Waiting for the Cash Machine

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New York is beautiful at night.

I realized that this evening, getting cleaned up, shaved, dressed and prepared to head out to A&M Recording studios on 30th street. It took awhile to get dressed and I really thought that I was going to be late, but I moved at my usual pace and headed downstairs in a light jacket. It was supposed to be over 40 degrees out but upon coming into contact with the night air, it was decidedly chillier.

The city was alive. Even at six at night the pedestrians were still heading either home or somewhere else. I slipped into them like a penguin into water and traveled like a fish in a school. The wind whipped at me, laughing at my meager jacket which I pulled tighter around myself and headed to the subway. As soon as I walked in, the PA system announced that there would be delays on both uptown and downtown trains. So what? Big deal.

But there was no delay. The train roared into the station the second that I stepped onto the platform and rocketed down the tube to 34th street with almost no effort at all. I was relieved that rush hour was over and the train was moderately full. Too full and I can't seem to ride them. I soon got off and was consumed by the mass of humanity milling about in Penn Station, my old home. This was where I spent hundreds of winter's nights trying to stay warm from the elements outside. Here is where I slept curled up on the filthy floors, trying to catch a moments sleep before the patrolling police officers came and rousted me from slumber. It soon became a comedic game of cat and mouse, because if you do it too often, the officers will remember you and make it impossible for you to find rest even amongst the train commuters when they miss their trains and nod off on the seats.

Here was where I used to have a few of the many establish- ments that lined the walls of the great station allow me to sit at their tables and plug into their walls sockets so that I could catch a stray WIFI connection on my laptop and blog or write emails or surf the web. Here was where I spent all of my nights after we were removed from the Hotel, the location in front of the New York Public Library that we were allowed to sleep at during the summer months. But during the brutal winters, it was not allowed.

I made it to A&M Recording studios, walking down Eighth avenue, still studying the beautiful attired women making their way down the street, many holding onto burly men who met my hungry gaze with menace. I mean no harm. There was nothing to protect. Women are like flowers. You marvel at them in passing. You don't have to stop and pluck them just because you see them. I make it to A&M studios without a confrontation and stand in front of the buzzer board, studying which button to press, which at first was confusing, but before I could sort out what I was looking at, a delivery boy walked in, pressed a button and the buzzer lock on the door went off. He slipped into the building and I smoothly followed.

I made it to the fourth floor and followed the signs to the office of A&M Studios and they directed me to Studio R, which was empty, and where I waited for Oz, James and their band. Soon, they did file in, noisily. It was good to see familiar faces and to not be alone. They were a cordial group, laughing and joking with each other before setting up their instruments and playing. The music was good, mature and jamming. An amalgamation of different styles and sounds, which sounded new and fresh and most of all, different. It was interesting watching them actually make music out of thin air. Something that I always marveled at. Making sounds that moved the heart. Any sound that I can make from an instrument is annoying, unless it's a radio.

I inter- viewed the band, because I agreed to write the text for their webpage and then after the rehearsal we headed to a corner bar where a few of us had drinks and talked and laughed. It was Zee's belated birthday party and they celebrated it. The night quickly drew long and it was time to call it an evening. We broke up and I headed home, thinking about how I was going to handle the webpage and its contents. All the while, studying my beautiful city at night, like a rich, dark liquor, like a Black Russian with silvery ice cubes. New York is a heady substance, filled with such intoxicating promise.

For some reason I absorbed my city all the way home to my apartment building, headed upstairs and deflated for the night. I was exhausted and fell asleep quickly around midnight, only to awaken at 2:45 in the morning, wide eyed and bushy tailed. I smiled. The Wellbutrin was now beginning to work again. Like an unfolding flower, my life was coming back to me. And it felt good.

Hobobob