When terrorists crashed planes into the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001, they inadvertently brought Rita and me together. You have to look on the bright side.
Basically, a high percentage of a tribe of friends in Brooklyn were born in September, so they couldn’t celebrate their birthdays that ear. One of them said “Screw that, we’re celebrating!” and threw what we would now call a rager. My girlfriend’s thirtieth was September 13, so we damned well went. She and I were at a point in our relationship where we were just fine not hanging out, so I partied like I did all my life by smoking cigarettes outside and letting people come to me.
The people I met that night were largely forgettable, except for a pair who came out kind of early with their manly Camels. They were like anime characters—the duo who look almost exactly alike, but one has platinum blonde hair, and the other is a dark, dark brunette. They introduced themselves as Anne Marie and Rita, respectively. I’m pretty sure one of them dropped a bullfrog reference on me, but Rita felt my pain because of the goddamned Beatles.
Rita and Anne Marie were, to be clear, really cute, and I was feeling like Mr. Charm by keeping their attention. Eventually, I became comfortable enough that I opened my wallet, took out the only money I had, and said, “I’ll give you five dollars if you make out.” They said no. “What can I get for five dollars?” They shook hands and took my money.
I probably never would have seen them again were it not for a friend from Nebraska. I had always thought of her and her husband as a unit, but she called to tell me they were getting divorced. I had never been through a friend’s divorce before, and I didn’t have any friends who might tell me what it’s like, so I tracked down Rita, who had described the nightmare of her own divorce in vivid detail.
Also, she and Anne Marie were really cool, and I wanted to hang out again.
Rita and I met at the International Bar, on First Street in Manhattan, between Second and Third. I haven’t been to New York in ten years, but it was still there then. It’s the kind of place you assume has multiple health- and building-code violations. Their bathrooms are single stall, without the space for a sink. It was there, outside, in full view of the entire bar, so if you didn’t wash your hands, we knew. They only served beer in bottles, and the only beer that didn’t taste like watered-down yak piss was Amstel Light. Rita answered my questions, and we became instant friends.
Rita is (still) thin, not as in skinny, but as in lean. One look, and you know she’s as affectionate as a housecat, but she is fully capable of clawing your eyes out if you do the wrong thing. Her eyes are as dark as her hair, and she does his goofy head bop when she listens to cool music.
Whenever I hung out with Rita, it was either one-on-one at the International Bar or we’d go to a larger bar to house the Group. The Group was kind of like a French-style salon. We were vulgar and talked a lot of dumb shit, but we also discussed politics and philosophy until we could drink no more. The group had a rotating cast, and they all had one thing in common: they all were really cool, even the dorky ones.
Did that mean I was at least kind of cool? I did introduce the group to a catchphrase. When someone mildly annoys you, you say in a flat tone of voice, “I never liked you.” We were independently fans of the same hiphoppunkfunkmamboska band. I played a crucial part in one guy’s trip-hop remix of our bar conversations. I kept getting invited back. It’s not like they didn’t know how much of a nerd I was—Rita and I had a sleepover the day I watched my beloved Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man.
Rita had a pet iguana. I do not remember the iguana’s name. I have asked Rita four times for the iguana’s name, and I have forgotten it four times. Next time I ask, she’s going to tattoo it on my arm. On Spider-Man day, I discovered that she had inherited some birds from an aunt (?) and kept them in a cage in her kitchen. She would never hurt them, but if they suddenly fell over dead, she would not be sad.
That was the first half of 2002. After June, we didn’t see each other as much, mostly because I started hanging out with different friends, who I had just met. However, after I bought a leather pea coat and took on the alter ego of Jack Murphy, cop on the edge, she started calling me Jackass Murphy because the true duty of your friend is to take the wind out of your sails.
She came to Jersey City for my going away party in 2004. My ex-wife told me afterward that she had said something mean to one of her friends. This only was the first time my ex would try to distance me from one of my people, but unlike the later times, she did not succeed. This time, I just didn’t believe it. Rita could get very angry, but she was never cruel. I assumed my ex’s friend had misheard something.
Seven years later, I wanted to honor the tenth anniversary of September 11 by making it a celebration of life. What I made it was the celebration of friends. I split the day three separate ways with three friends, each reminding me of an aspect of New York I treasured. Rita was the ability to start a new story, whenever you want. We went for a run in Central Park, we had dinner, and I played with her oldest kid.
Rita told me that, on September 10, 2001, she was shackled to a cubicle during the week and in a dehumanizing marriage. By the time I’d met her, she had gotten rid of both. She swore she’d never marry again, and she was never working in an office again. She hasn’t, twenty-three years and two kids later. It’s one of the things I admire about her.
I’ve always been a bit of a hermit, but for a while there, I was surrounded by people who wanted to hear my thoughts on a subject. They wanted me to tell a joke. Even though I make Obi-Wan Kenobi look like the wedding crashers these days, I did manage to captivate a small crowd on New Year’s Eve. I’d changed my story, and I don’t think I would have done that if not for her.
Happy Birthday, Rita!
Jeremiah Murphy 