Jimmy

There's this man who picks up the biohazard waste for my company. He is an old man whose name is the same name as a former president. He was raised in New York and then found his way elsewhere, but he can't live without this city.

I couldn't have written a character better for the screenplay of my life right now. He functions as both a therapist and a provider of sagely world wisdom.

He's adorable. He's a former jazz guitarist who's played with the greats. He's lived everywhere,
seen it all, been through it all. He said "My kids live down in Virginia. They want me to come and live with them, but I'm not done yet. I haven't done it all yet. I can't stand the quiet. If I don't hear ambulances, its not right."

Just now he said, "What's up for the weekend?"

This question made me sort of sad, because I don't know anyone yet so I don't really have any weekend plans. Aside from parents' visit. I told him that I was slightly nervous about this, since this will be the first time my parents have ever stayed with me. I said I was hoping not to disappoint them with my lack of furniture and lack of connectivity to the outside world. I said I was concerned that they would want to do things and that I don't even know how to get to Central Park yet.

He said:

"Do what you can do. The point is to show your folks 'Hey, I'm surviving on my own.' That's the whole thing. They won't understand how you can live this way, but they'll know you're doing it,
and that's what matters."

Yes, Jimmy, yes. I am making this work. I made this work and I'm making it work, and if we don't eat dinner in Little Italy, they will deal because they will be happy for me.