Answers

The morning after my back-to-back Big Orange nights, I had to rush to catch my bus to Boston. I did. I saw old friends and made new ones. It was great and super and fun and interesting, and I was exhausted and confused and sad and angry. What am I missing?

My surroundings were not changing me - Miami, Richmond, New York, Boston, Washington D.C., New Orleans, and Venice Beach - so where are my stinking answers?

This is a voice in my head during a hungover morning at Six Flags in Boston.

Now hold on here - you're telling me that you get to eat cheese fries and ride roller coasters for breakfast, and that makes you sad? Listen now and listen well. Accept your demise and live. Hold nothing back. Experiment, make mistakes, embarrass yourself, but do not cheat yourself out of this life.

And so I tried to feel demisable and unholdable, but I needed more words.

This is from a book that I bought at a bookstore/bar in D.C. by zig-zagging through the alphabetical but certainly non-linear streets:

A victim of God may,

Through learning adaption,

Become a partner of God.

A victim of God may,

Through forethought and planning,

Become a shaper of God.

Or a victim of God may,

Through shortsightedness and fear,

Remain God's victim,

God's plaything,

God's prey.

This is from a bar conversation in New Orleans:

You can take the drink, or the drink can take you *

(*replace drink with a noun of your choosing for applicability)

This is from a fortune cookie in Los Angeles:

Seek out the significance to your problem at this time. Try to understand.

So what are my plans? I still haven't found what I'm looking for. I know that I'm operating under the assumption that traveling this world will automatically change me. I don't have answers because I haven't formulated any questions. But there are times of the day when I know I'm close to my answer to this unspoken question.

Maybe I'll never find it. Maybe God's greatest gift really is that unanswered prayer. All I know is that giving up on this journey would be the worst. I've been traveling for three months now, and I can't see any reason to stop.

Urban Legends part 2 (finally!)

For this next round of stories, realize that the Big Orange has this special momentum. Yes, by buying a drink, you can become part of this Big Orange living organism; it's this wonderful, writhing mass that can't be halted, a beautiful, beneficial, self-aware cancer – I couldn't wait to be consumed.

The primary staging site was a dimly lit bar called Ding Dong's. This was my third visit, and it was a Monday, although I had thought it was a Tuesday until that morning.

I had made plans based on this wrong-day assumption for seeing a friend's band play in Brooklyn and then catching an early-morning bus to Boston. When I called the Brooklyn friend and realized that it was Monday, I was initially shocked but then overjoyed. None of my plans had been affected, but I had been awarded an extra day in New York by the gods of forgetfulness.

I spent the morning and early afternoon exploring Central Park before my internal alarm clock went off – 5 o'clock, extra day with no responsibilities, time to get shitfaced. I've been good about drinking respectable amounts at respectable hours of the day, but there are some nights where I decide that it's time to drink. This post is about two such back-to-back nights.

First night, Ding Dong's, the bartender there is the same lady who wrote me directions last Friday so that I could find my way to the Brazilian girl (I tend to go to a bar about two hours before a date and grab two drinks; I'm not sure if that's healthy, but it's worked so far for me). I start off with the can and a shot any time special and thank the bartender for her spectacular directions, which I actually only ended up looking at long enough to admire her pretty handwriting.

I tell her the ping-pong-ball-fire-escape story. She says something to the effect of "well, that's New York for ya" and tells me her name is Missy. I wonder if that's her real name or just her bartender alter ego. She works in real estate during the day and tends bar at night. Missy has an athletic body and generous breasts; she has an open, flat, mischievous face that somehow makes me think that she was really into riding horses until late sophomore year of high school. She is constantly moving between the bar and the storage cellar on the sidewalk and asking me to watch the merchandise.

On one return visit, Missy comes back trailing a heavenly scent. I mention it after switching from can-and-shot specials to rum and coke. She starts complaining about how she has smoked herself dry, and a gentleman at the bar, who seems to be a regular, hands her a small baggie. Oh yeah, there are other people at the bar; I suppose that I'm somewhat focused on Missy.

Yes, it isn't just me and a bartender alone in New York City, as my egotistical inattention to setting may lead you to believe. Yes, there are interesting odds and ends scattered about the establishment, especially behind the bar. My three favorite items include a sketch of a big-breasted woman with a marvelous fro on an orange poster covered in signatures, a square enclave in the brick wall with green lighting that probably houses a leprechaun, and a picture of a three-breasted but very muscular and blue alien shouting and wearing a pharaoh’s cap. Do you feel more grounded now, or would you like me to elaborate on the ass crack of the old guy playing pool across the room?

Anyway, about fifteen minutes later, four people, including Missy and myself, are standing in the door of Ding Dong's and smoking a well-rolled joint. Missy goes back to tend bar before the joint is finished. A black kid, probably no older than fifteen, is being escorted by a beefy Hispanic man with a buzz cut. Perhaps the beefy man smells the remnants of the joint (which is now finished, crushed, and rolled into an unremarkable paper ball), or perhaps he just wants an audience. Either way, he sits the boy down on the curb just past us and begins talking.

