post-perfect ii

Emerge from the wet heat of the underground.  The stairwell became congested with human traffic, conditioning movements to crawl-like steps.  28th Street greeted me more hostile than refreshing, though, causing the exposed skin on my arms to go all prickly in the early April air.  I inhaled with a sharp breath appropriate for pain.  Shuffling, increasing pace, I struggled to distance myself, breaking free of the herd, despite any clear motivation to meet an ex at that café she loved so damn much and listen to her verbally berate me for the next hour.   Report on the status of her five-year plan.

Broadway was not paved down here.   Approaching a crosswalk, I saw the old cobblestone of some lost, depressing decade peek through torn away blacktop.  The City was probably planning on construction, repairs, soon, but for now conditions were rough upon the spinning tires of the honeybee taxi cabs and anyone else crazy enough to travel by car down here.

Transportation, no matter how you look at it, in all its forms, had the inevitable downsides.  An elderly woman, wearing floral-patterned drapes as a sun dress sneezed on me this morning on the One train.  The light, moist sprinkles splashed my bare skin without apology, warning, or even acknowledgement.  Eyes vacant, she didn’t miss a beat and continued watching the blur of lights sail by amidst the darkness.  

“Bless you,” someone mumbles, but not to me.

Forget about light being at the end of tunnels.

Back on the street, the buildings rose up from the graying concrete, attempting to stab God.

In the darkness, there was a cold.  This was years ago, before the slowed blood and aching heart, before the apathy and five-figure-a-month paychecks.  The streets were lonely and still.  The unforgiving night taunted and teased its victims.  In the darkness, the faint feeling of warmth smoldered as a trashcan fire flickered to the strength of the December night and a group of strangers huddled together to fight off the frigid finger-tips of winter. 

Warmth was only an elusive memory on the corner of Madison and Thirty-fifth.  Feelings like those are often difficult to remember, while it’s the heartache you never forget.  The silence, except for an occasional wailing siren, was eerie.  New York, New York: if you could make it here, you’d make it anywhere.  Sinatra said it, so it must be true.   However, those who can’t make it are never heard from again.  They slip through the cracks, devoured by darkness and cold. 

Somewhere, a small caravan of vehicles snaked its way down the desolate streets.  The tiny glow from their headlights pierced through curtains of darkness.  Two mini-vans slowly came to a stop at some lonely corner as if giving in to the hopeless cold.  But occupants emerged: middle aged men, house-wives, maybe a priest, a balding man who was slightly over weight, a woman whose glasses hung too big for her face, and a fourteen year old boy.  They weren’t anybody special.

“BECAUSE” is sprayed, in rust-colored paint, upon the side of the building. The simplicity of the message holds my attention while someone from work is talking at me, not to or with me. Forming the word with my lips, I’m thinking, “Because what?”