Body-Surfing A Solvent Cage
DECEMBER 17, 2009
Greeting Cards
My broken arm continues to improve, hurting less and less each day; however, I still feel vulnerable when I venture on the buses and subways, or tackle the crowds of Christmas-crazed shoppers on the street. Nevertheless, for the sake of my sanity, I need to get out from time to time.
Yesterday, after getting dressed and having breakfast and coffee, I asked Deborah what her plans were for the day. “I have a lot to do,” she said. “Christmas-related errands.”
“When are you leaving?” I said, thinking I would tag along since I had nothing better to do (and was sick of having nothing better to do).
“In a little while,” she said. She had a few morning rituals to perform first.
I barely slept the night before, and when I stretched out on the bed to wait, I crashed in an instant. I woke up an hour later, and Deborah was gone. I hadn’t told her I was planning to go with her, and she slipped out quietly, intentionally trying not to wake me.
I panicked. There was no way I was going to stay inside all day again, so I threw on my coat — or rather, carefully slid my good arm into its sleeve and gently draped the other side over my shoulder—and ran out the door. Where to? I had no idea.
I rode the B61 to the F Train and headed into Manhattan, getting out on Broadway-Lafayette for no discernible reason. Broadway is always an exuberant, pulsing mass of plasma, but at Christmastime, it becomes a combustible balls-out mosh-pit, a million free radicals body-surfing a solvent cage of city streets. I led with my good shoulder and chose a line through the prevailing tide, holding my breath most of the way.
I didn’t have any shopping to do, and wouldn’t do it on lower Broadway even if I did, but I’d been spending so much time inside, alone, that I guess I just needed to go for it — get into the thick of it and absorb the vast array of human energy the melting pot is so famous for. Then again, I didn’t go to Midtown, so I guess I didn’t need it that badly. Regardless, it didn’t take long before I needed a break from the crowds and the cold, and so I stopped into a diner and had myself a grilled cheese and a cup of soup.
It’s been a month since I broke my arm, and I’ve gotten pretty good at using utensils with my left hand, but I’m not perfect, and I proceeded to make a mess with my soup spoon. The spoon was too big for the tiny cup, anyway. When I finished eating, I sat in the booth trying to figure out where to go from there. Trying to think of where to go for the day quickly evolved into the big-picture “Where do I go?”
I need a direction. An idea. A project at least. A single-handed something to do.
In the meantime, the rest of the day was as aimless as the rest of my life.
Complete Banana
I secured an end seat on the subway where my arm would be sheltered, and was relieved when a XXXL man decided to sit across from me rather than next to me. He was huge, carried a big plastic bag filled with who knows what, and wore a puffy poly-fill coat that easily doubled his size. He squeezed in between two other riders who each reflected their discomfort with subtle shimmies and sidelong scowls.
“Dis train go to T’oid Avenue?”
“Huh? Third Avenue? Yes, three stops,” said the guy next to him.
“Tanks.”
As the train approached Third Avenue, the guy got up and stood near the door, putting his crotch at my eye level, fly wide open. Commando. His gargantuan horse cock was barely contained.
“Whoa, I don’t need to see that,” I said to myself, looking around to see if anyone else had noticed. No one seemed to. “Do I tell him? Is he flashing on purpose?”
Must.
Not.
Look.
The doors opened, and he exited.
There’s no real end to this story. No clever way to tie it up or make it sound like it reflects some larger truth, though if it did, it would have to be a gargantuan truth. I just wanted to share, that’s all.
