My brain settles outside of my body for a chat with a creepy old mutherfucker
Last night I rode into the East Village, as per usual, and had a lovely, relaxing evening visiting with my drinking crowd. 'Tis lovely to have a bright, conversant, and attractive gang with no other intentions than becoming drunk.
We discussed Fyodor Dostoyevski and Annie Proulx.
The Method Man and the movie "Ghost Dog."
The tenents for attractiveness when considering a man's ass.
We discussed the Bucs and Raiders.
My fun was ruined from being on the rag: I always get the worst kind of drunk when I am -- the tired, pass-out, drunk -- and it didn't help that I needed to travel back to Long Island (usually I stay in the city).
I slipped off the barstool and into my new coat. Michael kissed my face and probably didn't charge Asit for my drinks. I love him!
In the taxi I remembered leaving my cigarettes and discman. Shit.
It was only 2:15. Man I dropped fast! That's only about three hours of drinking, but I was GONE. The 2:22 train no longer exists. Shit.
So I sit on the ground and wait. For an hour. Drunk. Tired. No cigarettes. And no music.
The man who woke me up was old and shriveled. He spoke with an Hispanic accent.
My brain was telling me, "He's uninteligible; I don't understand a word."
But before I could relay this message to my mouth I discovered myself answering him.
"That didn't make any sense!" I said."Yeah, but he just asked me if I wanted something to eat or maybe some coffee."
"How could you understand him?" I asked.
"I think I'm just drunk. Like back in Chattanooga how I would start to understand that Rasta after a few shots of Jager."
"Well, YOU talk to him then, and I'll just go take a nap becuase he doesn't make any sense...." I told myself again. I swear, sometimes I'm so hard to get along with.
The man wasn't homeless. His shoes were new, but he fidgeted like a skitzophrenic. He planted himself on the ground beside me and tucked my hair behind my ear. Pushed up my hat. The air from the train tunnels was cold. No cops were in sight. I thanked him for some compliment. He kissed my face...
"No, don't..." I said that but I was slow.
It was the spot where Michael kissed me.
I was more upset that he had replaced the lips of my sacred bartender than that he was an infested sonofabitch who was inviting himself onto my person.
(The thought processes of drunk me are pure entertainment.)
I moved to where the cops were, and sat again, and was this time undisturbed and left to fantacize about my down-comforter and my teddy bear until the train came.
I hate it I hate it I hate it goddamit.
Being drunk and exhausted and in a complete fog sitting on a cold floor... I know what my mother would say.... But why was I alone? Why am I? Do you know how tricky I used to have to be to spend time alone?
People don't find soulmates in New York you say? Well, I only need one. Just like me.
So me and the kids are chilling with movies and junk-food tonight. It's good. It's too cold for me to be out. I'd just get into trouble anyway. Do something stupid...
