A Dance of Double Entendres in Hoboken

My relocation from the London area to New York was in a steady downward spiral, and I reckoned I had finally hit rock bottom. A month stretched into three, and then three months turned into three years. My initial elation at entering a new world has slowly faded, and now I’m feeling rather downhearted.

But having a foreign accent has its perks. It helped open doors, but after that, I suppose, it’s up to you, isn’t it?

Americans have taken a liking to the new film, Saltburn. Maybe it's because they get to watch a wealthy family getting the short end of the stick. Watching the film reminded me of how I always try to look and act posh, but my background is actually far more like Oliver’s.

My story began in the summer of 2022. After being alone for the better part of a year, I struck up an acquaintance with him for the first time. Unkempt hair, wearing a jumper that should have been left behind in the noughties, Bastian walked into the shop I was in. Perhaps he thought I would give him a bit of class.

The fact that I also liked him instantly must have had something to do with his intelligence. Despite his disheveled look, there was a cleverness in his eyes.

He wanted to take me out drinking on Friday nights. Bastian said he needed company. He had just landed a job at an international construction company in Lower Manhattan and had fresh dosh to spend.

At first, things were awkward. Having studied structural engineering, he was one of those boffins that thought if he merely talked to a woman, the next thing she would be pregnant, and he would be stuck in the suburbs forever. I taught him that he could make his own decisions.

We both lived across the river from New York in Hoboken. Even though I’m from the London area, and Bastian from Long Island, we were not exactly rich. Hoboken was the roaming grounds of junior accountants, administrative assistants, and dental hygienists. We fit in. Oh, the dental hygienists of Hoboken bring back memories.

I’ll be completely transparent. I’m a bit of a wallflower at parties. But Bastian, he’s a good-looking guy. As soon as I got him out of the Irish dive bar below his flat, and into more happening places on Newark Street, I found myself in the middle of him hooking up with some of the hottest girls in Hoboken.

I’m pretty awkward myself, and I was always hoping he wouldn't slip out and leave me alone by myself. I’m not much of a talker, having lost my parents when I was young. I’m from Berkhamsted, an hour north of London. I tell people I’m British, but if you dig deep, most of my DNA is from the Middle East. In reality, everyone is from someplace else, aren’t they?

Over time, I adapted to America. British are not as forward as Americans are, not as touchy-feely. I needed to overcome my natural aversion to physical closeness to fit in.

But now I look back at those as the good old days. When I lived following the whims of people out partying on Friday and Saturday nights in Hoboken.

Things took a turn when, unexpectedly, late last summer, I went with Bastian to attend the funeral of his mother. I’m not sure why I needed to attend an event like that. I had definitely never met his mother before.

Bastian started to act differently after that. Began to talk about what life means. What death entails.

It all began to scare me.

We had our first row that weekend.

Bastian was very drunk on Friday night. After a night of failed attempts at connection, suddenly I found myself spinning through the air and flung into the corner, ending up squashed.

“Everyone has a breaking point,” I screamed at him.

“Just leave me alone,” he shouted back.

It went like that for weeks. Him drinking too much, nights ending being flung around. 

And then, she came into Wild Mike’s one night. 

Long hair, sparkling smile, an amazing figure. At that moment, somewhere deep inside, I knew this might be the end of me being a useful companion for Bastian.

“I’m going in for a chat. Cover me,” Bastian said.

“Let me know if it gets off the ground,” I told him.

Her name was Jessica. “You two could do standup comedy,” she said after we were introduced. “And what do you do?” she asked.

“I work in insurance, an administrative assistant,” I said.

Most men don’t like someone who works in insurance. Women are usually more receptive to what I have to offer. But her interest in me didn’t last for long. 

In the murky recesses of the bar, they soon couldn’t keep their hands off each other, and I was getting a front-row seat to all the action.

After that night, an awful for me to be completely honest, Bastian and Jessica soon became like two peas in a pod. And me, the third wheel, an awkward part of every conversation.

Maybe it’s because of my name, or my country of origin, but Bastian and Jessica didn’t tell their other friends about me, even though I had played such an important part in their lives. Everyone has a friend they enjoy spending time with, but don’t want other people to know about, right?  Sadly, that is I.

Bastian said he was considering applying for a management position at work. More pay, more responsibility.

“If anyone can pull it off, you can,” Jessica encouraged him

After his promotion, something unanticipated happened. Bastian completely stopped taking me out with him. I found myself sitting at home, watching a blank screen while they went about their lives. It was a strange feeling, let me tell you.

And then, just like that, they decided to leave Hoboken.

That early afternoon was unseasonably cool as Bastian packed his belongings with Jessica’s help.

He gestured toward me sitting on the front window shelf. “What about Atlas?” he asked.

“You can leave him behind.” She winked.

“I never liked him anyway,” Bastian said, a smidgen of mirth in his voice.

And then they left.

I had to face the truth. In this world, people will use us, and throw us out when they don’t need us anymore.

The last I heard, Bastian and Jessica have two children and a house in Connecticut.

Life carries on. Another chap will want me, a box of love gloves, soon.