Friday, January 25, 2013

The Wack... and How to Get It

I'm shoving clothes into a bag and seething, "I'm going to New York," with a tone that reeks 'better things are there and I can't stand the slightest bit more of here / you / it'.

I stumble down the hill to the train station, pilled or punctured or something, sensing my storm-off was a little too bitchy to be asking for a ride to the Bolt Bus (god that bus was named for me).  I've never ridden the SEPTA before, which is ridiculous because I love public transportation, can't drive, and live a block away from a station.  But the thing is I never got over how they named it so like a underground shit-filled tank.  Philadelphia.

I look at the other people on the platform (these my neighbors? who the hell are these people?) and start to think this over.  When does this train come?  How do I pay for it?  No cash - no machines to buy tickets with the plastic kind of money.  No fucking schedule or route in sight - who schemed up this masterpiece of transit?  I ask one of my neighbors how to pay for the train. "Cash"  Dammit.

Fish the bottom of my bag for change, unsuccessfully.  Ask when the train comes.  "Now."

Call Joel and he drives to the train station to give me my fare.  We've just had some kind of a fight or something, but the transaction is chill because we both get what we want ... to be away from each other.  We're smiling and laughing over the shenanigans of my escapism and its many pitfalls -- mere minutes after looks that kill mouthing words that murder.  It is kind of unbelievable.

With a handful of our parking-meter-quarters I board the SEPTA with my baggage and my disgust.

New York, New York.

Three hours later I'm climbing a set of broken stairs with no lights / just sound sight and my foreknowledge of which steps to skip.  In industrial Greenpoint, Lombardy Street. Making my way up a flight of mutating stenches -- of garbage and rust water and regurgitated PBR.  If it were an environment suitable for breathing I would have sighed relief.

At the top level - my boarding house and home to several others -- some artistic types are building a film set.  A hoarder's hovel in a miniature city that sparks immediate pangs of a Godzilla variety (if you regularly feel like destroying I do).  I smoke cigarettes and drink with the set-builders.  I never saw the film.

Climb into a lofted bed and nestle into a shredded quilt.  What shreds quilts?  Guilt, I guess.  And lots of quilt sex. Maybe using the quilt  to escape out out of a window.  Maybe it was bears. 

I close my eyes.


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