Untitled 2

She had said eight PM. Enough time to get home from a late afternoon class, change and head back out. By eight forty-five and without a call or message to reassure myself of patience, I decided to mope over to the newsstand and buy a paper.
Swiping endlessly away at his phone the vendor barely looked up as I dropped a bill and a few coins onto his counter. One of the coins, a nickel, hit the counter at an angle, rolled over onto his lap and continued onto the floor where it went out of sight. After a brief pause, he let out a loud sigh and rolled his eyes in annoyance up towards me. The counter had a built in series of compartments for sorting out each valuation of coin. The vendor was able to place them in their respective slots without so much as a glance as he returned to his phone. The bill he crumbled up and tossed to the side.
We were supposed to meet on the corner of 7th and Bleeker. There weren't any places to sit so I walked across the street, down half a block down to a pair of unoccupied benches, making sure the corner and station exit were still visible. The one way traffic advancing south on the avenue came in waves while borderline sentient pedestrians weaved their ways in and out at any given opportunity. Pigeon roadkill lay sprawled and mangled in the middle of the far intersection and I wondered how a creature capable of flight could come to such a demise.
I started to skim through the post and skipped the first few pages. Past cutting edge exposès covering a mayors recent weight loss, a recall of a carcinogenic line of beauty products and a landlords ongoing dispute with his tenants over an unflattering paint job in his building. An article headlined "Bushwick based folk band signs with Atlantic" caught my attention as I recognized one of the men in the accompanied photo. There were three band members wearing jeans and baggy shirts standing next to a cold looking man wearing a pressed grey suit slicked back hair and a slight curl of a smile. The article went on to say how a company scout had seen their set live at a club and immediately offered a deal. The member on the far right was the one I recognized. The caption said his name was Simon. He lived in my friends building in Brooklyn and although we never spoke I frequently saw him on my out from my friends apartment. seemingly struggling to haul his upright bass up the stairs but never willing to allow any help. The bands name was Dad's Trustfund.
A swerving car drove into a deep puddle on the underside of the curb directly in front of me and showered it's contents over my papers jeans and shoes. "Hey!" I shouted as the careening taxi can just barely made it past a red light. My luck was in it seemed as I was wearing a pair of black jeans as opposed to my usual beige that, suffice to say, would have been utterly ruined. I ripped a couple of spare pages out of the sports section and swatted away at whatever remaining mess hadn't already been absorbed by the fabric. Looking down at the still rippling puddle, I swore I could have seen a few tadpoles swooning about in the greenish-yellow noxious concoction that made up just one of the city's many gutter micro ecosystems scattered on the corners and undersides of its concrete streets.
Nearing a quarter past nine by this point, the sun was on the brink of collapsing over the horizon. People were standing in the middle of the street obstructing traffic as they caught shots of the scene on their phones. A man further up the street was taking a photo from the opposite angle, of all the people. It was one of those rare summer nights without an ounce of humidity and the air was fresh and clean, or about as much as it could be in the metropolis smog. I took a deep breath in, resigned myself to a night of disappointment and headed towards the train station, already wondering what combination of movie and take-out I'd decide to end the night with. At that moment I received a text that was as apologetic as it was succinct.
"So sorry! I won't be able to make it. Let me know if we can reschedule!"
At first I was tempted to file this one as another in a long list of lost causes, but thought better of it, remembering I actually quite liked the girl. Her name was Judith. And as far as who she actually was, I couldn't tell you much more than that.

As a part time courier I spent countless amounts of hours sitting on Central Park benches waiting for my dispatcher to assign me a delivery. The previous Tuesday I had been nodding off struggling to fight off the fatigue of a long night out. On the verge of passing out, I decided to endure the probable head and stomach aches that came with a cup of coffee and walked over to the nearest shop.
