Todd thought it might be a good distraction for me if I busied myself with something I don't normally do. He suggested that I go ice skating in the park, and reluctantly agreed to go along, despite the fact that he'd never been ice skating, and despite the fact that it terrified him.

Although I own a pair of roller skates, I've only been ice skating once, in the middle of a mall in North Carolina, when I was ten. And yet I was awarded the role of "expert"—not because of any real skill I possess, but simply because of Todd's tangible fear. Early on, I saw it was my job to pretend to know the procedure and to explain how to move your feet. I confidently offered made-up wisdom, like, "Always lean forward; never lean back!" not actually knowing whether it was protocol. It seems logical, though, right?

This also meant stifling my own fears and forging ahead like a professional. Moments after I got on the ice (after accidentally letting some panicked words slip out of my mouth), I stood (shakily) five feet away, held an arm out to him, and encouraged him to approach. It looked a lot like coaxing a child to take his first steps, except that the child's eyes were unusually big with fear, and he kept shaking his head "no." "It's easy!" I lied. "Just grab onto me; I've got you!" I lied again.

Todd's gloved hand gripped mine like a vice, and we slowly slid on our blades in a crowded circle—first, near the wall, and eventually closer to the center of the circle, where the cocky people were skating. I didn't immediately notice when it began to snow.

Our laps around the ice were without incident (we didn't fall), except for the moment when an obnoxious young kid skated between us, ducking under our tightly gripped hands. I watched the able skaters rather enviously, the ones who made ice skating appear deceptively easy and moved around like liquid. To our benefit, though, Todd and I were at the rewarding stage of improving exponentially with each lap. Also, it was scarier for us, and therefore more exciting.

I skated the last few laps alone, feeling increasingly brave, but I opted not to give into it and try something stupid. Todd watched from the side, from where he (believably) insisted that he was having a good time.

When people offer their condolences, I'm embarrassed when I cry, and embarrassed when I don't. Sometimes I wish unrestrained emotion didn't make me so uncomfortable.

I'm on I-95, riding in a loop around Washington, D.C., behind the heads of my parents, watching the road; it's almost all 18-wheelers, vans, and SUVs. I'm going home a day earlier than I'd planned, and they're taking me all the way into Brooklyn, instead of taking me to the train station in my grandmother's New Jersey town.

I've been driving my mom's VW Beetle for the past few days, only the second time I've driven all year. That's strange to me, but not as strange as the fact that I hadn't realized it had been that long until I got behind the wheel. My cat, Jane, looks something like a VW Beetle. She's so round, and likes to sit with her paws tucked under her body, her hind legs curving around like fenders, and her round, giant eyes forming the headlights.

I haven't forgotten how to drive, and the driving-related thoughts spring up naturally, as if I'd been doing it every day of 2004. Ease the gas so that the light turns green before you get there. Ready your foot over the pedal, in case that car pulls out in front of you. Don't hit the brakes on ice.

On Sunday morning I only had modest control of the car as it swerved over icy, country roads. It was fun when Jay was attempting 180s in his car on the way to breakfast (sweet tea and biscuits) and less fun when I was the one in control, when I was stuck in the median of a highway.

I was driving alone in a loop around Raleigh Sunday evening when I got the phone call, and mindlessly pulled over into a Waffle House parking lot to absorb the first of a series of facts and realizations. Jane is dead. She died alone, on the kitchen floor of a strange apartment, probably while having a seizure. I was miles away, perhaps stuck in a highway median, in North Carolina. She was discovered by her caretaker's roommate, who'd never seen her alive.

Just so you know, she was quiet and sweet, and trilled more than she meowed; sometimes she even meowed silently. When she jumped off the bed, her heavy body would make a funny thump, and she'd simultaneously let out a grunt, like the sound a "mama" doll might make if she were dropped to the floor. She was needy, always came when called, and often followed me from room to room. Sometimes she'd sniff my face while purring (her cat face large and curious), which never failed to make me laugh. She was clumsy, patient, and well mannered, and scared of heights, other cats, and plastic bags. In order to get her to play, you'd have to drag a string across her paw, and she might (might) reach for it, assuming she didn't have to move very far. Unbeknownst to her, she was complimented regularly on her unusually soft fur. Also unbeknownst to her, she had about a hundred nicknames.

It took me weeks to get her to use her scratcher, weeks of me unsuccessfully forcing her paws in the motions, weeks of me demonstrating with my own nails. The first time she started scratching on her own, my mouth dropped open in surprise.

Whenever I poured food in her bowl, I'd have to make loud fake coughing sounds to cover the noise, so that she wouldn't come running. She'd often eat until she puked, she liked it so much.

