the young boy who adored his family, a virgin to vice and a beacon of promise. The I can be anything type of optimism that conquered nations and built empires, the thing that sent a man to the moon and cured polio. Then I saw the older groom as my creative, tortured side. They type that suffered every decision he ever made. Who hid himself in whatever foxhole that shielded him from the war of integrity and responsibility. Whose insecurity and embarrassing self-indulgent lifestyle crippled his fingers so it didn’t allow him to place a simple hello call to his mother or son for months?
How the fuck did those two get married?!
With every bag that left my wallet another $20 bill was added to the pool that was drowning me in self-guilt. I didn’t want to be “that guy”. Not today, not tonight, not ever again. I wanted to be married, I wanted my family, I wanted the DJ to turn off the music and send me and everyone else home. I wanted my connect to stop calling me burying me in slavery by asking if I needed more grams. I wanted to never be invited to another party again. I wanted a life… any life except the one that I had. My breath grew heavier and faster with every loathsome thought and the little Tweety birds of summer love started to turn into angry ravens of hate and regret – pecking at my forehead with an intensity of a jackhammer. I was screaming in my silence, my eyes crying with blood and my time sacrificed to my all-consuming addiction and….
I turn and dagger my girlfriend with my eyes filled with contempt.
“I did it!!!” she screams to me in her hushed whispers, her face glowing like an expecting mother.
“Did what?!” as my contempt goes from annoyance to stubborn curiosity.
“I did coke with Paz!!!” she exclaimed with a pride that is usually reserved for genius children that graduate from medical school.
“What?!” Her joy infecting me, slowing my breathing and warming my checks up into a satisfied smile.
I looked over to T* & M*****a and there they were on the dance floor, her head sunk into his shoulder dancing slowly to Michael Jackson’s “Pretty Young Thing” without a care in the world. Then I looked at my pretty young thing… and inside my heart T* & M*****a got married all over again.
“When M*****a asked me to marry her we were in the shower. A very small shower we barely fit in. She was already on her knees. She looked up at me and asked me “Will you marry me?” I responded “Yes of course! Let’s get married!” We proceeded to plan the wedding in the shower. I remember thinking to myself damn I wanted to ask her. I only just told her I wanted to marry her a few days before and was trying to figure out how to go about doing it. She had beat me to the punch. I knew that she loved me with all her heart right then and there so there was no question in my mind that we were getting married.” T* Lawrence; August 1, 2013 “We are both dreamers, two fish swimming in the sea. We can never make up our minds until we did for the only decision in life that mattered… that I’d never have to say goodbye to him. He was going to surprise me and ask but I asked him in the shower. I claimed him from the minute we met so it was only natural. We were together for not even a year, and we knew. We are both messes.” “T* has never spoken down to me or made me feel less important in my life. My life is full of shit but also full of so much love that when I look at him I feel like I’m going to be torn apart by it. It’s a beautiful feeling. I am the richest person I know… And wherever he goes, I go. 🙂”
M*****a Lawrence; August 1, 2013