The smell of brewed coffee as I entered the shop swam up through my nostrils and guided me towards the bar. A barista cleaning filters on one of the machines looked up as I approached then quickly shot back down to her task as I surveyed the menu options. This particular shop was in desperation over exuding a Parisian appearance. Brown aprons, corduroys rolled up to the ankle and baker boy hats. The pretentiousness of it all was almost enough to make me double back and grab an energy drink at the deli.
"Hi! What can I get for you?" She seemed to have a habit of blinking profusely.
"Well, I'm just looking for something strong. Not too bitter, if you can help it. Whatever really. Thanks." Past the stained apron and foggy glasses I could tell she was quite gorgeous. A lazy ponytail had a few strands escaping from underneath her hat shadowing her sunken cheeks. In the flashes of light as a scattering or clouds passed by the morning sun, her pitch black eyes shone back at me and I decided on a flavor. "Actually, hazelnut. That sounds good."
She took a quick glance around making sure none of her coworkers were within earshot and leaned over the counter.
"No, no. You don't want that. Trust me, it tastes like crap. The regular brew is the best believe it or not."
"I'll take it then. Just a small cup, please! Not planning on having a seizure today"
With the slightest of scoffs she was off to the other side of the bar and started to mix the brew with brown powder and light syrup off a pump - topping it off with white foam. I paid for my drink and waited until it was ready. When it was finished she glanced over towards me and gestured for me to come over and pick it up.
"It's blazing hot. Wait a few minutes if you value your taste buds."
"That sounds like a lawsuit to me."
"Well, don't say I didn't warn you."
"I'll say what I like, thanks. Who are the jury going to believe - a hardworking student or a burntout deadbeat?"
"So what school do you go to then?"
"Hah. I guess I've jumped to conclusions."
"Trust me, I'm probably just as bad as you." Somehow I doubted that.
"You couldn't be, even if you tried."
"Want to bet?"
It was getting difficult to discern much from her actual mannerisms. I wasn't sure if she was genuinely intrigued or just looking to ward off some boredom.
"So, erm, how's that coffee then? And don't tell me it's s**t cause I make the best in the shop." I had almost completely forgotten of it and by now I didn't even feel like I really needed it. The lid came off with a bit of effort and a rush of steam rose up and clouded my lenses. Without asking she went and hit a few napkins. "Happens all the time, for me. Working with steam all day I can hardly see for half of it. Here, let me." I handed her my frames. She took off her own and wiped the fog off both. Practically blind I put on the frames she handed me back. "Wow. Compliments your features sooo flawlessly." She said with a slight snigger. My frames were on her face and hers on mine.
"Careful, my lenses have been known to send its victims towards shock therapy from the induced headaches."
A counter nearby her was made of reflective material and she leaned over towards it. "You aren't getting these back, you know." Taking in each angle with a different facial expression, she claimed ownership.
"Hey! I need those..."
"Here. Have a look." She drove her hand into her handbag and after a few moments of shuffling brought out a small personal mirror. The frames honestly did not look bad on me, they weren't quite my prescription though. "How about I hold onto these for a few days, you hold into mine and in a week we switch back?"
"Or, how about you hand me mine back, I don't go around riding into walls for a week and next week is still on?" I sensed a slight lack of sympathy.
"Hm, alright. I do have to get me a pair like these, though." Reluctantly she returned my frames and told me she was busy for most of the next week but had a night off the following Wednesday. "Now hurry up and finish your coffee. I suspect I'll be written up by the manager now. He's probably in his lair as we speak watching us."
I turned around and found a line of baggy eyed strung out customers stretching out to the door.
"Where's that damn macchiato?!" A man spat from across the room. One woman towards the end of the line brought out her mobile as I was walking out.
"Oh, come on! This is going on yelp!"