Once I saw her open her mouth for what started out to be a (threatening) hiss, but ended in an unthreatening yawn. (Jane is the least scary creature I can fathom.) Due to her slight overbite, you could see her fangs even when her mouth was closed. She looked something like a cartoon.

I don't know what killed her exactly. When asked, I say "complications with diabetes," either straight-faced or not. That's about as exact as "dying of old age," which has never made much sense to me.

In order not to constantly think about it, I just need to avoid things that remind me of her: things that are round or gray, syringes, animals, plastic bags, my bed, food, things with eyes, and my entire apartment. Should be easy, right? There is fur on my keyboard.

Todd told me he wasn't sure if he should get his super something for Christmas. "Are you getting your super anything?" he asked.

"You mean the super who once drunkenly kissed me on the forehead, who's never fixed anything in my apartment, and who actually broke my mailbox, suggesting that I try to open it with a horseshoe? ...No, I don't think I'm getting him anything. Anyway, I haven't seen him in months. The last time I saw him was in August, two weeks after he'd been declared a 'missing person.'"

...

I'm kind of grateful for people like my drunk Polish super, if only because their role in my life is completely unambiguous. This Christmas, I am not walking through crowded aisles looking for the perfect gift for him, nor am I worried that he's going to show up at my door with a plate of holiday kielbasa. I guess we have sort of an understanding.

Photos of a burning building on 14th street, taken today at lunch.

"What does your cat have? Is she contagious?" The woman was sitting next to a tower of pet carriers, all of which belonged to her. She had been spread out over fifty percent of the benches, but consolidated her things when I walked up, making room for me in the corner.

It was crowded, and the other pet owners were all feeling chatty, talking about their pets like proud, involved parents. The arrangement of the benches and the lack of space forced us to sit in a circle, as if we were members of a support group.

"My cat's diabetic too. How long has yours been diabetic?" she continued. I looked up again, aware that I might appear cold, since I was paying more attention to my book than I did the circle. "Do you mind me asking you questions?"

I probably wasn't convincing, but I assured her I didn't mind, and I gave her answers that were more thorough than necessary just to prove it. I let her push the pile of carriers into my space until the corner of one of them was jammed into my thigh. I pretended not to notice her unbuttoning her shirt, removing her left breast, and mashing the face of her screaming child to her chest. I looked for a change in her voice or her expression, waiting for her to at least pause between words, but she continued as if nothing had happened, as if no one had literally attached himself to her. It was as if she wasn't even aware of it.

As she spoke, I nodded and fake-smiled and participated, returning to my book only when I thought it was not impolite to do so. She listed some drugs I should try out on my cat and gave me the URL of a forum she visits. I made eye contact with her, and repeated the significant words, but I knew that I wasn't absorbing the information. For some reason, however, it was important to me that she believed I was.

I was glad when the girl with the Marmaduke dog began talking again, shifting the attention away from me. I returned to my book.

...

The vet, admittedly confused by Jane's recent neurotic episodes, checked her out again and pronounced, "There is nothing wrong with this cat!" I assume he meant nothing wrong, apart from her being overweight, clumsy, diabetic, and more expensive than a Brooklyn apartment. Good news, in any case.

I said something that the adults around me found amusing, decided that I liked their response, and then said it again in hopes of repeating my success. My brother was quick to inform me, "You can't say something funny twice. It's not funny the second time."

My brother's advice was helpful. From that point on, I began paying more attention to my words and the response they received, and I often passed his advice onto my friends, managing to sound as condescending as my brother, even though I was their same age. To this day I hate repeating myself, and will often preface a story with, "Stop me if I've told you this already." I didn't, however, apply my brother's lesson to all of my good ideas.

Like the time I had a good idea for a science fair project, when I illustrated how evaporation works. Honestly, I didn't care about how evaporation worked, but I had a vivid picture of how I'd make the rain look real, and I wanted to try it out: I would cut clear plastic paper in strips and staple it to the ceiling of a box. Then I'd build a science project around that!

I think it went over well, but it only encouraged me to make the same thing again and again, year after year, until I was way too old to pass that off as a science project. The thing is, I didn't even use the same project from the previous year—I wasn't being lazy—I actually recreated a copy of my original idea, starting from scratch each time. It varied, certainly, and got prettier as I became more adept, but it also became proportionally sadder, because for each year that I insisted on making the evaporation project, I revealed myself as increasingly unoriginal and entirely science-impaired.

