Damn You Everyman Paul Walker

Understand, I didn't want to watch Eight Below. There are no choices, however, on Peter Pan buses. The inbus movie is not a democratic matter. You don't even have the option of escaping the movie, since unlike planes headphones are not required. So I was stuck with Paul Walker, his biceps, eight dogs, and at least two tragedies.

The tragedies are why I didn't want to watch. I knew the Disney feature would be the kind of insipid, corny, and wondrous crap that only a child's open mind can appreciate, but also knowing that two of the eight dogs die before I even got to the first heartwarming doggie moment was too much. How I knew this isn't really important, but I'll tell you anyway: I'm the kind of person who wants details about movies I will never see, mostly so I'll stay literate in useless culture. I asked a friend if all of the dogs made it, and I was very sad to hear his spoiler. So, even without seeing the movie, I was already sad.

And after saying goodbye to my girlfriend that afternoon, I was sad enough, thanks. If I had showed the driver my shirt smeared with make-up and tears, maybe he would have turned that heartbreaking movie off. That washed-out tan blotch right over my heart might have persuaded him. That isn't the kind of thing you can tell bus drivers, unfortunately.

So I watched two dogs die. I tried taking off my glasses, but the cold and tiny bus TV was only one seat away. I couldn't fall asleep; the snow-filled movie illuminated the bus like a second moon. Even my beloved iPod didn't save me. So, I watched two dogs die - noble, heartbreaking deaths - and the sadness brought me back to the moment I left my girlfriend's apartment.

Leaving is hard. Leaving is full of holding, shoe-gazing, and kisses wet from tears. It's not for the weak of heart. Especially the part when you think you've pulled yourself together, and the deed can be done. There is more crying, then false goodbyes(because you always try to band-aid it and do it quick, but that never happens), and, finally, there is the moment when you turn around and don't look back.

After that moment, late Monday afternoon, I walked up 116th street to the subway. Squinting against the sun kept the tears away. That moment sat on my shoulders during the walk to the subway, and it hunched me down in my seat as I rode the car to Grand Central. Packed with people staring off beyond the car windows, I became intimate with the worn patches of my jeans.

The moment stayed with me through the subway ride, the shuttle to Port Authority, the Peter Pan bus, and finally the walk home.

When I could finally call to say I had made it, and I heard her voice(no longer sad), that painful, lingering motherfucker of a moment finally ended.

This isn't a happy ending, though, since the moment will come again in two weeks, and two weeks after that. It isn't a sad ending either. That moment, as terrible as it is, is nothing compared to all the time that passes before it. Time filled with joy, happiness, and kisses wet from passion. So I'll keep living that moment.

If Old Yeller is playing on the bus home, I will seriously start to look into flying.