The Biggest of Apples

This is where I live:


Sometimes it can look beautiful, like it does there. It can be systematic and functional and gleaming. Sort of like magic. A real-life snowglobe. I can enjoy myself here. I can walk across the Brooklyn Bridge with:


(Adam)


(Tim Tim Cheroo)


(their friend, Sheila)


(and my friend, Zed.)

It can be a great night where I eat Mamoun's falafel in Greenwhich Village and party hardy all night and argue with Adam about the merits of the word "faggot." Needless to say, I took the side of that word having few merits. Adam took the grumpy, hard-headed, drunk baby side. Either way, it can be a night that goes by so fast that I forget that the city is full of trash and rain and cockroaches that scuttle out from the elevator's ventelation shaft. I forget that the construction in the apartment next door to mine will get going at about 7:30am. That the construction workers will whistle happly while they work. That I'll start 18 dreams that will all mush together each time the sledgehammer smacks the wall. Forget that I have no rug on my floor. That I miss my German roommate. That the chocolate Milka bears are running out.

And then, to come home like I did last night, and have Michelle tell me that she and her friend Scott had been held up at gunpoint, that the two dudes who pointed the guns at them ran off witih her purse and his bag, that she was scared and upset and pissed off.

Anyway, having visitors like Adam and Tim and Sheila make New York and the rest of the world a little more bearable. They make the gun pointers and the gleaming boxes seem less scary.

But the rain hasn't stopped for days...

Al