We always come full circle, don’t we? At least in Brooklyn we do. Here I am, in a new apartment, 10 minutes away from my old apartment. Within a couple of days, I have completely transferred my life from one side of Williamsburg to the other. It feels like a rebirth in a way: new room, new walls, new kitchen, and less noise from the Williamsburg Bridge ramp.

But one thing’s for sure. You can never control who you run into in this hood. One walk down Bedford Avenue and you are bound to see:

A. Lots of people who look just like you and like each other.

B. The guy you just met at a bar last week.

C. The other guy you met a dance party the week before.

D. Lots and lots of bangs.

E. At least one emotionally-unavailable asshat who banged you or attempted to do so at one time or other.

I have met several of these people over the past few days. It is like everyone decides to come out of the woodwork to give you messages when you are about to make a life change.

For example, my original move to this hood was largely associated with Mr. Guy. He helped me move in and screwed my bedframe together for me since I thought I couldn’t do it myself. It is no surprise then that the day I accepted my new apartment, I ran into him. It was morning, he was driving, I was walking towards the vehicle, a navy blue jeep. Suddenly the vehicle stopped short. The man inside leaned forward and pointed. I knew it was him. I approached and opened the door. I haven’t spoken to Mr. Guy in a month, the last time I ran into him in a café. The encounter was slightly surreal.

“I knew you had a car like this…,” I said.

“Oh, did you…what are you doing—walking?”

“Seeing apartments again.”

He looked in the rearview mirror. A car was coming behind. He waved to me and half-smiled.

“Its nice seeing you…”

“That’s it?” I suddenly snapped.

“There’s a car behind—”

“What is wrong with you?”

“I gotta–”

“Why do you hate me?!”

“I don’t hate you! See that car–”

“Why don’t you talk to me anymore?”

“I’ll talk to you later. I gotta go.”

I slammed the door and walked away. Why did I react so emotionally to Mr. Guy? Was it because I never did so before? Whatever it was, I knew I needed to just move ON. When I moved into my new apartment, I found a man with a van for cheap who could move me down the lane. He was a young dude. And I told myself not to make anything of it. This was business. When he left, I screwed my bedframe together myself and couldn’t believe I didn’t think I could before. It is just wood, nails and a screwdriver, after all.

While I was in the middle of painting my room, later that day, I stopped at a hardware store to get a brush. On my way out, I bumped into another man; let’s call him Mr. Disconnect. Mr. Disconnect and I, on two or three occasions, had a very mishap-oriented interaction. Almost a year ago, after a drink at a local bar, he returned to my apartment. I had mentioned that I had an air conditioner that needed to be lifted into the window. Mr. Disconnect offered to do it. So I let him. I have to say, I was kinda turned on by the manual labor. But when it came to the bedroom, Mr. Disconnect had trouble with condoms. He simply could not perform while wearing them.

Mr. Disconnect sat up in my bed and announced, “Between this (points to head), this (points to heart) and this (points to penis), there’s a disconnect…”

He left my apartment and said he felt emasculated. And every time I looked at my air conditioner, from then on, I thought of Mr. Disconnect. I tried to tell myself that his disconnect wasn’t my problem, nor was the fact that he wrote me a Facebook message the next day saying that he wasn’t in the position to be anyone’s boyfriend. I wrote back that I didn’t think I’d asked him for that.

Mr. Disconnect now lives on the same street as Mr. Guy. When he first moved here, and I moved here shortly thereafter, he contacted me. I gave him another shot. But it was the same bag. This connection just could not be made. Also, his apartment happened to be really hot, and he didn’t have an air conditioner. It ended in a sort of verbal combat. “Let’s just kill it,” we agreed. I stormed out and defriended him on Facebook.

And as we passed each other on the street, he at first pretended not to see me. But we did ultimately connect. A mutual “Hi” was shared. And both of us kept walking. I have to give both of these guys a break in a way. I am the denominator and perhaps I largely partook in the confusion of the beginning connections with both of them because I was confused. This neighborhood is full of handymen. But I have learned the hard way not to ask a man you are not established with, to help you with a bed, air conditioner, or anything of the like.

From now on, Mermaid will do her own manual labor. After painting and moving all day, I ran into the guy I met at the dance party. We have hung out a few times but have given each other a lot of space. I told him I’d been laboring and he respected and congratulated that. He is also a carpenter, but I didn’t need his help. Perhaps this connection can be taken further because it isn’t based on manual labor. If the connection is meant to be, it will be based on emotional availability, not tangible objects that need to be screwed into places. I’m discovering that I’m pretty handy with nails and screwdrivers myself, afterall.