“Man, oh man. When I found him there were four of five kids beating his ass. I mean hitting him with bikes and shit. I just walked in and broke that shit up,” he says.

His tone is so earnest that I feel like I need to produce a response. “Wow, why were they beating him with bikes?” I say.

“Shit, I don't know. Why were they beating you with bikes, son?” he asks the kid. The kid holds the side of his head and doesn't answer.

“I mean, if he wanted me to kick their asses, then I could do that. Just pay me two thousand dollars and it's settled. I used to be in the Marines. This is nothing,” Beef-Marine states. I can see that he believes himself. I wonder what he does for a living.

The kid is rocking a nice, grey pea coat. I think people call them pea coats. My ex and my Mom bought one for me at some point. I can see how they're fashionable and what not, but an insecure part of me thinks that they're a bit effeminate. Beef-Marine goes into Ding Dong's to use the bathroom, so I start telling the kid about my confusion over pea coats.

“They took my other five hundred dollar jacket,” the kid mutters.

“Whoa, why would they do that? Should we try to get it back?” I ask.

“No, it's OK. I'm not from the same neighborhood. They found out when I came up here to visit a girl,” he says. Beef-Marine returns and promises to escort the kid safely to a subway station. I wander back into the bar and wonder why everyone in New York City has been so nice to me so far, especially after hearing about someone getting beaten with bicycles. Perhaps I just came from the right place. No, it has to be the not wearing a pea coat, my drunken-high mind supplies.

Missy is about to finish her shift. She says that she'll close my tab and let me decide where to go from there. She also buys me another rum and coke. I take that as a sign and ask her where she's going from here. She smiles wanly and says that she's meeting someone – cue in the big Swede, whose name I will never remember for certain.

The big Swede sits next to me, and Missy puts in some good words for me. At first, I believe that the Swede's name is Hankshoo, that uncertain moment between a sneeze and a handkerchief. Han-something is pale, dark-haired and wearing glasses; she also has on some sort of sparkly, black shower cap.

You know how you can hear a word plenty of times, but it doesn't take on that extra dimension until it's staring you in the face? The word in this case was “bitties.” Han____ has a few artsy tattoos, and one that looks like a poke-and-stick on her left breast. I don't pretend not to stare at the last one. I also show her my peacock feather tattoo – I've come to like showing it, having to pull up my shirt and have some stranger stare at my back while I don't have to say a word. Han____ strokes my spine and murmurs something. When I put my shirt back down and turn around our knees are touching. I'm told about an open relationship, and we start kissing. At one point, I think I pull down the front of Han___'s shirt to see the rest of her tattoo. I can't remember what it was of , but I'd like to say that it was a stick figure playing a didgeridoo. We eventually decide to go to a different bar.

“Hey, hey – I'm so sorry, but your name is Hanoo, right?” I ask.

“No” she says. I'm too drunk to decipher her tone.

“OK, please don't tell me. It's one word, two syllables, describes you, I mean is your name.” At this point, I was playing a one-man game of charades. “Got it! It's Han-uhhhh. No, it's Hanlee, Hadley, Hannah, Helen?”

Han____ laughs a little and tells me her name again. I forget her answer and decide to buy us more drinks. I ask her name again before we are through with that round, but I feel bad for asking, so I immediately start guessing before she can speak. I shock myself into silence when one of my guesses comes out as 'Han-Solo.'

When I order the next round of drinks and look up, Han____ is no longer there. I continue drinking. I wake up on the futon in the apartment that I'm staying at.

My former roommate and his current ex-Israeli sniper roommate tell me that I came in talking about this “amazing redhead who had red hair and was amazing.” A bartender had walked me back, even coming up the elevator with me.

I use my online banking history to retrace my steps. There are charges for two bars whose names I don't recognize as well as for a Mexican restaurant. The last charge is for Ding Dong's, so I suppose that I ended up where I started. Also, I can't find my debit card in my wallet.

There is a crucial window of time in between being drunk and hungover. If you are lucky to wake up while that window is still open, then you have two main options that are not necessarily mutually exclusive: 1) Rehydrate 2) Keep drinking. I decide to take the first option and supplement it by taking a long, leisurely jog through Central Park. If you ever find yourself looking through that same window, then try a jog too. I swear that it helps.

Near the end of my jog, I stop off near Ding Dong's – they aren't serving, but their door is open at noon. A guy who looks like the owner is standing behind the bar, puttering around. He listens to my debit card predicament and tries to call the bartender from last night. No answer, and the dozen plus cards that have been left over fail to match mine. I thank him and jog back to the apartment. My former roommate's roommate buzzes me in and has to leave shortly afterward. I slump in sweaty privacy against the futon and write this quick post called “When I Get a Little Scared.” My Pandora radio station starts playing a song half an hour later with that title as part of its lyrics. I decide not to mull over whether or not this is too convenient and give myself over to this alcohol-induced, endorphin-fueled joy.

