Farewell, Fond F, Futile F, Fickle F, Fu….

"I really want you two to have the apartment," were the words my new landlord told Jill over the phone this evening. This just one hour after Jill sent me a text message saying she was pulling out her hair. This just ninety minutes after I told two people that I had officially given up on receiving "the call." They came through -- the call, the landlord. Fortune. It looks like the big day is Sunday. Geno convinced me to move myself and, out of the kindness of his heart, is helping me. Now I don't have to fork over money I don't have. It'll be me, him and a U-Haul mini-mover. I'll do laundry down the street one more time. Maybe have one more Godfather hero sandwich made by Jeanette, Jesus or Armando. One last walk through Prospect Pa-- never mind, I never walked through Prospect Park. So I am done with Windsor Terrace, that Brooklyn neighborhood just out of civilization's reach. But what is more important, what is infinitely more significant, is that I no longer have to rely on the F train to get me home at night. It will no longer skip Ft. Hamilton Parkway with me on it. I won't have to deal with it inching along the tracks at the outdoor Fourth Ave. and Smith and 9th Street stops. No more round orange circles with a white "F" shouting from the center that come every 45 minutes, no matter the time of day. "Is this the F or V?" No more! No more, I say. Unless I choose to take it. I didn't have such hatred for the 4, 5, or 6 lines when I was forced to use those. And I'm quite open to the fact that one day I'll hate the N, R, W, B and D trains. But their time will come. All I know is, the F has had its day in my life, and we are breaking up. I have had some good F times, though, too. It's where I enjoyed my serendipitous introduction to Steve with whom I have since spent numerous hours talking about girls and writing. For whom I will soon be writing a treatment for a potential movie. I also had, some may recall, a wonderful encounter with a stranger who asked me what I was writing. Ida and I spent time together on the F train, holding hands despite the stares of the intolerant. She also almost got in a fight on the F train, unwilling to put up with some colorful comments from a few nosy women, mothers with strollers, unhappy with our affection. At the time, I was hoping to someone that the women couldn't hear the garbled words she muttered, as I stood in front of her, concealing her from their view. Now that encounter makes me smile. I'm sure it would her, too. I've also cried on the F train. Wondering what it was I did this time. Or what I didn't do. And what I would do different next time. But how? Then it will never come. I have seen kids with my skin color on the F and wondered if they know their fathers like I don't. I have sat next to people who, if not for the F, would otherwise never have any reason to be in my presence or I in theirs. The best thing, though, the thing I will remember the F train for the most, is the writing. Suffering through the F's many delays, I have given character to people who don't exist, pondered psuedo-philosophical motivations behind my character's actions, and cut entire sections. I have, from time to time, put periods on what I consider to be well-written sentences, which I punctuated further with a smile on my face. I have written dialogue, which may very well suck. I have created stories in my head that I immediately put on the page. I have written most of the 91 pages of my handwritten draft on the F train, as well as many journal entries. It offered a safe space for me in which to do so, allowing me to forego all of the judgments I usually conjure before putting pen to paper. So. The F train. Goodbye, my friend. My foe. It's been, well, it's just been.