Looking out the window at all the snow and deciding: No, I’m not gonna turn Postmates on.

Waiting to hear back on my next round of edits editor bae was supposed to send me on my Walk Book manuscript.

Ignoring the likelihood that, any minute now, she’d abandon it.

Abandon me.

That she was only acting like she was editing it bc she still wanted the D.

Once she learned who I really was, she’d move on.

But ‘unable to write new stuff’ till I knew for sure.

I was able to help check that the masking tape was laid out right since I had a measuring tape.

Arms cracking like they did every winter, from the dryness and cold; so when I went to nab my tape, I quickly lathered when no one was looking.

Railed a Claritin.

It was unpacking these huge desk things from the skids, carrying them over to where they went, and connecting them to a right-angled wall with an Allen key.

Basic.

Got like half of em up by lunch.

E told me I was killing it and that head Canadian dude told him that I, specifically, was killing it.

I’d forgotten about this: working in a group and getting approval from older, paternal-type dudes.

I’d been, since late 2016, working alone and getting no approval from anyone.

Not even from maternal-type people since ex bae dipped.

Why there was so much at stake with editor bae.

Right before lunch I snuck out one of the doors of the windowpaned wall, with W, for a smoke.

Looking out onto the National Harbor. Alexandria, VA, across the way.

Windy af.

Hadn’t spoken to him much since he was doing the tasks that didn’t only require lifting and an Allen key. The tasks that required actual skills and power tools.

He asked if I did this type work often.

“Not often,” I said.

“Ever?”

“Something like.”

He said Fasho and Bet and This nigga this and This nigga that in a way that made me feel at ease.

In a way you could tell was just how he talked.

How people where he came up did.

I asked him about Brooklyn. How much his spot was.

How he even managed to survive in Brooklyn, how much his spot was.

“Just working,” he said. “Always working.”

I didn’t even learn he was hapa till much later. Thought he was Dominican or Puerto Rican or some shit.

What people always assumed about me.

But then also why did it matter.

It didn’t fkng matter bro.

•

That night we turned up at the one bar in town even though I was burnt af.

I wanted to pass out, but E was like Nah, you gotta come turn up.

Turning up with the boys part of the job.

Head honcho Canadian dude said Order whatever, on us.

This town wasn’t even a town; it was an extension of the hotel.