After showering, I find my debit card deep in one of my pant pockets. Wrapped around it is a receipt from Ding Dong's with the message “sleeping on the bar” in pen. New York City, the people have returned my drunken embrace – it's not a breeding ground for sly opportunists but rather a gathering point for decent, fascinating souls ready to aid you, provided that you can catch their attention.

After the run, the shower, and the rediscovered debit card, it is now Tuesday for real, so it's time to take the subway and meet my friend and his band in Brooklyn. I'll call this friend BLT, since he's pretty much named after a sandwich anyway. I pride myself that I don't get lost on the trains once – sure, I have to ask for directions, but I don't get lost or cut open my hand again. I make it to a Brooklyn station and wait inside, since BLT has informed that he'll be there in about 15 minutes.

A plump, Hispanic woman sits next to me and asks if I know Jesus. She also hands me a pamphlet with a very handsome Jesus on the front. I have nowhere to go, and unless someone seems to be preaching hate, I'll usually take the Elvis line of approach to religion (“I don't want to miss out on heaven due to a technicality”). She is a Jehovah's Witness, says Colin Powell is a Brother, and starts talking to me about the Universe and the brain.

“I love the science – it is beautiful. And the brain can learn so much about the Universe. Do you believe in the angels?” she asks. I think about my otherworldly snipers and their unloaded rifles.

“Yeah, I do, but who knows what form they will take. Think about stars – they could be angels, and when some of them explode, there is the possibility for new life, a sort of sacrifice,” I say. I'm borrowing heavily from "A Wrinkle in Time" for that one. The lady nods and starts flipping through my pamphlet for me. She is about to speak when I notice a familiar pompadour trailing past the station window. “I've got to go, I'll try reading it sometime,” I say – I still haven't.

BLT is stopped at a street intersection looking about. I call his name and we hug. He leads me back a few blocks to where the two other members of his band are waiting with their gear outside a small, black car. I'll say that it was a Toyota Camry, although I'm horrible with car brands. BLT is the drummer. The shortish, fast-talking guy with prematurely baldness but a cool bowler hat is the lead singer and guitarist. The slim, red haired man with the fanned-up hair and neatly trimmed goatee is the bassist.

I help them cart their gear up to BLT's apartment. The floor of the apartment is littered with useful items like dollar bills, partially smoked cigarettes, magazines, books, essays, and possibly musical compositions. My delayed hangover progresses to the weak-in-the-knees point, but luckily, BLT has two big bottles of Stone IPA, one of which is for me. As the band rehearses, I get out my netbook and try to finish an article on water conditioning contractors. What the fuck is a water conditioning contractor? Despite that handicap, I somehow get the article done as the band hits a song with an intimidating bass beat and demonic drumming that blows my mind – I think it's called “delusions of grandeur.” I start hollering and clapping because the band is separated from me by a room – BLT's apartment consists of a kitchen (where I am working), a bedroom (where most of the dollar bills and partial cigarettes can be found), and a backroom (where the band is rocking).

The band comes to the kitchen for a smoke break. I lean out the window to avoid the fumes and inspect the Brooklyn backyards. They look very similar to the Richmond backyards – irregular grass, promising gadgets in disrepair, small gardens – a clothesline would not look out of place and one yard is covered completely by a blue, plastic tarp. Some children somewhere are screaming about something new and exciting.

“Dude, let's got to the roof, grab a few brewskis, and then head to the show.” This is the lead singer referring to his apartment, which apparently has easy roof access.

“No, we'll grab some drinks and check out some girls before the show,” BLT insists.

“We'll find us some filthy pigs!” The red haired bassist joins in. I'm not sure what filthy pigs are, but his enthusiasm makes me laugh.

“I knew you guys before you were big!” I snap a picture of them. The picture has since been accidentally erased, but the gesture still stands. I have also since forgotten the name of the band and the two band members (I'll call the singer/guitarist Mark and the bassist Alex). Regardless, we hopped in the car, with Alex and me in the back balancing two guitar cases across our knees. After we've passed some empty stretches of street with elaborate graffiti and barbed wire fences, Alex points out some women on the street (New York women have had the classiest, beautiful elegance so far), and I come to learn what the term “filthy pigs” means. I know it should be horribly sexist, but there's something oddly admiring, charming, endearing to it. He also talks about “chowing on box”, and it takes me a while to figure that one out.

