The Dawn 07.22.03

Again, among the grime and tossed buckets of water, with sunlight ominous and advancing on the 3rd and 4th stories of aged brick buildings once used as tenements, once over storefronts and not bars. Teams of Latino men wheel shopping carts in metallic silver or plastic blue, decorated with blue and black and happy face bags pulsing with empty soda cans as they walk.

Morning falls on Manhattan. Outside of the Sidewalk Café, Sunday morning. And people on the street have finally stopped making out.

I will miss the two girls in bunny ears vehemently trying to prolong a night’s worth of outdoor kissing. They were very cute and it was very much like watching television. Late night. HBO. Skinimax. You know what I’m talking about.

But I am as always a little ambivalent about “we” when I say things like “we were at Ace Bar/ Karma/ 2A/ Lush Lounge/ the “Deck”/ Mona’s” et cetera; we often includes a set of drunks whose conversation devolves into belligerences and stumbles and all of that malarkey that looks great on television but is less fun when you are repeatedly moving someone out of harm’s way.

That having been said, the drunk tank on legs functioned well this weekend; Nate, JoGo, and Trixie were in town from out west of the NYC, and there was some reminiscence but more forward thinking good times. Simply friends separated by spaces and not time.

Trix with her laughter and how much she is used to dirty boy-talk, JoGo much the same as when I lived with him, and Nate…well, it takes a few hours to get reacclimated to someone who has insults ready to hurl faster than you can load them up

Also, Gully fell asleep again. It was 7 am, Sunday morning, from an all night affair, but still.

Haylz was a bit under the likker but not bad. And Marla… I will be able to tell my kids about the passionate times we shared. Jeanne (a/k/a J-Z?), all button nose adorable, Chris, Chris from the night before (girl, you are a trip), a white female named Khadijah (I’ll never get over that one), et cetera, et cetera.

And at the end of it all, myself-Gully-Nate-Jeanne are up, eating, talking with obvious logic lapses; Nate drinks two espressos to “go to bed;” I don’t make any sense; Jeanne is less rapid fire and simply a smile.

Across the street, one remaining couple lock lips like they can cure their momma’s cancer, like Skylab might fall on them if they stop, like it’ll get them both published in Harper’s and the New York Times.

We collect the tired Gully from his spot, with another sleeping partygoer near his horizontal head. Our waitress is sweet and uniquely pretty, we bid her adieu. I help Gully to his apartment, he gives me a pound, drifts to his couch, drifts to sleep. Sunday morning, 7 am. I collect myself, get the morning newspaper and ride the long way home.