Shana. Roswell, Georgia.
It's Thursday night and once again we’re driving through hot, sticky Roswell and there’s another hot, sticky discussion in the car about cleaning up our side of the mill. Katie is always saying yes we should, I’m indifferent, and Dhruv actually likes the aesthetic of old beer cans spotted like acne across the enclosed dead grass sanctuary, snubbed joints, and a condom we’re pretty sure is somewhere there that someone will unearth on an unfortunate night. We’re going for the last time, for real this time, because Katie is doing her New York City thing and Dhruv is doing whatever he’s doing on his gap year in Europe like every other gap year in Europe and I’m stuck in Roswell by myself in state school. We pull up at the mill again, Dhruv clicks his car shut, and the hot, sticky air breathes down my throat.
I want to talk about the magic of getting lost in Paris and pub culture in London and finding myself. I am trying to reign in my bitterness but I’m extra sensitive tonight because this is all they’ve been talking about in the car and I’ve tried to tune it out to give myself a break.
“So I guess...this could be the last time,” Katie says. We descend the steps into the dark, readying our phone flashlights.
“Let’s do it then,” Dhruv says.
“Yup,” I say at the same time. The thing about the mill is that it’s a whole lot of nothing in floral wrapping paper in a city where everything is gift-wrapped. But we’ve inhabited that nothing, we live in the empty box, the dead end. Well, at least I have. And that’s where the problem lies, see. It’s like the noise in your head after an empty party, bodies that had been packed together suddenly gone, empty bottles occupying the room instead.
I’m going to pass the mill on drives. Keep telling visitors about it when asked-- “historic, haunted, burned down a century ago and rebuilt, oh and route C is very scenic! The nearest place to eat is the Steak N Shake two minutes up the road”. Wherever I go will still be relative to the mill, it always will be. I live twenty minutes away. If I ever move to New York City it will be 870 miles from here. Move forward in time and I am x number of years ahead of these nights here. I know this because the mill tells me whenever I forget.
Then there’s the sameness. The bridge always stares at the black river, a ribbon of chaos originating at the waterfall, thrashing across the way, pulling the smell of dirt out from deep within the earth. The path leads the way to the dark paths, flanked by trees on one side and the river on the other. We walk through the rocky descent, always knowing where to step but sometimes forgetting and losing our balance. But then again, there is something to be said about familiarity.
“Remember the time—” Katie starts. “God, I don’t even know what time to talk about right now. I can’t believe we’re moving away from here. Feels unreal,” she says as we walk onwards.
It’s just the typical teenage experience, I promise, we’re really not that special. That’s what I usually say to the mill. But it’s your teenage experience, the mill says back, and I can’t argue with that. We’re walking down route B by the river, which swishes forwards, following us like the moon used to in the car when we were children.
Finally, we climb off the path, up the slope, and into our valley of garbage. I hate nostalgia. But the mill tells me to remember. Dhruv lights a joint, puffs, and passes it to me. I blow smoke into the stupid hot, sticky air. Katie’s saying something about her future roommate at New York University, a shiny new housewarming present to be displayed. I tune her out again. I should probably tell them how this makes me feel, but I don’t want to rain on their parade. I am supportive. I am a good friend.
We sit down, I pass the joint, Katie is moving around some cans and Dhruv stops talking to look at me.
“I’m going to miss you,” Dhruv says. Katie is quiet, pensive.
“Me too,” I say, and the words fall limp like my arms on Millginity Night. In the time since that night, him and I are going to break up, officially. A couple of nights ago when I called he was too tired to talk. Last night he was spending time with his family. It’s not like our “night, babe” calls were too long to shun away—and yet!
I scoot over and find that he holds me. Katie smiles at us with her mouth. We sit like this for a while, passing the joint. Dhruv and Katie—yes, the extroverts—are quiet. What to say?
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to New York City Hours to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.