We arrive at a cash bar with a sizable skater crowd, and yes, they have can-and-shot specials. I buy a round for the band, and we drink, watching the filthy pigs waddle past. The band has to watch their drinking before the show, but I have no such qualms. By the time we make it to the place of their performance, I've become the slightly drunk roadie/groupie/hype-man. The next place is also a cash bar, and yes, they have can-and-shot specials too. I call a number and activate my emergency blue debit card, which will inadvertently save me from following through on a bad decision in New Orleans a month later.

The band crushes their show, and I go wild during “delusions of grandeur,” forgetting to film the song on my camera. More songs, more drinks, more bands, and we go to lead singer Mark's apartment with the easy roof access. BLT has caught up to me in terms of drinking after the set, and we go on the roof. The night is evolving into a series of blurs punctuated by moments of clarity. I don't remember how high the building to which this bannister-less roof belonged was, but I do recall running to its center and doing shoulder rolls – left, right, backwards – and then coming up dizzy with my camera to try capture that moment. The picture is a series of smudged, orange lights, tracers that could've been from anywhere.

BLT and I eventually take the train back to his Brooklyn apartment. I remember somehow getting locked out of his apartment while he passed out and knocking on all his upstairs neighbors' doors before speaking to an incredulous tenant named Guillermo for several minutes. I don't remember stopping at a Taqueria with BLT, but the guacamole smeared on my shirt after I wake up on my air mattress is irrefutable evidence. But the clearest moment of that night occurred right after my third pair of sandals broke.

This third pair of sandals, old leather birkenstocks, was from my Miami friend. The first pair had also belonged to him, but they broke after only ten minutes of walking. I bought my second pair from a dollar store and the right sandal strap pulled out during a night of bar hopping. Someone was nice enough to give me one of their flip-flops, but they came back with the wrong foot. I wore two left-footed sandals, one several sizes too big, before my friend came through with the latest, more durable sandals. To make a pointless story even longer, I had taken to wearing those sandals regularly during my trip due to a sock shortage.

Anyway, the cross strap of one of the sandals snaps off while we're walking to the train. Somehow, I take that as a sign to cross the tracks. The subway is empty except for a woman across the tracks. BLT thinks I'm joking about crossing until I jump down.

BLT: Third rail – watch out for the third rail!

Me: Oh, right the voltage. It's the silvery one, right?

BLT: Yeah I think so – just don't step on any of the rails.

Me: And there's another third rail on the tracks going in the opposite direction. But now it's sort of like a fourth rail or a first rail, depending on where you start.

BLT: You made it!

Me: I didn't think about having to come back

Woman across the tracks: There's a train coming soon. Get off the tracks, you dumb ass.

And that's where I'd like to leave myself in the Big Orange, walking barefoot through rodenticide and skipping over that third rail, incredibly stupid but unconcerned over incoming trains or approaching disasters.

Rapture

Folks were saying that the world was going to end tomorrow. I decided that this short-sighted philosophy could excuse a last, wild night.

When you think about it, the Rapture is satisfyingly violent – death, sorrow, and supernatural suffering all wrapped up into one, neat, Apocalyptic scenario. Certain people will be subject to murder, torture, and starvation while others will have privilege, power, and peace. I can't imagine such a world, a place where entire countries wallow in disease and poverty while other countries rise above it all... well, at least we had tonight before that would come to pass.

Tonight had me gliding towards the French Quarter. I wasn't sure what I was going to do, but I knew that I needed to get out. I could feel myself reverting back to my reclusive ways, where I'd lock myself away in the apartment, growing more and more restless, contemplating whether I should go out and get food but feeling this weight, this panicky inertia. The last time I'd felt like this had been when I was living in Chicago, and that feeling would often translate into my darting outside for some booze and food before rushing back inside and drink-gorging myself over a video game. I don't know where it comes from or if it necessarily needs a source. I hadn't felt that way since the start of my travels, so it surprised me when it came back. I think it's a paradoxical, lonely-but-wishing-to-be-left-alone mindset that sneaks up on me.

But I was in New Orleans. Tomorrow was the Rapture. I couldn't stand for that.

I jumped on a streetcar and rode it to the end of the line at Canal street. I sat near the front and recalled my first streetcar ride a week earlier and how I had met a stranger, a journalist moving to Massachusetts, who had lent me borrow a book called A Confederacy of Dunces. He had also recommended a 24 laundromat/punk bar near the French Quarter called Checkpoint Charlie's. I decided that would be my pre-Rapture destination as the streetcar conductor halted his route to pick up some cigarettes from a gas station. No one left on board complained about the conductor's temporary, smoking absence, since a random stop suited the leisurely inefficiency of that hulking, rusty red, metal car filled with wooden seats and sliding windows.

After disembarking at Canal, I headed along Royal toward Esplanade. That lonely-leave-me-alone feeling started to evaporate, and I walked with a little swagger. Part of this newfound confidence came from having found my unbreakable glasses of the Apocalypse, which I thought News Orleans had devoured. Recovering my beautiful glasses from underneath the futon in my little brother's apatment earlier that night meant the I could drink more and see farther.

