fifty-five years too late for the village thing

I

It was the end of a long day, and alcohol was involved. I decided to move to New York City because I’d seen pictures of the Statue of Liberty, and Lady Liberty looked so nurturing, welcoming, and approachable�"just the kind of woman I needed in my life at that time.

I took a bus.

Shared a seat with a woman named Hazel who had just left her husband.

“He forgot how fond I am of packed suitcases,” she said. “So off I went.”

She was curious about my Star of David tattoo. “Are you Jewish?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She immediately began listing every Jewish person she ever knew. “Do you attend synagogue?”

“No, ma’am.”

This concerned her. “You’re still of the faith, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m very spiritual.”

She nodded, slowly. She appeared frustrated because she couldn’t read me. She badly wanted to confront me on a few issues, but she didn’t have the chutzpah.

I fell asleep.

Woke up in Yonkers.

Hazel was REM-ing.  Lightly snoring.  Clutching a book called “Mammals of Uruguay.”

II

I stepped over a body on ,my first day there.

Walked up on an abandoned birthday cake day two; the candles were still lit.

On day three, a clown sat Shiva in Madison Square Park.

Day four, a beat poet muttered under a yawning awning, “Too much, man, too much.”

Day five. Well, let’s just say it was one of those incredibly unholy days when things get so bad that you have to self-medicate.

On day six, a certain amount of physical coordination was required. Fortunately, I was able to do this while lying face-down in a puddle of fortified wine.

On day seven, somebody handed me a loaded Glock, and perhaps it was a bad idea, but it felt good, my friend. It felt really good.

Look, all I’m saying is that I don’t think I did anything fundamentally wrong. And that’s all I’m saying, and that’s without counsel.