"What time did you get here?" OBSIDIAN asks me as he walks up to me inside of the Madison Avenue Starbucks.
I got up early. Rising fifteen minutes after six and looking around at the sleeping men around me. The sun had not yet risen. All was still. I pack up my laptop and don my shoes, made my bed and waited for Seven O'clock when is the earliest that we can leave the dorm. As I wait in the dark, BK rises from his bed across from me. BK is a huge black man, surly looking, bald headed and quiet. He dresses quickly, and walks off, without even making his bed. I get up and follow behind him into the hallway, finding it empty. I head to the dining room to look for him, but he is not there. I look down the empty flight of stairs, finding them abandoned.
Well, I'll be damned. The motherfucker left the premises.I head back to the dorm but a Tech, Katrina, cuts me off. "You want something from the kitchen?" She asks. Yeah, I would like to leave now. "It's not yet Seven." I know, I need to leave early. I need to get out of here and go see my brother. Katrina thinks about the request. "Alright, just tell everyone that it's an emergency." I scoot, grab my gear, and get the fuck out of dodge.
In minutes I find myself in the Madison Avenue Starbucks, drinking coffee, eating doughnuts, and blogging. I get there at Seven Ten in the morning. It feels good to be up this early. I want to do it again. Wasn't it Ben Franklin that had said: "Early to bed, early to rise..."
My brother and I sit and drink coffee and play 2142 until it's time for me to leave. I'm meeting up with Bryan at Port Authority. Port Authority, which was once just a waystation to me. A point on the map that I passed through daily to go about my business. I could actually be considered the hub of my life, a linchpin of sorts. Then it became home. The place I would go to rest my weary bones at the end of the day. All night, struggling to outwit the police and get a good night's sleep. Now it wasn't shit to me other than a building full of commuters going about their business. The place has lost its relevance to me. It is nothing now.
Bryan shows up and we head over to the Olive Garden for lunch and catch up on the days that have went by since we last spoke. From there we head back to the Madison Avenue Starbucks where I get online and play 2142. Bryan loads patches to begin to play. But time proves to not be on our side and in moments we have to say goodbye, as I head for the train station and downtown to Otto's Shrunken Head. I get there five minutes late, but the bartender is twenty minutes late, so we wait outside until she arrives.
No doubt, because of the vacation, not a lot of people show. But those who did were pretty lively and we ended up with more time than any other time because of not having a feature. We finished in a timely manner and was out before we knew it. I need to write more poetry. I feel it bubbling up inside of me even as I write this blog in the middle of the night, but something will stop it up within me. Like a relief valve on a steam engine. I think I'll get down to business soon though and let a salvo of them spring from my fingers whenever I can.
My brother and I retire to the park where we eat chicken and bullshit, sharing a bottle of Boca Chica Rum. The hooch fills me with a warm feeling, a comfortable buzz while we talk about everything and nothing. Which is a good premise for this blog. Everything and then nothing.
When entering the dorm I pass by Mike Murder's bed and he is wide awake for a change. I stood and talked with him at length. I wanted to see how he was holding up being persona non grata in the dorm, and he seems to be doing quite well. No real problems other than the nurses cutting his Ambien in half, forcing him to stay up all night long. This he does not appreciate.
I go through my things. My mini mouse is broken and I reach for my computer tool kit in one of my bed drawers to fix it, finding it gone. Son's of bitches here in BRC have confiscated it as contraband, along with the spare light bulbs for the light used in the SHOUT OUT. All taken as contraband. Are they for real? These motherfuckers.
I'm pissed. I use my pocket tool kit to fix my mouse but the whole job could have been done much easier with my toolkit. Those motherfuckers are going to have to answer for this. I'll check with them to see if they have my shit or if it was stolen while they were flipping my shit over and leaving everything exposed.Somebody is going to have to make some form of reimbursement for the tool kit.
I'm sure that everyone will get on line to do so.
I'm fucked again, and with no lube.
Hobobob
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