Along a particularly empty part of the sidewalk, a woman walked towards me with a little bit of a stumble. She was a few inches shorter than me with smooth, ebony skin; a narrow, regal nose; long, straightened hair; perky, natural breasts; wide, shapely hips; and a heart-shaped butt that I could've ridden down the Mississippi.

“Hey – how are you doing tonight?” she asked in a friendly, soothing voice. She didn't quite stop her passage but spun halfway around, swaying her hips ever so slightly. I didn't quite stop either and leaned awkwardly while rocking back-and-forth on my heels. We had entered into the opening movements of a negotiable mating dance.

“Hi, I'm doing alright. How about yourself?” I replied.

“Good – I still have the rest of the night too – just finished hanging out with my sister at the bar where she works. But I was going to head up to this place for drinks that I know,” she said. I had been worried that she was super-drunk, which would have explained her friendliness. The steady way she spoke and held herself convinced me that she was sober. I could keep talking with this exceptionally friendly girl and not feel like a creeper.

“Sounds nice – I was heading to this 24 hour laundromat/punk bar that someone told me about,” I said.

“Oh, so is that what you got planned tonight? I'm Chanel by the way.” By this time, she had resumed walking. I turned around and walked along on her left side.

“I'm Robert, and it was just an idea, not like I really have anything planned.” We shook hands with the introduction, and she let her hand hang limp in mine while her fingers brushed my wrist. Her dainty mouth puckered and she exhaled; her chest heaved with her next inhale. I watched and throbbed. “How about I join you for some drinks?” I asked.

“OK, I've only been to this place a few times before, but I think I know where I want to go,” she said. I walked beside her, our elbows brushing occasionally. She told me how this was her last night in New Orleans. She lived in Memphis and was here to help her little sister move. She was 26, had two drinks earlier, and wanted to stay out for a couple more hours and a couple more drinks.

The first place we considered was Jimani's, but Chanel decided that it was too crowded when she had thought it would be laid-back. We walked into another place called Dixie's Divas – the name of the place was advertised with a vertical neon sign that had a girl's side profile with the helpful tag “Girls” underneath. We walked inside the dimly-lit dump and sat down at a wide wooden bar while a Hispanic stripper with a wonderful body but worn out face crawled past on her hands and knees. There were two other, semi-attractive strippers walking the floor, and it was the clientele that made me wish I hadn't found my glasses just quite yet.

The bar patrons were mostly men in their early 30s to late 60s, but age didn't stand out as much as their collective, slumped, meek, sadly hopeful demeanor. I wouldn't have stayed in that place for five seconds if it hadn't been for Chanel – she looked even better sitting down, her posture arching her butt and pressing her breasts tight against the fabric of her shirt. I ordered some Grey Goose with a splash of Sprite for her while I got Maker on the rocks

We talked about her family – she was indignant when a teacher failed to help her nephew, so she tutored him on her own. She had a goddaughter that looked just like her and knew how to behave. She showed me a picture of her and her sister hugging on a beach. I started talking about my younger brother. We stopped talking about family when the Hispanic stripper stopped her crawl along the bar in front of us – she began pumping her pelvis against an invisible crotch.

“You should give her something,” Chanel said. I thought that was generous of her, so I handed Chanel a dollar and took out one for myself. I'd been to strip clubs before with my ex-girlfriend, and I liked to watch her proffer the dollar first so that I could follow the angle of approach and pick the same region. Otherwise, I would fumble in giving the stripper her dollar; imagine a drunk trying to smooth out a worn bill to use on a undulating vending machine with too many options.

Chanel tucked the bill into the left side strap of the topless stripper's G-string. I tried to do the same but forgot to fold my bill, so it slid back out onto the bar. I crumpled it hastily and wadded it back into the strap – the stripper's skin was surprisingly chilly but smooth. The stripper took her hands off the bar and rose to her knees before leaning backwards until her butt touched the bar. She did a reverse crawl until she was past Chanel and me; she stopped when a tall old bespectacled man wearing a red-white checkered shirt came up and started putting her left bare breast through a variety of different stress tests. I noticed that my dollar had fallen back out again. I looked at Chanel, and we began to speak about education.

“I used to be in nursing, but I'm doing biotechnology now,” Chanel said. I was impressed. I started talking about how the maneuverability of the common household fly far transcends that of a helicopter and how ants may have been the first farmers with leaf fragments and fungus. I sensed her losing interest and also noticed how she rarely made eye contact.

“So you used to be in nursing? I had a few surgeries in the past few months, got to interact with some nurses,” I said.

“Oh, surgeries for what?” Chanel asked.

“Cancer,” I said shamelessly – if I'm losing the interest of a beautiful woman the night before the Rapture, then yes, yes I will play that card.

