counting backwards

Talk to Me

Last night, I realized that Reality Bites had a strong hand in forming the person I became in my 20s and 30s, which is probably why I’ve had such poor results.

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The Wasteland

This month, I’ve had visits from Californians and one Chicagoan; went to Baltimore for a comic book convention (slept on a recliner in Anapolis and was watched by a foursome of friendly cats); went back to Chico for a wedding (congrats John and Mandy); and pretended to be hip one night at CMJ (saw Clipse at the Spin Party at the Highline Ballroom, and they rocked). Last night at a Halloween party, I was co-winner of funniest costume (I was Bunsen Honeydew, my friend was Beaker). It was alarming how little I had to do to myself to look like Bunsen Honeydew.

Now, I have .60 cents in my checking account, a tad over $5 in my savings (at last check, I’m afraid to look again until Friday); four singles in my wallet and $17 in change in the bank on my dresser (emergency booze fund).

I can’t bring myself to do anything. Two nights ago, I passed out on the couch. When I woke up, my chest hurt so bad I couldn’t lift my arms without grimacing. I miust’ve pulled something in my sleep. That’s what I told myself when I dragged my ass up to bed in order to stave off fears that I was having a heart attack.

Until further notice, I will be playing Fallout 3, which is addictive, despite how awful I am at it. I’m playing it on easy and still can’t figure out how to roam through subway tunnels without getting mauled to death by dogs. The corridors are dark, and I get dizzy after 20 minutes, but right now, it’s theraputic to cap mutants in the noggin with an assault rifle.

The River Styx

I have a ferry wait time limit: never more than a half-hour. In the salad days before the end of summer, I’d hop off the N at Rector Street and belly up to the bar at Ulysses for a drink or two to kill time before the next boat. Nowadays, If I have to wait an hour for the boat to dock at Whitehall, I’ll just continue into Brooklyn and transfer to the S53 at 86th Street.

This is the dreariest of trips, especially in the wee hours. I have to transfer to the R at 59th Street in Brooklyn, and there’s no telling how long it’ll take for the R, relegated to meager Bay Ridge shuttle status at that time of night, to show up. The only bright spot is that the delis on 86th are still open, and they make a mean sandwich.

Last night, the N had dropped me off with 35 minutes to spare. This time, open air won out over a late night trolling the tunnels. I walked upstairs to sit on the patio behind the neon Staten Island Ferry sign. I like to watch the ferry come in at night. It seems to emerge out of nowhere when it swings around Governor’s Island. I opened the side doors of the terminal and saw a couple sitting on a bench—a man and a woman. I thought the man looked like Lou Reed from behind. When I took my seat on the neighboring bench, I realized the man was David Johansen from the New York Dolls.

Coming up on 3:30 a.m., Lower Manhattan was even quieter than usual, but I couldn’t make out their conversation. (I’m a chronic eavesdropper. I’m not as ashamed of it as I should be.) The lady had long black hair and a nice laugh, which she flashed often during their dialogue. Thought I couldn’t make out what he was saying, Johansen’s voice had a vampiric tone—dark and hollow. Between drags of his cigarette, the only word that rang clear was “fascists.”

I entered the ferry alongside them. As soon as I got on the boat, I turned on the ramp and headed downstairs so I could stand outside. When I did so, I was facing Johansen and his lady. She was smiling as she propped him up; he wore amber sunglasses and had the pallor of the walking dead.