Trying to fend off the overriding disappointment of being stood up I consoled myself on the realization that my lack of funds probably meant an exhausting night of subtly trying to avoid any large expenses and that I probably avoided a large bullet. With this I headed to the subway and figured next time I'd budget accordingly. When I entered the station I noticed the service booth was empty and the pair of vending machines only accepted bank cards. The other entrance was a further block north. I had turned to make my way when a massive man wearing nothing but swiss cheese bath robes and pink high waisted skin tight jean shorts was standing before the exit. From where I stood I could clearly smell the cheap liquor and clipped cigarettes that made up the majority of his diet. His bloodshot eyes perched either side of his sharp chipped nose were staring straight at me, or rather, through me. It was as if the synapses in his brain were firing, telling him someone, something, was there, yet couldn't quite make it past that basic stage of cognitive identification.
"Aye! Young... errrr...man!" He blurted. "Am a quarter short, you see. Just a quarter yeah. That's all. A quarters all." He held out his hand and inched a few feet in my direction. The last of my coins was spent on the paper. My wallet only had a couple of five dollar bills.
"Look, man. I've honestly got no change on me right now. But if you wait just a minute I could go upstairs and change one of these bi-"
"Can't help me out, aye! I'm just trying to get home, see? You 'gon leave me hanging? A quarters all. That's it." With each outburst he drew closer and closer until I had to arch my neck backwards, or risk getting second hand drunk off the alcohol emanating from every toxic pore. Past the scarlet coating on his eyes, the dried oil and dead skin on his face, I could see the yellow tint of jaundice.
"Alright, alright. Here's a few dollars. Just...back off...please."
I reached into my back pocket and took out my wallet. He did the same except procured a knife.
"Give it here."
F***s sake.
"All of it." Suddenly he seemed sober and coherent.
"Alright. Can I at least hold on to my license?" Ignoring my request me snatched my wallet, took a wild swing of the knife that I just barely managed to avoid and ran up the stairs out of the station.
Without any money the only way home was to walk a hundred and half or so blocks uptown. A journey of at least two hours. Going to the police was also not an option as although the guy was a relative standout, he was still just one of many in a faceless sea of concrete city dwellers. I also feared an unpaid ticket from a few months back would produce a warrant. My best option was to take it in the chin and get on with it. I figured I'd follow the train line until Central Park, then pass through with a joint and continue on from Harlem to the heights. Fortunately the guy who robbed me didn't bother forcing me to empty my pockets, I still had a few buds and rolling paper.
Somehow managing to reach the park without any further trouble, I made my way towards my old spot underneath a pair of oaks by the lake. The coast was clear as far as I could tell and by the way the day had already unfolded I wasn't patient enough to really make sure.
The bag I had was from the previous night. My regular dealer was in the midst of changing phone numbers after another one of his frequent attacks of paranoid delusions over supposed FBI taps on his line. He sold no more than twenty dollars worth at a time and had maybe three customers. In desperation I went to the guys from the building next to mine who, presumably, had struck a deal with the superintendent as they were dealing out of the trash room through a hole in the gate. You never saw the guys face. You just put a ten or twenty through the crack and said either haze or sour.
The wind was blowing wildly. Using the inside of my sweater and the trunk of the tree as cover I started to roll up. The weed broken up didn't amount to much and I also figured with the wind not letting up I would need some spliff for a clean even burn. To my suprise, down the path a man was walking towards the bridge with a cigarette in his hand. He paused when he reached the middle of the bridge and leaned over the waist high ledge continuing to smoke. His face was hard to make out as I approached. He was facing slightly away from me and the overhead light was off, only occasionally flickering every couple of seconds. Before I got close he started to lean over the ledge further as if he'd dropped something.
"Hey, uh. Excuse me?"
He was still looking down
"Er, sir? I noticed you were smoking a ciggarette. I was wondering if you had a spare. Or just a piece off the top of one really. I only need a bit of spliff for a joint, you see-"
"Ah! What a coincidence!" Quickly he turned around from the ledge and was standing before me. The light above us suddenly turned on and underneath the hood of his cap I could only see the shadow of a wide smile. "I've just dropped my pack off the bridge!"
