It snowed today in New York City.
It was also the first day of Spring RA training and thus, the last day of my Winter Vacation, or as I have been calling it, ‘Oh-Hi-Remember-Me-I’m-Taking-Back-Myself-K-Thanks’. When you spend enough time alone you can get fed up with yourself. I’d spend entire days not speaking to anybody. Yeah, I was working a lot- setting up appointments, Battlestar Galactica, rewriting plays, Battlestar Galactica, producing a play all the while realizing for a second time how spiteful some people really can be. Then more Battlestar Galactica. Mary McDonnell’s character, President Roslin, is by far my favorite person ever, and a far more personable-looking president than Hillary Clinton will every be when she comes to office in 2016. President Roslin’s misguided antics in deep space have since been the source of my anxiety that has led me to eat surplus amounts of dollar-priced almond cookies from CVS.
Tonight, our bosses had planned out a special scavenger hunt for us. They sent us out to different stores throughout the West Village to buy different groceries. Our team was responsible for purchasing whipped cream and chocolate syrup, then taking the F train to the Essex Street station, follow along Delancey Street towards the Williamsburg Bridge, then make a left on Pitt Street.
The destination turned out to be 91 Pitt Street, a transitional housing center. Our bosses were waiting for us in the recreation room, setting up Bingo, Dominoes, and a Ice Cream Sundae buffet.
I met a Butcher from Puerto Rico who’d blacked out and chased a woman in Red Hook with a butcher’s knife. He taught me Casino.
I met another who never took off his sunglasses. He continually asked me about the prison and hospital systems in North Carolina even though I insisted that I was from Florida.
I met another man whose wife manufactured drugs in their house. She’d gotten them arrested but apparently he was the one to get jail time because the house was under his name. He served his time in a prison cell where he’d sleep in a corner where a tiny crack spewed out steam. He’d wake up at three A.M. sweating and unable to sleep again. A few months after, he fought for the house he bought, but it was foreclosed by City Hall. He got mixed up into shit and one day ‘cut a bitch’. He went back to the prison with the crack with the steam. Years later, he came back to his house had been bought back, by his wife, her new husband, and her first son, my new friend’s only one. The son took a knife to his father and left a keloid of a scar underneath his father’s eye. This man I met then spent the first year and a half of his newfound freedom in Orlando’s bus terminal where he’d save money for food and a ‘ticket to nowhere’. He got on a bus heading north, and figured there was an opportune chance to find a housing project in New York City where a bunch of Private-University kids would come visit and eat too much caramel ice cream topped with sprinkles and mashed Birthday Cake flavored Oreos.