My idea reuse wasn't limited to science. Between the years of third and sixth grade, I created a diorama for every book I was made to illustrate for English class. I inevitably put some grass, people, and furniture in the bottom of the shoebox, cut a viewing hole in the side, and covered the box using a hideous roll of contact paper that had a bold pattern resembling stained glass. (The contact paper was always the same.)

[I should mention that I still have at least one of these dioramas in my old closet (pack rat). I'm almost scared to put my eye up to the viewing hole, as I imagine I'll get attacked by a small rodent that's made its home inside.]

...

When I was in fifth grade, my friend Wendy and I decided that we would dress in complementary costumes for Halloween. I was to be a TV, and she would be a toaster, and we'd call ourselves "TV and appliance." We decorated large cardboard boxes with paint, construction paper, and aluminum foil; we cut out holes for our heads and arms; and we attached plugs to our boxes like tails. To show that we belonged together, Wendy carried around a sign that bore the title of our costume, with a happy exclamation mark at the end.

Why should a good idea die after only one use? I would wear a cardboard box of some sort for Halloween for the following three years. It was uncomfortable, awkward, and—by that point—trite, but I never had to worry about running into anyone else dressed in the same costume.

Actually, it may have been my stint dressing as a box for Halloween that ended my liberal reuse policy. I'm pretty sure I don't do that anymore.

I've been driven around a lot lately. It's not because my license is expired, even though it is.

Stuart drove me to the Verrazano Bridge, so that we could walk along the water (my hands clutching my upper arms for warmth) and trade details of the past few months. It wasn't his car, so we shared a specific excitement that only a sudden sense of independence can bring. Where should we go?! I had no idea. We ended up choosing the Verrazano Bridge because it's far away and normally quite remote.

Joel's walking with a crutch and has borrowed his father's car to get around this handicapped-unfriendly city until he can manage on his own again. While we were out connecting dots in Brooklyn and Manhattan, he told me that he has Chuck D's phone number programmed into his cell phone, which turned out to be even more exciting than the car ride itself. When we got lost in Bushwick, I suggested that we call Chuck for assistance, but Joel declined.

Last night, after riding in the back seat in thickish post-work highway traffic, Todd, Adam, and I criss-crossed Brooklyn and ended up in what Adam kept referring to as "suburbia"—giant hulking houses whose foreboding eagle and tiger yard statues silently shrieked, "Nouveau riche!" The topiary was trimmed in unnatural curves, and the streets were lined with sleek, expensive cars that I hadn't noticed until Adam pointed them out. He swears that the houses belong to members of the Mafia, which I suppose is believable enough.

There's a woman in the Sixth Avenue subway station who always seems to be singing Amazing Grace. She wears a church dress that's belted tightly around her small waist, and she leans on one skinny leg while she sings, a two-year-old boy propped on her hip. Her voice, magnified by a microphone, is steady but not special, and I don't particularly like the tune, but I want to give her money anyway.

I walked past her on three different occasions before I finally did it, fished for silver coins and threw them in the small canvas bag at her feet. She thanked me, her mouth still near the microphone, her words bouncing off the tiles. I immediately wondered if it was rude not to have made eye contact with her, and felt a little guilty for giving her just enough money to buy a bagel.

I can convince myself of almost anything, at least for a moment. If I'm late, I can pretend it's an hour earlier. But when that moment of relief passes and I realize it's not true, I feel even worse, because then, not only am I late, I'm also disappointed.

It was probably a terrible thing to do, but when I was ten, my friend Angie and I pretended we were deaf. We knew the alphabet in sign language and could successfully communicate with our hands, albeit slowly, one l-e-t-t-e-r at a time. One afternoon, at a busy riverside park, we decided to fake other signs—made-up signs that meant nothing but looked more advanced—knowing that we would appear to be handicapped. We didn't do it to take advantage or make fun of anyone, but to displace ourselves, and to convince strangers that we were exceptional. I remember how it felt to receive stealthy glances that, assuming we were convincing, might've been laced with undeserved pity. I momentarily believed the scenario was real.

Sometimes I do it on purpose (assume a role in my head), and other times my imagination seems to have its own agenda. Either way, I usually kind of like it, because it surprises me with a new perspective, one that I may not have considered before. Also, it's good for boredom.

Shopping for Hanukkah wrapping paper with Sarah yesterday—asking clerks whether the store carries it, walking around with a Menorah-printed tube under my arm—I briefly wondered if people were secretly classifying me, despite the fact that being Jewish is entirely normal in this town, and the fact that I don't look the least bit Jewish. I felt oddly offended when a store had no Hanukkah paper (anti-Semites!) and even felt slightly paranoid when someone noticed that I might be on the pre-Christmas team. I can't figure out why, though. My brain is apparently so good at this game that it baffles even me.

