Famous People #28: the best Subway in Brooklyn
Kaitlyn: It was so hot all week, and the thunderstorms. Oh, I tear up just thinking about it. I told Frankie it’d been a terrible summer; that there had not been a single night when I’d felt just happy to be outside, alive, in summer. I hurt my own feelings with that one.
Andrew was having a rooftop party sub party and this was the description on Facebook: “Hey everyone! I just wanted to let you know that I will be getting a party sub on August 4th and was wondering if you’d like to come to my apartment building and have some of it. I figure we can all just go up to my roof to enjoy it.”
The truth is, Andrew bought two party subs. Both were from the Subway on Bedford Avenue. One sub had Italian meats and one sub had only vegetables. He told us he sometimes gets off the train at Franklin after work so he can go to this Subway — the best Subway in Brooklyn, according to him. Given where he lives, which is in Lefferts Gardens, this means he sometimes walks two miles after getting off the train so that he can go to the Subway on Bedford Avenue.
Andrew lives in one of those enormous pre-war apartment buildings with terrible haunted lobbies that look like digital recreations of the Titanic, and are probably where all the skateboarder ghosts go to hang out. This means the roof is the size of a professional soccer field. We were the only people on it, sitting at a table with two three-foot-long party subs, a bunch of bags of novelty potato chips (e.g. New England Lobster Roll, which Andrew said “Doesn’t taste like a lobster roll”), a lemon icebox pie I made in order to feel useful, Nickelodeon-branded ketchup, and several six packs of summer-y beers no one really wanted more than a few sips of.
We were alone, that is, until one of Andrew’s neighbors came up the stairs, saw the yellow streamers and green table cloth, realized that he had just opened a door with a fake Subway sign on it, apologized, turned around, and left. I don’t know what he thought was going on, exactly. Certainly he could have brought a fully-loaded Staten Island Ferry up onto the roof and it wouldn’t have interfered with what we were doing, which was eating on a roof the size of a professional soccer field.
Later, a man and a young boy came up with a pizza. They ate it, watching the fireworks at Coney Island. I think I told each person at the party, individually, “You can see the Empire State Building and you can see Coney Island.”
The party started at 6 PM, according to the Facebook event, but, arriving at 7:51 PM, Frankie and I were the first people there. I felt like Andrew thought I was just making excuses for our friends when I said “It’s Saturday in the summer, everyone napped and they didn’t mean it.” I mean, I napped, and I was late because drinking a shitty light beer in the summer always makes me feel like Lana Del Rey.
Plus the lemon pie was supposed to be in the freezer for six hours — minimum — but ideally overnight, an instruction I didn’t read until I’d already made it and looked at the clock and noted that it was 1:30 PM.
Once other people showed up to the party, the party subs start disappearing in a comforting way. Earlier I’d thought Andrew would have to eat leftover party sub until it poisoned him. It got dark and the bugs got confused because there were more of us. Frankie admired the architecture of the still-empty brand-new apartment buildings all around Andrew’s haunted mansion.
Just kidding, he said something like “The shape of those windows makes me want to fall over the edge of this railing.” They were shaped like robot bird mouths. Andrew played a remix of Flo Rida’s “My House,” called “My (Haunted) House.” He made it himself, and he is a genius.
In the end, everyone had such a nice time. Ashley brought her high school friend, who I’d spent one hour with earlier that day and already adored more than several of my extended family members. Kwame was there and he did my mother’s favorite dance move. Megan said “I have so much to ask you,” but I can’t remember whether she did. Her eyeliner was perfect. Dami was there and her book was coming out three days later. I said I could hardly believe it, she is amazing. She said “He’s cute,” about Frankie, and I said, “Oh, I know.”
I wandered away from that conversation so I could touch his shoulder. He was wearing a white t-shirt, just like Lizzie and I always remind everyone they should! I said “Okay, right now I’m glad it’s summer.”
Party Review Metrics:
Did anyone bring a dog?
Andrew’s tiny robot dog — which I have written about, for money — was in his apartment, as usual.
Did anyone get engaged?
Someone said she and her boyfriend who I bickered with at Andrew’s last party might be moving in together, but not until they get engaged. I think they should do it and I’m over my spat with him. Sorry, [REDACTED].
Did we hear any good secrets?
Not exactly, but after a post-party-sub-party drink at Doris we were walking down Classon Avenue and Ashley put out her arm and grabbed onto my elbow and said “That’s Pitchfork guy.” By which she meant: We were walking directly past some freak who asked her out on a date in New York several months ago and then pretended to have a serious disease and then reappeared in Chicago and tried to go on a date with her Chicago, but still pretends to be dead in New York. What a psychopath. Once I saw a photo of his hand bleeding and was like, “Why did you put this on Instagram?” I hope he ends up having to haunt someone’s enormous apartment building, but not Andrew’s.
Did anyone get famous?
Dami literally wrote a book. You should BUY it!
Party Score:
Better than most of summer.