When you have money, you can go shopping or to the movies, when you have a home, you can clean house, when you have friends you can hang out. These poor souls in the Box have a heap of nothing.
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I go to the Astor Place Starbucks this time, and get started on the tons of paperwork that I have to do. The articles for the We Care Initiative, the reports for
the SHOUT OUT...blog, I have to blog, and shit like that. I cruise through the morning, having to piss repeatedly because of the waterpills that I take. By late afternoon Big K pops up on IM and we chat, while the bathroom line grows and grows with people. My bladder starts to complain. I look at my watch. It's getting close to the time to leave for the SHOUT OUT. Big K is going too, so she says farewell and I pack up my gear. Time is still on my side. I hop on the line and wait until I make it down the human chain and into a bathroom. I whiz quickly and zoom out of the bathroom, stopping at the counter to get a frappachino for the walk over to OTTO's. Now time is getting tight. I take the walk, heading uptown first, then across town.I look at my watch. I am late. Fuck! How does time do that shit to me?
I walk faster through the heat and make a bee line to OTTO's in a few minutes. I am slightly late, but at least I'm not fucking up the time. We get started with the SHOUT OUT, and it turns out better than normal. We have a nice, healthy and lively crowd. When the poets have fun, everyone has fun. We had music from Big K, who did an excellent job as usual. And we had poetry. While standing in the doorway...my spot whenever there is a SHOUT OUT, my brother comes up behind me and whispers over my shoulder: "Nell's here."Very fucking great! What kinda shit are we going to be subjected to now. The one good thing is that once again, we have a large crowd of poets. They stream out as a solid mass, right past Nell, who probably believes that the entire thing is a success by now. It is to us.
Nell says nothing, and everyone is in awe by her sheer beauty. God, she has a massive frame. Nell is a goddess, and she carries herself without conceit. Although there is a minor aloofness that one can easily blame on her being constantly busy. We slip outside and talk in front of the building. Big K orders up a car service and throws her equipment into the back. She has a ways to go home, but it was nice of her to buy us drinks and bring all of her equipment down to play for us. I know, for one, I am grateful.
We stroll across town with Demetrius D, otherwise known as DD, and D2theL and say goodbye to both of them at Union Square Park. Then my brother and I go uptown to get a couple of portables and take them into the park, where we find a bench and bullshit. Today, was one of our better days. We had a chance to talk without getting into a heated argument about something stupid.
The evening fell for me and I had to head back to my most favorite place. On the way there I pass Junior in front of the building. Junior. He used to live with us some time back until they found him an apartment. I stop and shake his hand. Junior, what brings you around here? "Just here to see a few old friends." Really? How's the apartment? "Good, but lonely."
Lonely? Dorm life takes on the shape and dimensions of institutionalized life to me. I look at Junior and nod. He can't get enough of this place because he is used to this place. He has grown accustomed to the noise, the hustle, the bustle. He has been institutionalized, knowing no other place that feels like home. He was here too long.Like myself.
I head upstairs and into the dorm. It is indeed filled with maddening life. Conversations, movement, Q&A sessions from Igor. It is like being in the Waltons. If you know what the Waltons were. I check my bag and there is a half finished bottle of water, reconverted through alchemy into vodka still on the side of my bag. I forgot all about it. I sit back, on my computer and sip away at the bottle. My high gets even higher at the side of my bed. Vanessa walks in and Igor asks her for more time behind the laptops past Ten. She says she'll give us until Eleven because it is the weekend. Igor and I hop merrily onto our machines and I start to blog.
The vodka makes me need to piss, so I head into the bathroom and meet up with Angel. "Hey, my dude!" he says, elated and deflated at the same time. "I sold the laptop." Oh you did. I take my piss. "Yeah, it was all busted up anyway. I sold it for thirty dollars." I stop peeing. You what? "Yeah, it was not working and I didn't have the power cord so I sold it for thirty dollars, my dude." I told you I'd pay seventy dollars for it, Angel. "You said that you weren't going to buy it. You said that you didn't want it." No I didn't, Angel. "Yes, yes you did my dude." Well Angel, your loss.
I walked out of the bathroom and sat down on the edge of my bed. Well, easy come, easy go. Angel appears next to me. My dude, I lied. I dropped it and broke the screen. I was showing it to someone and it fell out of my hand, so I threw it into the trash. I said all that because I didn't want Ralphy to know that I broke the thing." That's cool Angel. Whatever. He walks off to his bed in the dark. Now which side of the coin are you believing? Broken or sold? I personally think sold. If he broke it he would have returned with it to ask what other parts can be sold off the fucking thing. He just didn't want to be beat by his own business skills. Just to rub it in, I shake my head and say: Man! If it was sold for thirty dollars, the guy could have turned around and sold the screen and hard drive for at least a hundred and make a seventy dollar profit. Damn, what a score. Angel remained smoldering in the dark. I had no sympathy for him.
I only go as far as Eleven on my laptop, then I get weary and climb into bed. I am still hit. This is my second day away from reality. My passport into the Brown World has not yet expired.The bed is softer than I remembered it to be. The pillow accepts me fully. I am unconscious before I even know it.
HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2008/08/tummy-full-of-shame.html
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