“Wow, what type of cancer?” she replied. We made brief eye contact before she resumed looking a little past my right cheek.

“Uh, the Lance Armstrong type,” I said. This prompted a quizzical eyebrow raise from Chanel. “I had a tumor on my right ball, but they caught it... and everything still works fine,” I blurted. I decided that post-Rapture I would not tell any of my potential hook-ups about my redesigned unit. I'm so sick of adding that cheesy disclaimer. From now on, I'll just wait until we're both naked. If there are questions, then I'll answer them from there.

“Wow, well you're fine now, right?” Chanel asked.

“Yeah – what do you think about scars?” I replied, determined to milk at least some capital from having to drop the disclaimer.

“Ugh, no, no scars,” she said. This time, it was my turn to give her a quizzical look. “I mean, it was fine when I was a nurse, but now I can't deal with blood or any of that. I don't know why. Maybe later would be fine,” she added.

“Hmmm yeah, I have a good-sized one, but it doesn't look too bad,” I said. There was an awkward silence, during which I got us another round of drinks. Each round was about $15 plus tip, so I was beginning to get low on cash. I asked the saggy, artificially blonde bartender if they took cards and was told that it was $50 minimum tab. She pointed to an ATM in a dark corner, furthest from the door. Chanel was looking in that direction too, although I wasn't sure when she had turned her head.

As we went through our drinks, we talked about my education. I felt pretty snazzy telling her that I had a B.S. in mathematical biology and was getting a master's in creative writing. I also did my little trick where she told me her phone number once while I memorized it. She clapped her hands lightly and touched my knee when I put the number in my phone and hers rang. Momentum was lost when she asked me about my plans for the future; I started to make something up before shrugging. I toyed with the possibility of making a Rapture joke about not needing plans, but I wasn't feeling smug enough.

We started talking about our bodies. Chanel was worried that her mid-section was too plump; I told that it was just right for wrapping your arm around and showed her. I kissed her cheek; she giggled but didn't turn to meet my lips. We'd only had two drinks, so I headed towards the distant ATM while Chanel followed. I needed her there because it was too dark to even see the number pad to put in my PIN. She held her phone to light my way as I typed in the digits. Then began the longest ATM processing time that I've ever seen and ever hope to witness. Chanel and I had been shifting and talking there for two minutes when the Hispanic stripper came over to join us. She was no longer bare-breasted but wore a top that must have been designed for prepubescent girls. I noticed her only after she wriggled into the crook of my right arm, her left forearm brushing against my crotch while she pulled Chanel in closer with her right hand.

Chanel didn't seem to mind, so we began a linked arm ATM dance that revolved slowly, three sets of eyes keeping track of the processing status. Another two minutes later, the screen shifted to my checking and saving account options. I withdrew $40 when Chanel beseeched me to give our stripper friend $10. We resumed our huddle and made our way to the far end of the bar. Chanel gave me the stripper's name, which I promptly forgot.

I thought for an instant that it was odd that Chanel knew the stripper's name, but that thought vanished when she (Chanel) grabbed my crotch. I slipped a hand from the back between the stripper's legs and traced her wetness with my index finger. She giggled and started kissing my neck while inserting herself between Chanel and me. Chanel slipped off part of the stripper's top and kissed her nipple before drawing back and stroking my hair while I did the same. The stripped writhed between us as my mouth lost contact and started grinding against the seat of my pants. I took a step back for balance and bumped into one of the seated bar patrons, who I realized had been watching us this whole time. Before I could apologize, he slunk off a few seats down the bar. By this time the stripper had pulled down the front of Chanel's shirt and was kissing her dark, silver-dollar sized nipples. I wrapped my arms around her hips with the stripper sandwiched in between and added my own kisses. I may have nudged the stripper a bit to my left side as I started kissing Chanel on the lips. Her thin, shapely lips massaged mine as we resumed our clockwise rotation. My left hand was now the one between the stripper's legs, and I jammed my right hand down the front of Chanel's dark jeans, arching forward to feel the first, fine lines of peach fuzz. Chanel and the stripper were now making out.

“We should go upstairs – they aren't going to keep letting us be like this at the bar,” Chanel said. I turned halfway around to see who 'they' were, and my hand became awkwardly wedged in her pants

“Yeah, $240 for both of us for the hour – you get to do whatever the fuck you want,” the stripper chimed in. I had never been in a threesome before; I wouldn't have gone with the stripper on her own; I was infatuated with Chanel and didn't mind getting to be with her as part of a package deal.

Parts of my mind had been coming to this conclusion several times earlier in the evening, but by now, at 2AM with three drinks and my hands in between two strangers' legs, it was undeniable that both of them were prostitutes. Chanel didn't have a sister, wasn't from Memphis, and didn't give two shits about nursing or biotechnology. And yet and yet and yet – so what? The Rapture was coming, and I didn't have any flight plans.

