The Green and the Gutter.

That first moment of the day when you still don’t realize you’ve caught a morning cough is always the best of the day. Joints creek, head forgets to pound. I’m rubbing my shoulder blades against my spine and my legs with the sheets and all feels beyond sedated.

Everything else is a microsecond away from catching up with me.

The moment it hits, I’m taking account of time. I’ve located the ache in my left knee, my head’s pounding with a sanded, heated fist and the morning breath’s reeking of coffee withdrawal.

Work was great today.

Today in the evening, we all celebrated with a couple of beers and me being the intern, I was given the job of going out and fetching them for the lot of us. I had convinced myself that I was going to be measured on a skewed Kinsey scale with Frat Boy marking one end of the spectrum and Park Slope Globetrotter marking the other, although I’m unsure as to which side’s which on an account of the Kinsey Scale. Probably the Frat Boy.

So I decided against the Natural Ice and hit everybody up with a plethora of Brooklyn Lager, Pilsner, & Pale Ale. They were happy and so… I was happy. With myself. And my taste. Small sips accompanied my inflated ego.

Two beers and 4 declarations of my profound love of Iceland later, I’m heading up sixth avenue to catch a bit of the gym before the buzz wears down and my body’s realizing I’ve been running uphill for over an hour.

From then on, it’s an 11 PM show at the Kraine Theatre where the Neo-Futurists blow my fucking mind away. 30 plays in 60 minutes, give or take about two minutes per play. Sexy cast+sexy dialogue=makes you feel sexy too.

On the way home, I’m looking for a giant vat of overpriced water and something sweet and sour and crisp and COLD; obviously a fruit, Lord Help Me if I thought I needed anything else but a fruit. Three of the Neo-Futurists stood onstage eating a couple of fiji apples and I just kept envisioning that image on repeat over and over again as I kept crossing avenue after avenue.

And then I saw a guy vomit all over the sidewalk and sit down in his own puddle.

I walk past him. And I look back. And I keep walking. And I stop. And I look back. And I see him playing around like a toddler in the kiddie pool; though instead of lathering in foams of chlorine, the amuse-bouche-foam he’d made out of peas, carrots, and vile dripped steadily across the racked the sidewalk and down into the gutter. He also looked like he was wearing really nice pants, a pair of 7’s probably.

‘Hey man, how you holding up?’


He didn’t look any older than 23. I kept looking back at my 21st birthday that lasted an hour and a half.

Ended up being an NYU student so I tried taking him to a dorm he said he lived at, though the moment I asked the guard if he could enter, my new buddy had already run off. And so I caught up with him again. Walked with him a bit, and caught eyes with a bunch of other pedestrians who had assumed I was right there with the guy.

They looked at the both of us in disgust and communal disappointment– disappointment in the guy for getting drunk alone on the streets of Greenwich Village, drooling, vomit speckled on his jeans and baseball tee like he was going out for some Paula Abdul feature fashion catwalk.

We asked for him to take a cab. He wouldn’t do it. I asked him if he wanted to walk a bit further. He didn’t want to do it. He was fine. He kept saying it, though his eyes never caught mine and though his head had fallen into gimbal lock. He wouldn’t do anything and everybody kept passing by, snickering and laughing and commenting and walking, and for whatever reason or another had begun to feel like an absolute jackass too. 

I felt ashamed to be there, to be in the presence of a guy who wouldn’t let God move him if the plates were cracking through and the mantle was shaping up and out of the W 4th stop. I dunno if it was the fact that I was unable to get him to do anything, or that I was unable to get another person to stop along their way to the Fat Black Pussycat and help me get the guy to the cab.

I wonder why I feel proud about doing the right thing only after others take time to consider the fact that I’m doing it. I wonder why I seek that out in the first place. I wonder why it seems unsatisfactory to be the only one to get away with doing what you believe to be the appropriate course of action, while others just pucker their lips, tilt their heads, and mutter to their partner’s ears.

Anyways. I found my bodega. I hadn’t had a kiwi in a while so I got two of them and a Fresca- the carbonation makes my stomach feel fuller than it actually is.

The kiwi, however, tastes like nothing that I wanted. It was tart for a full two seconds before tasting like palmolive on a soaking, wet, rag.

I’m wondering about that guy and what his first moment’s gonna feel like tomorrow. I’m just hoping he gets there.

At least the carbonation was filling.



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