Unpacked in the Head

I ran for a cab.

I threw my bags into the backseat. 98th and Broadway please. The cab pulled from the curb and plunged into traffic. Snow was beginning to fall again. The streets, the tops of vehicles, the sidewalks and signs, all covered with snow.

I remember being outside on the streets during the snow. Two years in a row. The first under the awning in the Hotel, which is the front of the New York Public Library. The second was a winter in Penn Station. Now, a winter in a wonderful SRO. I've come a long way. The cab pulled to a stop on the corner. I worked my bags out of the vehicle, singing Christmas carols. I felt like a fat, Black Santa Claus with a bag full of gifts, heading towards all of the little boys and girls.

I got a quart of milk from a nearby Duane Reade...I know that it was mad expensive but I didn't feel like walking all the way up to the Associated a block and a half away. I wanted to get home. And home I did. I walked into the door, dropped my bags and fell back, slamming the door behind me. I made it.

I carefully unpacked. There wasn't much to do around the apartment. Everything was neat and clean. I only partially unpacked, then made dinner, then tried to get on the Internet, and guess what? I had the same problem that I did at my parents. Weak assed signals. Weak assed signals. Massaging, scrubbing, massaging weak assed signals. I have the money for my wireless router now. Step one in getting my own Internet connection here. For a chiphead like me, that would make this place instant Nirvana.

My gout was seriously killing me so I popped a COLCHICINE before bed time hoping that the little motherfucker would work overnight. It did, the wrong way. I woke up early morning, slipped out of bed and as soon as my feet came into contact with the floor my right foot protested in pain. Fuck! My stomach though, growled like a tiger, stirred like a fetus, moved like a snake underground. Double fuck. I jumped to my feet, put on my clothes, took my key and toilet paper, and headed out to the bathroom. Yes. No for the foot, yes for the loose bowels.

I limped about my room, unpacking, hoping that movement would make the pain go away. Soon it was time for the SHOUT OUT. I struggled to get my shoe on that damn foot and I succeeded. My stomach grumbled again. Sitting on the throne, I came to a conclusion. I can always limp to the SHOUT OUT, that's no big deal, but if I had to go...

I thought about the fucked up thing they called a commode at Otto's Shrunken Head, with no seat and barely a door. I thought twice. Some things I could take...others? I took off my shoes and reclined in my chair. I struggled to get online, and did periodically. I blogged offline and did other things to kill the day...SUCH AS FINISH MY SCREENPLAY!!

Yeah, that's right. I finished the mother- fucker. I sighed with relief and a sense of shock. This bastard had stayed with me from the beginning and I was surprised when it ended. I went back and checked the date of the first draft: February 27th, 2005. 2005! I was still working at the time, making a living, drinking myself into a slo deth. My wife had left me three years prior. I was reading and writing a storm, probably one of the most creative points in my life, as well as one of the lowest.

I looked at the words: THE END and stood up from my laptop. It was finally over. I crawled into bed, removing my slacks, and stretched out, going to sleep.

I awoke later, unwilling to get up. I wanted to rise but nothing in me allowed me to do so. I rolled over. I was in my cell, my room, my cubicle. I was home, and happy to be so. Like a germ in a piece of food, like a blood cell in an artery. I rose and stood in the center of the room. I needed some fresh air. I packed up my baby and left for the Starbucks downstairs.

I hopped online, working steady and happily to have a hot connection for a change. I am excited. I will stay here until close to closing. I look out of the window at the spent New York snow, now slush and ice slicks.

I am home.

Hobobob