Todd ordered a latte, which was considered acceptable by the woman behind the counter. She turned to me. And what do you want?

Um, I'll have the same thing, but with a shot of vanilla, I told her.

"This isn't Starbucks," was her reply.

"Cancel that order then, and just give me a Frappuccino and an Egg McMuffin," is what I should've said (according to Todd). Instead, I sheepishly ordered a regular coffee and frowned at Todd when the woman wasn't looking.

...

Last night, at a fancy restaurant, I asked if I could have some butter to go with the basket of bread sitting in front of me. "We don't use butter," the waitress told me. "We use this instead," she said, gesturing to a plate of small, whole potatoes. Potatoes as a butter substitute? Potatoes on bread? No butter anywhere in the kitchen that she could bring me?

Again, I didn't say anything. Instead, I spread a potato on my bread; it tasted as bad as I'd feared, and (crazy, I know) nothing at all like butter.

When I got home last night, the free-standing countertop in the kitchen had been shoved to the side and had fallen off its blocks, my DVDs were scattered on the floor, and the spare blankets had been tossed out of the bottom shelf of the cabinet. I couldn't find my cat anywhere. For a moment, it occurred to me that someone might've broken into my apartment, but nothing seemed to be missing (other than Jane), and the locks on the front door were undisturbed.

I called her name and quietly listened for a response. I could hear faint scratching sounds coming from the kitchen, the sort you might hear at the beginning of a trite ghost story. But rather than discovering a man with a hook for a hand hiding underneath the sink, I found my cat wedged between the refrigerator and wall, pawing at the empty white paint with her pointed nails. She didn't seem to notice (or care) that I'd returned, and continued sniffing and feeling around, as if she were trying to escape. Through the wall.

I pulled her out the only way I could (by the scruff of the neck) and watched her nervously walk the perimeter of the room, surveying the walls with wild, dilated eyes. Her body seemed weak and stiff, but she was in constant motion, walking low to the ground. The whites of her eyes had turned pink, the tips of her ears were warm, and her heart raced like a purring chainsaw. She seemed to have gone insane, and reminded me a lot of the protagonist in The Yellow Wallpaper. I imagine she was having similar thoughts, with regard to the white paint:

"Then I peeled off all the paper I could reach standing on the floor. It sticks horribly and the pattern just enjoys it! All those strangled heads and bulbous eyes and waddling fungus growths just shriek with derision!"

I noticed that the food I'd poured for her in the morning was untouched, which is odd, because my cat normally sucks down food ferociously. Also, her depth perception seemed to have abandoned her.

At one point, she lay on her back—limbs spread open, and head cocked to the side—with her tongue sticking out. Please don't die, Jane.

The emergency vet in Bay Ridge determined nothing, other than that I owed them a lot of money. They agreed that she was acting strangely (she even defecated for them, right in the middle of their dirty tile floor—way to go, Jane!), but they couldn't figure out what was causing her behavior: there were no apparent complications with diabetes, she wasn't running a temperature, and there are no poisons or exotic plants in my place that she could've ingested.

After we'd returned home via car service (around 3:30 a.m.), I got her to lie still on my bed, and I slept beside her, sideways.

This morning she seemed much closer to normal, albeit a little hung over. You know what? I think maybe Jane and her delinquent cat friends have been experimenting with LSD. I didn't know she ever sneaked outside, or even that she had a rebellious streak, but that's the only conclusion that seems reasonable. She's grounded for, like, the rest of her life.

Sometimes, when I'm walking down the east side of 6th Avenue, I panic for a split second when I look up and don't see the crown of the Empire State Building. A split second is the amount of time it takes for me to remember that the Empire State Building is visible on the east side of 5th Avenue, not 6th.

Occasionally I look at the passengers who share my subway car and see them as the people who I would be trapped with, and partially dependent on, if something were to go wrong. It never comes as an alarm, just an observation. Ah, you and you. I would get to know you better, in a manner that I don't even know my friends.

Yesterday you were standing in the street, stiff and motionless, staring down the block toward the clouds of black smoke. None of you knew what was happening, so, after checking to make sure the steeple was in place, I walked down 19th, toward 6th, to watch the fire trucks zip by. The streets were nearly empty, except for a swarm of firefighters. Somehow I ended up on the prohibited side of the caution tape, so I walked around (alone) and took pictures, absorbing enough smoke in my hair and clothes that I would smell like a campfire for the rest of the day.

Gossip on the street said that it was an electrical fire in the subway, on the same subway line that had derailed earlier that morning.

Happy Public Transportation Day!