A Blues Kind of Morning

"Well I'm so worried, I don't know where to go."

Slept on the floor last night, but really I didn't fall asleep until early morning. Just me and a blanket and a bright red feather pillow placed carefully on under my back to keep my company. Well, there's the glass table on my left side too- but I think at this point even it's disappointed in me. I mean, I ran out of Windex and had to use.. pff.. all purpose cleaner to wipe it down when I cleaned this past Sunday. The streaks looked like they were left by a monster truck during a drag race. But no bother- there's always next Sunday.
The curtains are wide open, forgot to shut them last night, there were certainly more pressing concerns that occupied my mind. The dreary sky beamed in through the windows- if a sunny sky wakes you up by gently caressing you on the cheek, a dreary sky backhand slaps you across the mouth, telling you to "wake the fuck up, it's time to live with what you did." Oh how it stings so much more when you wake up in the morning and the first thing on your mind are the tunes you cried to sleep to. And cry I did- something I haven't done since I was 13- since I slept on that shag carpeted floor and fleas use to bite me up and down my arm and I cried like a baby because tomorrow I'd have to go to school with the same mustard-stained pants I wore the day before.
I didn't want to go to work, didn't have the energy to get up and fight through the sting in my stomach, a mix of nausea and that sharp pang, that Bernard Hopkins-style punch that hits you in the gut everytime you... remember? See, because you can forget for a little bit, while you're engrossed in data sets and spreadsheets, while you have conversations with your coworkers and you walk to lunch bunched together like ducks in flight formation. It's easy to forget when you allow something else to crowd into your mind. And then- you see something, hear something maybe, and its right back in that boxing ring and your memory has you in a corner and its pounding away at your lower torso and your chest and your face. And your heart.....
But get up I must, get up I got to. Too late to get there on time, but early enough where I can still be productive. Yeah, you got it, you can get through. Take it one day at a time, shoot one minute- your wounds are raw but they'll heal. Take a shower, iron your clothes, pack up your bag, step outside with some kind of authority, walk proud. And it works, you feel like you can, almost, just about.
And then the hit comes as you're putting on your haphazardly ironed shirt- the corner man inside your head is yelling "You put your guard down, son!" Slowly, you crumple back on to the sticky black leather couch, and all you want to do is take off your clothes, sit in your t-shirt and underwear, drink a case of beer and listenin to Howlin' Wolf, drinking until you can moan in the moonlight, in the daylight, and the twilight too.
Step outside my building, a strange mix of a day. 60 and raining, worried about slipping so I step gingerly, deliberately on to the slick concrete. I've never been this deliberate walking before, staring down intently on the ground, counting steps to myself, listening to the lovely sound of worn-in work shoes purposefully hitting the sidewalk. Anything to keep from getting hit again, occupy your mind, let everyone pass you by. At that moment, I'm probably the slowest person in the history of New York. My walk to the train station takes twice as long- every step I dangle on the precipice of self-induced agony. I step lightly to not fall over the edge.
On the train, no more walking- there to collect my thoughts. What to do, what to do? I pull out a book, "The Soul of Baseball," a most comforting book, just the right mix of upliftment and intellectual engagement. The train ride goes smoothly. At Queensboro Plaza I get up so an older Chinese lady can sit down- I wrap my hand around the pole between the two doors. Just standing and reading- it looks like I won this round.
"There's nothing like New York lonely." Just one of the gems that Buck O'Neill spouts in the first few pages of the book. Doesn't he know the truth. There ain't nothing like being lonely here, although it happens quite often. Movies and plays, sporting events, parks. All there for the taking, but even when they're free it comes at a price, the price of silence. But many times I was deliberate about it- a choice I made rather than one forced upon me. One that I am proud of and only a little bit difficult. Yeah, there's nothing like being lonely in New York.
Ain't nothing to do but sip apple cider at my desk and look over data, letting the soothing calm trickle down in to my stomach. My body warms up and between the spreadsheets, all I can think is that maybe I deserve the next hit that comes my way. The pain only lasts for a moment, maybe this time I'll be ready for it.