Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Time for a Change 

I was temporarily without a home. MT offered me his. A newfound morality prevented him from sharing a temporary residence with a platonic female. As I pulled up, he threw me the key and took my seat. He mumbled to me as the car sped away. Something about detox or shacking up downtown.

I maneuvered my belongings through the revolving door on offer with just enough effort to temporarily trap a resident inside. The suited man sitting gave me a quizzical look, then a knowing nod as I strode past.

The elevator was as gilded as I remembered. I slid the key into the lock and remembered the dreams and aspirations that once brewed inside this place. The latch slipped, I took a breath and went inside.

The first step was familiar, but the rest was new. The estate seems to have born the brunt of MT’s new career status.

It had achieved a state of dilapidate grandeur. This was becoming on certain cheekbones, but the light of day was not something the abode should have seen. I pulled the curtains. MT had either called off or buried the maid. Things were looking suspicious. There was no Tivo.

This night called for a martini. I poured myself a gin on the rocks, minus rocks. The MT estate was officially in decline. It was time to depart.

SweetVicious was waiting nearby. It had been a long night at the office, she claimed. The bartenders were peddling free drinks. Someone helped me into a seat at the bar. I remembered there were times when being XY in New York was equal parts broken glass and wasted lust. This was not one of those times.

We traded conversation for some nods and a drink. Our seats were by the window to bring in new business. The bartenders spoke in Turkish. We let them. The night would end here if we weren’t careful.

Michael walked in wearing sunglasses. It was midnight. He was leaving for India in the morning and claimed this was acclimation for the new time zone. He always said that.

We walked toward the river. The bar was dark and smelled of other boroughs. Sam Malone and his woman saved us from the hordes. There was a cool breeze off the water, but it scared the owners. They liked it hot, even though no one else did. Sam cracked a window, which reminded us to go outside.

Phones were buzzing, but the last gasps of summer were making us dog obligation. It was fashion week and Truman was in the midst of 200 heroin addicts drinking champagne on Gaansevort. He said this as if it were a good thing. We deleted him. Again.
Someone called from above 14th street. Someone always does.

We found an outdoor garden and some of the last sweet drinks we would have this year. The wind played in the streets as people remembered why they like this place. Music called us. We danced in the bar without a cabaret license. No one seemed to mind. Out on the street, calls were made.

SV pulled over a ride. There were crowds and cobblestone. Someone handed me champagne.

We were on a roof. Drinks were thrown. We were made to leave. The teetering tentpoles were beginning to think they could hold up their part of the conversation. Someone offered up my new abode for a gathering. I was feeling hospitable.

Jimbo got there early and stopped to say hello to Bob on Sixth Avenue. He had purchased two cigars from Bob earlier in the night, and had returned to recount the evening. When we arrived they were just finishing up. Bob was using his old standard: “I won’t screw you over like those crazy crackwhores. Don’t get me wrong. I am a crackwhore... But I’m not crazy.”

This bum had spunk. We brought him back to the estate.

“Shit, I’m covered tonight. You don’t want me in your apartment.”

“Oh come off it, Bob.”

“It’s not our apartment.”
—Miss Anna