I freed my hands and clawed my blue debit card out from my wallet. The previous female bartender had been replaced by a saggy man with genuine white hair that covered his scalp and face in a style that seems to have been popular since the middle ages. He reminded me of a past undergraduate humanities professor, except he looked as if he'd be able to use a sawed-off shotgun with minimal regret. I handed him my debit card and ID before resuming my rotating dance with the prostitutes. I wasn't sure how much money was left on the card, since I mostly used it to store additional funds before transferring them to my primary bank account.

“It was declined,” the saggy bartender said. He spoke as if I had taken a crap on the bar before asking for a free drink.

“Try it again,” Chanel demanded. The bartender grumbled but obliged. We kept our dance, but I began to lose my rigidity as it sunk in that I was trying to pay money for something that was supposed to be passionate and spontaneous – rapturous.

“It's declined. It's no good.” The bartender slammed a small clipboard on the bar, and I slipped my ID and blue debit card back into my pocket without putting them in my wallet.

“You know what – if you have $200, then just wait an hour. We've got you,” Chanel said.

“I guess I can check my balance,” I told the prostitutes halfheartedly. We went back to the ATM, and I began to understand why it took so damn long to process.

“You're going get so hard with two girls wanting your dick,” Chanel said while the stripper hovered nearby, not quite joining the dance. I wasn't hard any longer despite her groping. There was this hunger, this greed that seemed pointless with the end of days coming. The ATM finally relented and showed my balance as $75.39. The immediate disinterest from both women was palpable.

“How about you go see if your sister is off work?” I asked Chanel.

“Yeah, go see if your sister is off of work,” the stripper said. She winked stupidly at Chanel. I was led back to the bar and told that the stripper would take care of me. Chanel left – I ignored the stripper and waited at the bar for several minutes because I noticed two guys outside, decidedly not looking at me – one of them had also been at the door of Dixie's Divas when I had come in.

I finally left and went in what I thought was the opposite direction that Chanel had headed. The two guys continued to not look at me and didn't follow. I decided to keep to my original plan of going to Checkpoint Charlie's, the 24-hour laundromat/punk bar, although it was about eight blocks away. I sniffed the fingers of both of my hands along the way. The left didn't smell of anything, so I concentrated on the right, which had a promising, musky, cinnamon odor.

When I made it to Checkpoint Charlie's, there were half a dozen people there, despite it being 3AM. I started speaking to the bartender about what had happened to me earlier, and he laughed as he got me a beer. I made sure that my fingers did not touch the cup's rim as I drank. A heavy percentage of the people there were the level of drunk that usually warrants a bartender refusing to give service. After someone tried to shake one of my hands, I remembered that I should probably wash them.

The bathroom was of the gas station variety, one urinal, one toilet, and a small sink. The sink was clogged, filled to the brim with stagnant water. I turned the faucet on and slid my hands a few inches above the overflowing basin – there was no soap in the bathroom.

I went back to the bar and ordered a glass of Wild Turkey on the rocks. The bartender was one of the generous types that seems more common in New Orleans; he filled the small, plastic cup to the brim. I went back to the sink and spit some of the Wild Turkey carefully on my fingertips – problem solved. I decide to take a tour of Checkpoint's – past the bathrooms was the laundromat, not a gimmick but a dozen washers and dryers that seemed fully functioning. Coming back out, I passed by the bar area once more, which had a kitchen behind and several tables spread out over the extra floor. On the side opposite the laundromat was a raised section that housed a pool table and several windows looking out into the street beyond. Coming back down the stairs, I noticed a jukebox. Yeah, I could get my pre-Rapture drinking done here.

I stuck with Wild Turkey and sent Chanel three text messages:

1. Thanks for the experience – told you I was a writer and sorry that I already knew the card would be declined. Sorry I couldnt resist :)

2. Also – tell your friend not to wink – sort of gave it away. Have fun.

3. One last thing – youre beautiful and smart – you can do better.

By the third message, I was on my third glass of Wild Turkey, and my pickings at Checkpoint were looking slim. There was one kind of cute brunette with small boobs whose nipples showed through her thin, white shirt, but the bartender knew her and wouldn't stop chatting her up. There was also a withered blonde with a decent body, but she looked more worn out than the stripper from earlier.

I realized by then that my blue debit card and remaining cash had been stolen, probably by Chanel. I ordered another Wild Turkey and started bumming cigarettes. Elevated cancer risks would not matter post-Rapture. The only thing that mattered was getting laid, and finally she came.

She was a redhead, thin but curvy with a complexion and demeanor that reminded of a girl I've had a crush on for years now. She wasn't beautiful, but she certainly topped anyone else in the bar. I don't know what we said, but we started kissing. The redhead led me back to the laundromat, and I started fingering her on top of a dryer. I paused momentarily when I noticed that the sun was up outside. She laughed at my confusion and helped me close out my tab at the bar.

