No Rest For The Wanderer

I look up at the clock in Think Coffee.

It reads a quarter to Nine. I know from experience that the clock is slow. I look at my watch. It's five to Nine. The question now is should I throw my gear into my bag and hightail it to the Box?? Catch the goddamned Morning Meeting? Stand around a pack of hyaenas as they spout insipid news? Get a chance to hear that wonderful: "Have a nice day," from Kelly The Ten Year Old? Oz pops up on IM. Gotta chat!!!

Nine O'clock slides past. Oz stays online for only ten minutes. Just enough time for me to miss Morning Meeting. That's two in row. Punitive action may be taken. I ignore the situation. I'll deal with these people as I go along.

Earlier, Rob and John have a fight over a cigarette lighter. I listen until bored. I bore easily when I am tired. I rose early this morning, getting up a little past Four. I could not go back to sleep, which meant only one thing: my filthy ass wanted a shower. I like these lonely hours in the morning, where everyone is asleep. It's almost as if the Dorm is mine, and I'm in my own, very large apartment....

I walk into the bathroom to find someone in the shower and someone else in the John. Fuck me. I leave, returning to my bed, tossing my change of clothes, soap, towels and washcloth on the stripped bed next to mine. I do sit ups and push ups to kill time. Soon, the bathroom empties and I rush in. As I undress the door opens and Danielle, one of the female Techs walks in, spies me and then walks out. Great. I love these personal moments. I hit the showers.

I find, that as much as I hate taking a shower in the Box, I hate getting out of one even more. I wash my entire body once, then twice. I have to mentally wrench myself from going a third round. I emerge, clean as a whistledick. I return to my bed, fold and stash my clothes, and then sit on the edge of my bed, motionless for ten minutes. A zen thing. a form of meditation where you keep yourself from moving to concentrate. It's quite hard if you've never tried it. Move nothing. Time flies when you do this. So focused are you on not moving that the seconds tick by.

The overhead lights flicker on. It is Six O'clock. I read books until Seven, and then I'm in Think Coffee by Seven Ten. Blogging, emailing and IMing. I need to pin down an article about the city and do it fast. It has to be written before this weekend. That's MY deadline. So what do you think I did? I WROTE THE MOTHER- FUCKER!!!! I'm a writer goddamnit. Not only that, it's in eight or nine parts, so I'll be busy until the end of the week. Going out the other side, I should have enough articles for the next two months. Damn. And I thought this shit was going to be hard. I was worried. I was. Until I lit upon one of the largest, most obscure plan for the city of New York, and simplified all of the aspects of it. By breaking it down into manageable parts, I'm able to report on it over a period of time. This will work or me if the editors like the idea. If they don't, I'm up shit's creek. I'd better work on a parallel story just in case this one is declined.

Right now, I'm in the middle of a quandary. Should I go to the public library or should I go back to the Box and do Laundry. Here's the problem. I'm wearing a pair of pants without belt loops. It has an elastic band around the waist. Which was cool about a month ago. But with the exercise and apparent weight loss the band is too large and my pants keep sliding down off my ass. I avoided wearing these slacks when I was going commando for obvious reasons, but now that I have underwear, I was sure that it would be no problem. I was wrong, finding myself constantly chasing the band up and down my ass. To walk to the library uptown would mean a circus of pants pulling and elastic band juggling. I don't know if I'm all that ready for that.

But I make the fateful decision to go uptown and brave the worst, and the worst it was. I don't know how much of my underwear covered ass that I showed to everyone but it was enough. I felt like one of those punk rapper kids puffing their boxers, although I wear briefs. I catch the Way, ass out, walk to the library, ass out, cop a seat at my cubicle, ass out. This was a bad decision. But I make it and get to work on my articles. I think it's a nice topic, concerning PlaNYC, an initiative by good old Mayor Bloomberg for the upcoming year 2030. A nice long time ahead, a nice big initiative, a nice group of articles that I can write to cover it succinctly.

I am in heaven as I crank out three articles with relative ease, like passing matter our of your ass, it's tough at first, then a relief as it emerges, so comes this work. It is a pleasure once you get started. The Internet at the library flaps. It's been flapping a lot lately, pissing me off to no end. Today I can't take any more of it. I pack up my shit and head to Starbucks where the WIFI is hotter and more dependable.

I get there, sit down, jack in and I'm denied access. WTF?? It says that I have not made a qualified purchase in thirty days with my registered Starbucks card. Oh shit, I haven't. I get up, put money on the stupid card and by something to eat. That should do it, and it does. I'm back online, kicking ass. I bring up PDF and HTM on PlaNYC, reading, reading, always reading. Digesting, rewriting, editing, going back over it. My brother arrives and throws off my concentration. Oz pops up on IM, I'm talking. I'm working, talking, typing. I'm in my element. I'm producing in traffic. It's amazing to me how writing comes so naturally now. Maybe because I have been doing it nearly full time for a year now that it's second nature. Drilled into my being by constant practice. My mind thinks, my fingers put down on paper, there is no pause in the middle.

Soon it's time to head for the Box. I do so, hitting the Way and heading upstairs. I meet Ralphy in the corridor. He stops me, his face forelorn. "I'm leaving tomorrow at Nine dude," he says. I nod, I'm numb to this now. People leaving is nothing new. I'm going to miss you, Ralphy. "What did they say about your status?" he asks. Nothing, not a fucking thing. I can see that he feels bad for me. I've taken away all of his joy in telling me about his good fortune. I've been here even longer than he, and he's acutely aware of it. He walks off, and I do the same. I find my very same corner, my bed area, and set up to work online. I'm back in the online groove, punching out the articles, shaping them up, giving them a start and a finish since they all began as one contiguous blob.

Vanessa shows up at 10:00PM and taps me on the shoulder. I look up at her. "All computers off," she commands. I scowl. Now we have to stop at Ten O'clock again. I shut down, pack up and stow away. Next I turn on my overhead light, grab a book and sit up to read. I don't get far, I begin to read the same paragraph twice, three times.

My mind is tired. Very tired. I nod.

It's time for sleep.

Hobobob