Mexican Music, 8 continued

The mania is starting to wear off. I sit in Washington Square Park wondering what my next move will be. The month is November. I’m beginning to forget what day of the week it is. I think it’s a Monday. Not sure. Could be a Friday. People walk by with baked goods and coffee. I check my pockets. There is $200 left. I think of going into a bar and drinking myself to death. Then I think of jumping in the Hudson. Or, in a dramatic fashion, off The Empire State Building. If that is possible. Wild thoughts go through my head on a daily basis as they always have.

Folks protesting climate change are setting up under the arch. A man playing saxophone opens up his case to collect bills and change. He plays the Coltrane classic, Naima. I hear the notes and I begin to cry. There’s something about sound. Music makes me weep. It has since I was a child. Even when I was a babe I cried at the sound of music. A trumpet, piano, anything that strikes a note makes me tear up; either tears of joy or tears of sorrow; not really sure. Signs and literature are being handed out by the weather freaks. Maybe they’re right? It’s November and the temperature is 70 degrees in New York. Am I in New York? Maybe this is a dream. Maybe I’m in Florida? Or, Hollywood? Perhaps I’m in the Tenderloin section of San Fransisco? Now I see a naked woman being photographed in the center of the park and I realize I’m in New York.

She is a beauty. Tall and statuesque. Dark black skin and long brown hair. I think it’s a wig. She strikes different poses. Nobody seems to notice, but, me. I look on. Not in a lustful way, but, in a way of admiration. I want to tell her I think she’s beautiful. However, I don’t have the guts. Bukowski would have told her. Bukowski would have done a lot of things. So would Henry Miller. These men were fearless. Completely in touch with their own reality. I have yet to realize mine. Then again, some things are best unsaid.

I’ve been up off and on for 72 hours now. Taking cat naps on park benches. I call myself El Gato. I walk into the men’s room in the park and throw cold water on my face. I run my fingers through my greasy black hair. I look in the mirror. My face is sun burned. It is November and I’m sun burned in Manhattan. I check my belongings in my book bag. I still have clean clothes. I go into a stall and change. There is piss all over the floor and the toilet is clogged up. There is shit everywhere. All over America for that matter. I read a quick passage from Tropic of Cancer. Nothing has changed. Miller spoke the truth. Maybe America has always been this way? I just never realized it till I was confronted with the shit that is our land.

I walk out of the park past the protesters, leaving the musician behind, seeing couples holding hands. It is Novemeber and it’s 70 degrees in Manhattan. Take it while you can.

Published by:

dmseay

The writing is based on my surroundings and what I've been surrounded by. This language is coarse and politically incorrect; which I make no apologies for. These characters are not nice and to use any other dialogue would be disingenuine. That being said, I choose to roll the dice. dm seay

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