"Oh, well, just our luck, huh? Haha."
"Yeah, look. It's not quite hit the water though. Still salvageable I would think."
I leaned over the ledge and saw the pack of Marlboros on the edge of a stone, rocking back and forth in the wind. I started to turn around when I felt a push and within a half second was hurtling over the side into the water.

There was no splash or even a thump of the earth. I hit no surface. I wasn't falling either. I was suspended, drifting. I felt everything. Infinitely receptive. I felt a billion and one connections extending out from every pore of my vessel. It's destinations remote yet constantly interwoven. A nucleus, but also the periphery. I felt diseased and healthy, elated and distraught, animated and hollow all at once.
Everything that had happened in my life to that point and beyond was suspended before me. It was rotating. From one side it was linear, starting from birth until my death. From the other it was a singularity. There were billions of these. Each from its chronological side it's own entity, but from its singular, welded together with the strands of emotions. Love and hate. Some connections were stronger than others while a few were even in complete isolation.
All of these were rooted to a grand white tree. The core of humanity. Every so often two singularities would combine and in an instant another would come into existence. As that happened the tree would grow a leaf, or a branch would extend just a bit further. There were some parts of the tree that appeared to be rotten or dying. And when I followed the trail of its roots I found a singularity with endless strands of hate and despair extending from its vessel. After the last semblance of love was gone it broke off, drifting off into an eternity of obscurity and anonymity - and the tree was healed. When a singularity grew so strong in its connections, when even the most distant of its links were made of pure love - it condensed into a seed. The seed was then placed into the birth of a new singularity. Occasionally, one of these seeds would find it's way to a faltering brother. One that was on the verge of isolation. As it did the destiny of its sibling was given a blank page. The chronology in its life no longer pre ordained. I saw one such seed heading towards me and when it reached me I saw a glimpse of an intangible truth. Fleeting in and out of individual and collective consciousness, I was given a chance to understand and the seed was rested deep within the chasms of my morality and humanity.

I awoke to the smell of coffee and Judith standing with her arms crossed, tapping her foot.
"Long day?" She handed me the coffee and took a seat next to me. "I really don't how how anyone can fall asleep in public places." There were further words but I really couldn't understand or offer them meaning. All I could think of was the feeling of innocence and clarity that was almost indescribable. You really don't seem to notice how constantly and habitually overwhelmed we all are with all of the trivial banalities that infect our minds on a daily basis until one day or second it is gone and all that is left is a blank canvas. If, for one fleeting moment each day, we could slip from the shackles of judgment and guilt we could harness the capacity for understanding and peace so inherent in us all.

"Are you alright?"
How could I ever answer such a question so doused in simplicity and misunderstanding? So naive in the assumption of our capacity to perceive and understand ourselves at a level worth any form of expression. I'll answer "yes, I'm fine" as an offering to the comfort of your conscience. You don't really want to know. And how could I ever begin to explain really?
"I'm not sure"
"Is there something on your mind?"
"There always is"
"Yeah I know the feeling."
The moments we try and escape, from scrutiny, from uncomfortable situations, from our own auto immune minds, reign salient lay over those of real significance and worth. In the dissection of intruding thoughts and emotions that stand to be accounted for more that stampede over one another as they seek validation by our naive minds. Too often we become victims to the echoing vibrations of s voice saturated in the milk of supposed doubt and self deprecation. Unable to close our ears and shush away a relentless onslaught crushing our fragile ambitions.
"What's your deal?"
"I'm just here."
"You haven't said a word. I come a few minutes late, found you sleeping here on this bench and now you won't say anything."
"Oh, sorry. I've just been.."
"Yes?"
"Let's go."
"Where to? I need a drink. There's this bar-"
"No. No bar. The riverside?"
"The riverside?"
"Yeah. We can grab a few beers if you want."
"Are we 16 years old now?"
"Come on. You hardly seem the snob bar type."
