Last night I was full after the Pad Thai from Note Thai and I sat reading on my bed, thinking about getting drunk, reading Big Sur, thinking how I’ve been so good with mom lying in bed reading into the night – then Chris texted me and I finished the chapter and we met at the Pine Box – he was lacking energy and I told him Chris ol’ boy there’s something about energy that’s contagious, so that when i have it I can give it to you and you can use it – and i started again, thinking of Jack and the Beats and the lifestyle of living on a couch with friends, knowledgeable about beef stroganoff and bodhisattvas and how it all came from going out and drinking – this i was thinking while i drank my double bourbon and ginger.
I felt fresh and crispy, freshly shaved and we left on the subway, quietly, after drinking a pickleback made with habanero rind or something delicious like that- the subway ride lonely and quiet the girls singing the while, and in the west village and the meatpacking everyone dressed expensively and we overheard some guy, ‘lots of bridge and tunnel’ we scorned him because we were part of that – presuming he was from long island to make ourselves feel better about it all – in the automatic slim’s a bar out of american psycho with clean rock n roll photography and white walls and red neon the birthday girl and a pretty english blonde named sophie who all the men in the bar wanted to talk to and the eight dollar mixed drinks so chris went out with my jacket and came back in with bottles of bud and the bud with the whiskey ginger helped me get going, start dancing meeting people such as Jason Christopher Hartley a soldier, published by harper collins 2005 -his memoir Just Another Soldier, said that going to combat is easy but coming back hard and he was tall and good-looking and kind of weird from his experience and cool. chris made another run and we smoked rollies and beatboxed and the broad-faced darkskinned bouncer who said everyone’s names sweetly when he checked their ids told us to keep it down, and i said we’re not in bushwick any more people live in these warehouses, have paid millions to live in these old factories, and they want their peace maintained without some young bohemian punks shouting and getting drunk and when we went inside there was vomitus on the floor from the birthday girl and we hung out for a little longer – chris came back in with beers in his coat and leah and we decided to leave, catch a cab back to brooklyn since the l train is fucked and we walked to have better luck with it, meanwhile i felt weird and alone, separated from the girls, thinking about greece and living being tired of the bars and the experiences, not realizing quite how much fun i was having, playing brian eno’s baby on fire on my iphone and when one of the girls paused it i told her don’t touch my goddam phone i’ll listen to the modern jukebox if i want and I sang loudly words i wasn’t even sure about and we walked to bleecker and i mourned having lived there once, now not living, just returning to memories while making new ones, premature jading you know, drunken raving, and finally we got a cab but he wouldn’t take five obviously so we had some time thinking about who’d go with who and took the manhattan bridge with the steel looking old because the williamsburg’s red cages were full up that night – so that on top of the l train being fucked they had to fuck the bridge too- and me trying to find something good to listen to asking yousuf, which was actually his name, not just me being racist, to help and he finally growing sick of the talking and bad bad music and figuring a station on his own and finally giving him directions and him taking us nearly to duck duck and one of the girls getting off easy by not having enough money and you know i would mention it – slipping through my consciousness to let it go like a bodhisattva – and me growing bored soon, having chosen a final drink for the night and retiring to a soft sofa to check my facebook to see if the german girls had messaged me back – we met in london and they’re visiting this weekend – and to read an article a friend left me about postmodernism-good friend he is – bastard though for living in london and being able to see that postmodernism retrospective at the v&a if that’s what it’s called – and some girl trips over my foot and i don’t acknowledge it and listen to hear complaining to her friends about it until finally she asks me if i knew that i tripped her and seeing that she’s taking an interest in me and realizing she’s not unattractive herself and this could be an interesting turn of events i apologize and we start talking, her broad face and blonde hair, big deep-set eyes and indeterminate body type – and she’s from Albuquerque and is in publishing and then i drop it on her and we kiss a little, softly, smiling at her thin lips and point out to her my friends, their idiosyncrasies while they’re outside smoking and she goes hmm, it’s funny knowing that i would have thought they’re just having fun and that’s how it goes, everyone with their stories personal, more than just having fun, thinking instead about how lonely they are or how they’ll never be free and we leave and i put my arm around her and she’s interested in me, she’s smart and goes cutely hmm everytime i divulge too much and i point out the cirrus clouds on the indigo and the nearly full moon and the north star – maybe- and we walk down my old street, and she asking me about myself and how i am and why i can be rotten and cruel and then we depart at her corner, she has a roommate who’s cousin of her whatever and peck goodbye and i leave feeling oddly satisfied with the events of the evening, thinking about everything i told her about myself and how she may have perceived me- i come home and drink water and hope i won’t be hungover tomorrow morning and go to sleep in my own bed.
Daniel the Writer 