Six Degrees of Separation: Barack Obama

For the last few years, my friend Marty has let me crash on the couch of his huge loft in TriBeCa. A friendship was struck a few years back when he handed keys to me at a party in Los Angeles and offered his place even though I had only known him a few hours through our friend Carlos. This is the type of guy Marty is. When I stay with him I am aware of what comes with that black futon: chasing girls, dirty boots, cab rides, and Marty asking me his favorite question, “When are you going to be my girlfriend?”
Two summers ago I go to the Rose Bar at the Gramercy with Carlos and Marty. Somehow I get sat next to this exceptionally skinny man named Dean. Despite the fact that he looks like a slightly more attractive and taller version of the character Mango on SNL, he is oddly charming and sort of engaging. One shot of tequila later and I am in a unisex bathroom somewhere doing god knows what with this man. We leave the stall more disheveled than when we enter and I avoid the glance of the bathroom attendant. I’m not that type of girl, I keep thinking to myself…I’m not that type of girl…
Dean and I sit back on the couch that we first struck up conversation on and Marty walks by with Carlos saying “Have a good night.” I tell them to wait and turn to Dean to say goodbye and thank you for the lovely evening or something not like that at all. Dean’s telling me to just come back to his place and I’m thinking no way in hell and I’m saying goodbye again and we’re walking outside and by the time I get there those motherfuckers have already hopped in a cab and deserted me. Once again, Dean tries the “come back to my place” shtick and my thoughts move to the cheap side and I figure I can ride down to his place and then just walk back to Marty’s, saving me a taxi ride all the way from Gramercy. My protest immediately turns into “Sure, why not” and all of a sudden I am in an apartment in the Lower East Side and not walking back to TriBeCa.
We hang out for a little bit, Dean pacing around the room like an insane person because he is a coke head. The place is clean and doesn’t scare me even though I should be and my mother would kill me if she knew where I was. A friend of his comes over. He is funny and drunk and somehow the three of us end up fully clothed in Dean’s bed. It’s friendly and we’re all making jokes and we’re all laughing about stupid shit, nonetheless the friend will occasionally touch my leg in a non-accidental manner and I keep thinking “God, this is fucking weird, but what the hell.” Around 5 in the morning Dean’s roommate comes home with a blonde model with short cropped hair. His roommate is Jamie Burke. I’ve been seeing him around the city on billboards with Kate Moss for Calvin Klein. I immediately wonder why I always end up with the Mangos of this world and why I’m never with the Jamie Burkes. Dean’s back out of bed and chatting away with the two of them and I stay in the room. I sleep for an hour until the jackhammers go off at the construction site across the street. I decide I’d rather die than wake up later than Dean so I leave. At about 7 in the morning I’m walking down the street wearing my party clothes from last night while business traffic and hot air blows past me.
Last week I’m reading an article in Vanity Fair with a picture of Jamie Burke and a Q and A below it asking about the possible perks of being the nephew of Joe Biden. And in place of the shame I’ve always felt for that New York night, I feel closer to Mr. Obama, closer than I’ve ever been, and I feel vindicated for my bad behavior.

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