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Sunday, October 04, 2009

454a to Merrick.

330 in penn station, with an hour and a half until the next train is an unbelievable... unBELIEVABLE scene. It's friday night. Bars are vomiting up the waste, the putrid wretches of the early morning.

the ex-football players are clearly delineated by their massive size of men once pulled together as muscle but let go into a bulk of meshed fatty tissue and alcohol. shouting at each other in slurred tones reserved for workyards, cafeterias. mouthful of cinnamon twists, calling, "cutie with a bootie," words and sound getting caught up in empty carbs. passing out as he tells his friend about getting his weekend together, and complaining about his cell phone battery dying.

in-fighting between small groups of friends.
two drunk men in business suits helping each other up for a full two minutes.

women dressed in the tightest, most revealing skirts they own because it's FRIDAY NIGHT. walking around on cell phones, some crying to their boyfriends, or ex-boyfriends, or complicated situations that the next train is 4:54... i'm SORRY... it's FRIDAY NIGHT.

everyone watches the schedule board like something's going to change. like 4:54 is going to change, like this time is just a lie, like there's no way this is right -- there's no way this is true, i needs to be home.

and the crowd keeps growing,
the night preparing for the hangover.
there is nothing else for us to do here but wait in this arena.

there are no good girls here, there are no lingering conversations. there is nothing nonviolent here, no lack of vulgarity, a caligula scene. all fucking in the mind, eating what's edible, bodies sprawled where they can be sprawled.

this is what it's like to be alone.

and what i've been thinking is where do you go to be in rome? you maintain of self what you can as self but you do as romans do to maintain.

and here begins the other end of the conversation, the boyfriend, the ex-boyfriend, the complicated situation, the i can't talk about it, and he's yelling, "where ARE you?" and "that's not what you said... that's not what you said... that's not what you said you'd be doing before. that's NOT what you said you'd be doing before. where's christina? where's christina. fine. fine. bye. i'm NOT. GODDDD."

"nnnooOOOO... nnnoooOOO... i left a fucking message."

Please watch the gap when boarding the train.
Khaki pants, pink polo, black moccassins, small black shopping bag... talking to himself the entire time.

Brown pants, brown button up, khaki suit jacket, picking a fight with someone who gave him attitude, walking away, placing full bag of taco bell at his feet, shaking his head. rolling his neck, rocking it back, stretching his jaw. readjusting his sleeves. in the brush, this would be followed by pissing on nearby foliage, ramming tree trunks, baring teeth.

circling like hyenas.

girl in jogging suit eating ice cream.
asian girl in short skirt, drinking lemonade.

dryfucking on the pillar.
alphajawing around the promenade.
deadstaring in the stairwell.

403 in penn station with no sign of slowing, no sign of speeding, no sign of progressing, just the motions and the motions en route to the 454 to merrick.

jockmeat and fightstance battlestooging side by side. silent. Powerade. Powerade. Reps and Powerade. Bitches and The Game and Looking Undefeated.

broback to broback.

Let's get a beer. It's Friday night.

2 comments:

B. Martinez said...

Excellent work. Sometimes it's like hosting a nature show. "Monsters Beside Us."

steve said...

thank you, man. i really appreciate it. it really is too much to think that I was the one who stood out in that crowd. somewhere, if there was a stenographer cell anywhere in that alpha cluster, they might have been able to write about the solitary oddity who wasn't stumbling or staggered or stuttering.