Insomnia on Amsterdam Avenue

The lights are all gone now, they are extinguished, lost like a smile in the rush of a busy day, muted like praise or the touch too affectionate. Muted like those three shitty words.

Yeah, the lights in this little city are all extinguished now, all gone, except really they're not. It's the middle of the night but I can still see them. I stand at the window, awake alone, while the rest of the world sleeps, listening to the cars racing by, the wheels unrolling reels in the middle of their independent movies: cars deep into drug deals or romantic misadventures, cars into grand theft auto and late-night revenge, cars making the midnight run for a supersweet Honeybun and Jolt cola before the variety stores close.

The theme from Dynasty echoes in my ear.

I'm young and I know it, naive and raw, aching and bleeding in juvenile minors. I understand enough to know that I couldn't possibly understand. I promise myself that I'll forget these moments, that life will only get better, that it is possible to fight off the Alone. Except I know that someday I'll be looking back on this pitiful moment, the rumble in my stomach, the mysteries in my head. I know that some day I will look back and take some comfort in the fact that at one time I could never fall asleep, because even now, even at this early age, I know that someday I will. Someday I will fall asleep without trying. And that scares me more than anything.

Grace and Joe and my brother sound asleep, and me at the window, seeking out the lights still lit, warm with dimmer switch and softer tones, with light ambient and sentient, across the street & triangle, lights still lit above the video store, softer now, romantic encounters aglow by pole lamps bouncing off of apartment eggshell white... lost souls sat in their easy chairs, watching old movies all night. I absorb them all: lonely and the loved, the lost and the lobotomized, the logical and the loco, the lords and the low-lives... and I'm just glad to be one of them.

So here I am, in my borrowed pajamas, tops and bottoms, escaping from strange blankets, full on Falcon Crest and Pepperidge Farm, and I'm up all night looking out the window, at the people in this strange city, at the cars driving by, and although I haven't met you yet...

I am praying that you're out there.

Tough Lunches of the 21st Century (Diagnosis)

Date: July 3, 2007
Location: Clitoria’s Trattoria

I should have known something was up when I called my doctor for my X-Ray results and he told me that he’d like to take me to lunch.

Still, I showed up at the restaurant early and Dr. Reddy was already there. He spat out his white wine spritzer when he saw me, his face a colorless pall. “We need to talk,” he said as I sat down, “this is serious.” I ordered the ‘Tato Skins to start.

“You have soul cancer. Stage 7. The fact that every molecule in your body has not already imploded in on itself is a mystery of modern science. You only have hours to live- at most.”

The ‘Tato Skins were too salty but I hate complaining to the waitress.

“There is no surgery that can cure you, no treatment to delay the inevitable, there is no answer but for you to make peace, immediate, with everyone you know and love.”

I should have ordered the waffle fries.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this. Please accept my condolences. I’m billing this as an office visit.”

I love Dr. Reddy but sometimes he can be overly dramatic. He’ll exaggerate to make a point, but really I think

The Hitcher

It's fun to drive with a gun in your abdomen. It feels good. It’s welcome, and I like it. It feels like the answer to a prayer. It improves my driving: every turn I make is geometrically perfect, every surge of the brake is easy and metered. I’ve never driven so good in all my days. It’s a natural now, what with the bullet waiting at the gate. The gun is fused to my body & my body is fused to the car. It's an extension of my hands and my feet: my extremities are wide awake but I don’t have to think or decide anymore. The barrel of the gun is in the soft of my belly, and the sensation is amazing. It's a good thing. I like this now. It’s nutritious. It's better than coffee.

I like driving for JD, this strange man with the fish breath in the front seat. I like my job: I like being told what to do.

I’m a salesman, I work out of Rio Rancho, and I picked up this guy on Thursday night. He was standing by the side of the road in his dark hat and crack leather jacket, smoke hanging from his thin lips. I asked him where he was going and he just said “Drive.” I tried to talk about baseball but this JD, he was having none of it: he made some small talk, got to know about my wife and boys back East. I think that made it easier for him to bash my temple with the butt of his gun, take my wallet and force me to take him where he wanted to go. It’s okay. I never minded the taste of blood.

We’ve stopped at liquor stores and general stores and filling stations and saloons and greasy spoons. All the places I’ve wanted to go but never had time to. I made eyes at a pretty young waitress while JD was emptying the cash register and pulverizing the cook. He’s not going back there. Now he pushes the gun into the side of my stomach and tells me to drive, so I do. It's a good time now. I like him. I think it’s Saturday. I like this guy.

And now we're at the Arizona border, getting closer to JD’s destination and the end of my ride. I know what's coming. I don't mind it. I think I deserve it. If you see my wife tell her I'm alright. I’m ready for it. I'm happy.

Just between you and me, I wish there had been a gun in my abdomen the whole time.