Published
What is this death march of indecision I embark upon after the rain has fallen on a gloomy night? A different jacket. A new character. Noise-cancelling headphones off. Hardwired and ready for discovery. I take my usual route. Crosswalks and no destination. I wanna see something. I wanna learn something. That song that I heard for the first time the night after you slept over plays. Maybe I'm stuck in a loop. Maybe I'm stuck. I'm headed straight for Soho. The lights are on. It's so damn bright in this neighborhood. The retail never sleeps. Even these closed businesses are still pumping electricity into every passerby. Sales coming, sales leaving, sales in bags, sales on bodies. I haven't bought anything at a store for a very long time. I haven't bought anything this week besides cigarettes and coffee. I haven't paid for any meals this week, but I have eaten. I have eaten well.
I just finished writing something that I think will change my life. I’m going to admit to someone else that I see what I've written and how it affects others. I’m gonna come clean. I have come, and I want to be clean. I want to be clean so badly. No matter how often I do the laundry, these sheets stay dirty. I’m circling Nolita and I hate it. This neighborhood is so unfriendly. Not like it used to be. Not like 8 years ago when a devout Christian let me sleep on his leather couch. Not like 8 years ago when I stopped taking Adderall and started taking naps. Not like 8 years ago when my head was shaved and I was younger.
The Bowery Hotel is my favorite urinal. I have no business being here. My business is using the toilet. I walk in like I own the place. “Do you have any matches?” The man at the front desk smiles and says, “Good to see you again,” as he places the red cardboard box in my outstretched right hand. A cigarette guides me through double doors held open by the bellhops and down Great Jones. The cobble makes an oncoming woman stumble. She looks into my eyes, obscured by a plume of smoke, and blushes. I hope I never run into her again. It would do both of us good to remain strangers.
The awning is gone. The awning where we kissed for the first time is gone. I had to call her, but she didn’t answer. Guilty. Shouldn’t have. I’m not supposed to call her. The phone rings and interrupts “Jealous Guy” by Roxy Music.
“Are you OK?” is the first thing I hear.
“Yeah, I’m OK. Are you OK?”
“Yeah,” I don’t know what to say. I didn’t think this far ahead. I want to tell her about the awning. I want to tell her the awning is gone.
“I was on a walk and I saw something and I was thinking of you so I thought I’d give you a call.”
“OK.”
“Well.”
“It's good to hear from you.”
“Yeah, it’s good to hear from you too.”
“OK.”
“OK. Take care now.”
The line cuts out and I'm walking by the bench where we broke up. It hasn’t changed. The etching in the 3rd slat of the wooden bench still says GOING GOING GONE, right where we sat and I handed you back your grandfather's necklace. My house is so close and that walk has never felt longer. I want to get better. “I’m so sorry,” I say to no one in particular.
There’s a quote in the arch of the park that says:
LET US RAISE A STANDARD TO WHICH THE WISE AND HONEST CAN REPAIR THE EVENT IS IN THE HAND OF GOD.
I take a picture of my hand in the arch. I send it to her. She says, “Wow.” I think everything is going to work out. I think everything is going to be fine. I think I’m gonna be a great dad one day.
