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I think the statute of limitations has expired for my story.
New York City. Dirty, muddled, pristine, streamlined, beautiful and a sin.
Everything I could ever hope for in one place.
Everything I have always despised, ignorantly, right here in front of me.
I'll start where the action begins.
I walk out to the curb, my thumb jutting out from my fist like a hooker's exposed leg. I smile and say hello, hop in the passenger seat, set my room key into the pocket built into the door, and strap my ass in to the seat.
My heart's fluttering, and I have to force my breath into it's usual rhythym. We smile and chat. I comment on just how flamboyant the Chelsea district truly is, she makes a comment about the Meat Packing district. I relax for a moment and let the buildings soak into my vision.
Heights amuse me, seeing them from the ground, feeling them...well...tower over me. It's a nice feeling to have something blocking out the sun and breeze.
We smile and chat.
Park.
Exit.
Observe.
Repark.
Smartass comment.
And decide on which bar to hit first.
I was told that Thar Be Trolls Here (Trolls, not Dragons), but holy shit that bouncer was huge. I don't think I've ever seen someone so frigging massive in my life. Everyone in the bar was well behaved, except for the hispanic couple sucking each other's faces off at one of the beer pong tables.
I've watched the Discovery Channel during their Fuck The Sea, It's Scary Shit week. I've seen Octopi (octopuses?) cling onto steel for dear life and sharks clamp down on bait hard enough to almost capsize a boat, but I've never seen humans capable of such suction. I think the girl's hairline moved forward half an inch with each kiss.
A pitcher of beer poured into dixie cups and ping pong balls bought and wetted. My first time playing. My palms begin to clam up, motor skills shut down, and I can feel my hands tremble. My only hope is to get just a bit of alcohol in me so I can relax, be calm, be smooth, beat some ass at this game.
And I do. But graciously, I down most of the remaining beer after I whip major ass.
Yes, I graciously downed most of the pitcher that was bought by someone else. I'm a gentleman like that.
Gotta get my breathing under control. Doesn't seem to want to escape my throat.
We laugh and chat.
And move on to the next bar.
A waitress, slightly angry that we plopped into a booth after ordering our drinks at the bar, let's us know exactly how shit's gonna play out for us later. The usual...eh...don't want to alienate, but the usual frat boy crowd shuffles around in the middle of the bar floor.
Sandals, khaki cargo shorts, button up shirts, cocked baseball caps, greased hair, flipped collars. You name it, they had it. A dropped glass, an angrier waitress. She comes over with the scoop and broom. I'm pretty tipsy at this point, but I'm fairly sure I remember one of them simulating sodomy with the broom. I wonder what others see when they look at them.
That badass. That brosef. That idiot. That hottie. That catch. That...
Top heavy dumbass with skinny legs. Shot to the knees and it's done. But that's just me.
And I remember the conversation. You's gay. No matter what, you's gay. And the other part too.
By the time we leave, I've had a good amount of liquid courage in me and everything seems to come naturally. Hesitation isn't an option for me any longer. We walk and smile and chat. Things are getting progressive! We enter an underground bar after a chat with a guy who has a badass hat. Like a damn cool hat. My kinda hat. That guy was fucking cool. I get an address from him, and try to remember it.
That fails, but I at least catch the name.
We slip on down amidst the cacophony of the band, playing covers with their own flavor.
A Guinness Stout, an Appletini, and two shots of tequila. My stomach churns, but hesitation is back at the hotel watching pay-per-view, so down it goes. We smile and chat, lollipops and music. Another Guinness, another tini, two more shots of tequila.
Music and laughter.
"We danced right there."
Ouch. Dunno. Dancing's one of those things, y'know. Everyone should know how to do it. Everyone should be free enough to just flow. I'll learn one of these days. But nevermind that.
Everything gets a bit hazy, as well it should. I've seen more tonight than I have any other night. Taken in more faces, scenery and noise than I could ever get anywhere else.
I'm loving it.
But there's still booze to be drunk, so back to the second bar. Two shots of Jameson (Hat Guy gets extra props for that) and three shots of vodka shared between the group. I'm not too definite about this point, but I end up sitting next to a guy with a thick African accent, laughing and exchanging stories with him, advice from person to person passes with the ease of alcohol induced socialism. I'm a god damn butterfly when you get enough in me, apparently.
Then it hits, and I find myself outside, smoking a cigarette. I flick it to the street, and place my face gingerly near the trash piled on the curb, hoping the copious amounts of liquid I have consumed comes out painlessly. It fails to do so, and we sit. Something feels...Hesitant?
I smile and say ok, and begin the short walk back to my hotel, stumbling, rumbling, fitting in maybe? Just another slightly swaying figure on the street.
Ahhhhh shit, I gotta get my keys ready for the door.
I slap my back pocket. The other one. Wallet. The front pocket. Cigarettes. The other one. Cellphone. Ooooooh shit.
A phone call and an incoherent conversation. "Dudeeeeee I need my keysh."
I don't remember if there was an answer, as I sit on the stoop in front of my hotel and begin to smoke, wishing they had a real lobby, wishing I didn't have to have a key to get inside.
Eight more cigarettes, 6 more phone calls, and nothing.
Bwahahahahaha.
I wake up in between the double doors of an apartment complex four doors down from my hotel. Rubbing my eyes and checking to make sure I have everything, I stumble back onto the sidewalk, the sun pressing down on the buildings across the street.
Fuuuuuuck.
I reach into my front pocket and find my keys. 'What the hell? Did they come by and shove them in my pocket and not wake me up?'
I make my way up the stairs of the hotel, and a man calls out to me.
"You know where you're going?"
"Yeup, 502, fifth floor."
"You were sleeping outside on the stairs you know."
"Yeup, won't be doing that again."
I lock my door behind me, strip my clothes off, and collapse on the bed. A better, less concrete lined sleep takes me away.
Later: "Yeah, I checked, your keys weren't in my car."
So, kids, check your fucking pockets, else you end up sleeping on the streets of New York.
A friend commented upon this whole situation in a roundabout way: "Dude, you look like a fucking hobo. No wonder nobody fucked with you"
Maybe he's right.
Just maybe.