"No. Just, I wasn't really expecting anything like this. I hope you have a decent spot in mind."
"I do. This old abandoned car on the roof of the pier."
"That? Actually, it's not there anymore."
"Wow. Really? That's bullshit."
"Yeah. Seems they caught on about people using it. I think I know of another one, though."
"And you were the one saying it was immature?"
"Well, there were a couple of bad experiences. Caught twice and '
written up."
"S**t. I've had my fair share."
"Come on."
With the night came the prescription medicated packs of post collegiate loft dwellers, replacing the quick paced, post work stiff suits from the late afternoon rush. Most times they chose bars in their vicinity, also not far from their self professed middle class jobs in the high-rise offices of adapted warehouses. Sometimes though, they would do other things, like attend art galleries of critical importance. Or stand swaying side to side at a local show. Always transcending the contemporary. We walked past stores with stern faced women as they hovered over customers with swollen wrists from a lifetime of swiping plastic. Past stores with only a single rack of clothing and an employee named Fazio. There was a coffee shop with lights so dim and music so droning couples could barely hear or make out their dates as they drawled on about their s****y coworkers and tedious engagements.
"Damnit, Paul has me running the files again this week."
"The absolute b*****d."
"It's a complete farce. An injustice only rivaled by the crusades and slsvery, and even then, only by the slightest of margins."
"And he knows Gordon has been slacking for years yet it's him that somehow always gets off easy at the end of the month."










"I was a fool."
"What do you mean?"
"I've spent years suppressing this
constant, impending and pervading sense of depression and loneliness, until the other day, while my friend sat in front of me playing resident evil, I laid back, looked up to the ceiling and was struck with a sudden wrath of sadness and pain. Years and years and years of build up, of constant supposed indifference and complacency. This is life, I had thought. It sucks, it sure f*****g does, but that's just how it is. And I'll continue drudging along, not doing anything significant to change my deteriorating course because I did not have either the capacity or fortitude. I had come to accept my flaws and let them determine my life. There are some things that you just cannot change. Some things that are so ingrained in our consciousness and persistent mentality that they will just never go away. No matter how hard you try. Is this true? Do we
choose? Can we really make our own choices? Why am I so constantly plagued by something that has no manifest, no diagnosis, no tangible identity. Just a pervading weight of chains holding me down, drowning me in the sea of expectations and hope."
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"Have you ever made a decision or even a had a thought without the slightest influence from the fear of judgement? From acceptance...from parents...from religion. From the deprecating doubts constantly whirlwind about clouding our true intentions and feelings?"
"Sure. When I scratch my a*s I don't give a damn who cares."
.......
"Seriously...what are you getting at? You may be looking for something that just isn't there."
"I'm not. For once can't we just drop the damn pretense and talk about something...real? I'm tired of it. Tired of all this f*****g constant psuedo indifference and emotional detachment. It's bullshit. Why is anything actually worth a damn met with such reluctance nowadays. When did our relationships become a trading card game? No one wants to be human anymore. They just want to maintain their artificial representations of their mental projections of themselves. With 140 letter spiel. With the perpetual spew of condensed, filtered, sterile content that we try and pass off as meaningful and relevant. This never ending need for constant validation. Where's the connection. I don't feel any."
"I'm not saying I don't also feel similar. Or can't understand. But how can we really share all of that? One weight of conscience is enough as it is. I think you are asking for too much. For something we aren't yet prepared for and maybe won't ever be in this life. I could open the door to my entire soul to you and you wouldn't be able to understand. Not all of it, at least. And you'd be overwhelmed. That's not something we are capable of, while we are still searching for ourselves. We share pieces, fragments - through art, music, conversations, physicality at our own pace. It's up to each one of us to collect those with the most relevance to our journey and sift through to a meaning. I don't think it's possible to go hand in hand, through the entirety of this. Because it is so different for each one or us, truth. A little help, never hurts though."