christopher de la Torre

It’s 5:30am and I’m back in Manhattan. I should say New York, Brooklyn, Bay Ridge. This part always confuses me because I forget the route back is different; I’m on the Chinatown Bus – the Eastern line. It’s clean and comfortable; I swore never to take the other line again. 347 area code. That’s Brooklyn. The bus driver abruptly switches the light on. I swear my pupils are permanently damaged and I curse him. “Brookryn! Brookryn!” he shouts, as a few passengers dismount the coach and slip into the crisp dark air. This part of town is filled with dilapidated homes, Chinese supermarkets and auto repair shops; quaint with the beauty of decay.

It’s no surprise to me that after fourteen years of dating, falling in and out of love, questioning all the while whether the feeling was authentic in its longevity or just a figment of society’s collective imagination, I find that I am attracted to imperfect men. We should all be so lucky. Now it’s clear, if not solely from my mother’s well-intentioned mantra of “no-one is perfect,” that perfection will simply never be. (Utopia vs. dystopia, humanism and the rest; an argument for another time.) It’s obvious none of us will ever see “perfection” in our lifetime. I digress.

Minutes later, we cross the Manhattan Bridge. Is that Dumbo? Or is that closer to the Brooklyn Bridge? I can’t remember this early in the morning. The bus is free floating now, just like the FDR in the distance below us. We soar above, far enough to make the highway look like ribbon, a free floating ribbon hanging above a cake or something, sporting toy cars with operating headlights, propped above rows of buses. As we cross the river, I reflect on the greatness of this city. Not as in the culture as much as its sheer size and authenticity. Structures appear and disappear organically, allowing decay to creep where it will, and splendor to shine in its absence. We disappear into the bowels of Chinatown.

Why are so many of us obsessed with loving perfection? Perhaps I find that, in a post modern existence rife with plastic bodies, little purple pills and Photoshop tweaks, perfection (or at least the appearance of it) is splattered everywhere like life-advertising road kill; something just reeks a foul odor. Nothing is, in fact, real anymore. Are we meant to think it’s real? What is it about the appearance of perfection (or figuratively, perfection itself) that keeps these empty dreams procreating like dogs, forcing us back for more?

It’s my turn to exit. My neck hurts; next time I’ll drive. I have Rithma’s “Just Before Dawn” playing on my IPOD. The synthesizer blends seamlessly with Spanish guitars and bongo drums; they make me forget briefly the harsh chill in the air. A few degrees warmer and it could snow. I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck on my way up Eldridge, as I pass the old man “warming up” like Rocky Balboa on his share of the sidewalk. A garbage truck rips through the silence like a scalpel. The old man continues, unaffected. What is it that draws me to Chinatown in the wee hours of the morning? Moments pass and I am suddenly moving against the grain. Little men, like characters from a Peter Jackson film, hobble and waddle past me, a black cat hits my path. I wonder what it’s like to live on this street; the smell of seafood this early in the morning makes me nauseous. I pass Cup and Saucer, the old boxcar diner on Canal (already open for business), and the school where hanging sculptures boast the kids’ latest art project, on Hester. I pass the park with racquetball courts on Forsythe, the Egg Custard King Cafe juts out from its corner on Grand. I dodge a hungry cab and descend into the subway station.

There’s a certain authenticity in imperfection, physical or psychological. True, the rustic furniture, old world, vintage clothes — indeed the streets of Chinatown I’ve come to love — root their appeal in the “authentic.” My fascination with these things has its origin in imperfection. So what is it about imperfect men I find so desirable? Perhaps it’s the authenticity, the vulnerability, the unapologetic naivete that gives a sort of unofficial, silent guarantee of sincerity: a no-frills attitude, the type of down-to-earthiness many of us covet but aren’t truly committed to in the end; the manicures, trimmed eyebrows, perfect pecs, the mimicked store mannequin style and painfully contrived attitudes win out. You can have all of those things; I argue that true beauty lies within imperfection. But imperfection does, at times, hide below the surface.

A handsome young Asian man paces, hiding a suit and tie below his black cashmere trench. He could be a model. His hair is cut short, tapered at the sides and lightly spiked on top. His skin is smooth and blemish-free. He is manicured and pressed, with shoes polished and touts perfectly pink, plump lips. It’s all such a deafening contrast to this grimy station we’ve both stumbled into: he leaving, I returning. Perhaps he’s on his way to work in the financial district. I wonder if he supports his family; parents, siblings. Or perhaps he lives alone. I wonder if he’s happy and if he still speaks his parents’ native language. I wonder if he shakes his leg when he sits.

A nervous tick, a stutter, braces. I’m drawn to men who bite their fingers. This isn’t merely because I tend to do the same. It’s because as one who tends to do the same, I connect with the vulnerability and sincerity behind crooked smiles. A man who is externally made aware of his own imperfections is more likely to look past the external imperfections of others and notice the purer, more attainable beauty that lies beyond the integumentary.

It’s 6:00am. The D train arrives. Soon I’ll be home in my bed. I wonder why it is trains tend to run more frequently in this direction so early in the morning.