“How many condoms do you have?” she asked.

“I only have one,” I said.

“That's not going to be enough,” she replied. When we got back to her place, we soon found out that she was right. We had collapsed on the couch near her door and gone missionary for a bit. She never asked me about my scars, and I never volunteered any information, which was just fine.

“So what if I were to fuck you as is?” I asked, tapping my cock lightly against her inner thigh.

“Then, I'd have to tell you that I have Herpes,” she replied. Something in my expression must've annoyed her because she sat up. “I haven't had an outbreak in, like a year, and it's almost nonexistent. People make a big deal about it, but it really is overrated. You probably won't get it if you do. I just told you so you can decide,” she said.

“So there's not much of a risk, but it's a possibility?” I asked.

“Yes.” I had already had a Herpes scare earlier in my travels, although I'd been safe. Was this an opportunity to overcome yet another pre-Rapture fear?

“Fuck it.” I slid deep inside, thrusting and bit my lip when her hips began answering back. We took it upstairs to her bed, which had a wonderfully creaky metal frame. One or both of us fell asleep for a few hours. I woke up rock-hard, and the real fun began. We didn't screw around with any positions other than missionary, doggy style, and her flat on her stomach while I grabbed the bed frame for leverage. Every time she came, she'd squeeze so hard that it'd literally push me out. I kept at it for as long as possible, trying to make the best out of a bad decision.

As we were recuperating and considering another round, I remembered that I needed to pick my little brother up from the airport. The redhead agreed to drive me back to his apartment, and she was nice enough to drive back to her place when we were halfway there. I had forgotten my unbreakable glasses, which I had only found the night before. We found them lodged under the couch next to the condom wrapper. We exchanged numbers outside my destination, although I knew I wouldn't seek her out again.

I hopped in the shower and began singing while washing my genitals repeatedly. I don't know the lyrics to very many songs, but a few stick out to me, such as “Because I got the Virgin Mary, assuring me that I'm not going to Hell and “Well if I go to Hell, then I hope I burn well.” I beatboxed and tested out each tone, poised somewhere between acceptance and defiance. Why is it that, when we sense something horrible in our future, we have to self-destruct to feel invincible?

Before leaving the shower, I felt for that slight discontinuity at the end of my SuperBall's top vein insertion point. My growing end-of-the-world lump hadn't been Raptured up, and it shifted underneath my thumb. And my heart no longer skipped a beat. And my throat didn't close up. And my breathing remained steady.

After picking up my brother an hour late from the airport, I collapsed on the futon near his door. I slept for fourteen hours but woke intermittently. The shadows outside the door failed to resolve themselves into a pair of horns, and the Rapture passed while the consequences of the previous night began to sink in.

Negative versus positive, benign versus malignant, unspeakable Heaven versus unfathomable Hell - perhaps it all starts right here on Earth, a progression of unknown speed, this fine but blurry line with no discernible discontinuity. There's a capacity to lean in one direction or the other, but there's trouble brewing in that dull, disorienting, in-between state, a false rapture and its concrete aftermath.

Here's the Catch...help me graduate?

I've been traveling and dropping off these dinky business cards that I got for free. Part of the reasoning behind that is I'm trying to do an accelerated field study so that I can graduate from my MFA program in December.

The field study has something to do with worlds within worlds, possibly similar to fractals. My previous mentor who invited me on to the project has created a few of these worlds in a series of published and upcoming books called the Julia Set.

OK, so in one of these worlds she has created, there is a character called Kathryn Dow, who lives somewhere in Iowa in a town rife with myth. Kathryn finds a book that one of her relatives had written about finding this entry point or portal in to another world. She rewrites the book and publishes it.

I've created a character named Kyle Venn, a high school sophomore who discovers Kathryn Dow after he reads a Choose Your Own Adventure book that leads him to discover some of her work. Oh yeah, and there are goblins or otherworld dwellers somehow thrown into all of this.

To make this as straightforward as possible, we're working within a world where characters create other worlds that may then lead them to find other worlds within their own world. OK, maybe that's not so straightforward.

Right now, I'm in the process of writing that CYOA book that Kyle Venn discovers. Actually, I'm in the process of trying to get as many people as possible to help me write this story.

My main goal is for people, who may or may not identify as writers, to remember that they are storytellers. I want to get people involved in interactive fiction, to realize that they can create as many damn worlds as they please, to start a collective imagination orgasm!

So where do we get off? Well, that depends on you. I really do need your help on this and would be honored if you decide to participate. Think of it as charity work for a cancer kid. If you're interested, then check out the site that I've created to get us started.

If you're worried that what you'll write may be boring or crappy, then I love you all the more for contributing. That's sort of the point - to not feel too self-conscious about creating, to tell a story any way you damn well please and have fun doing it. I'll be eternally grateful if you wanted to contribute even a few sentences, since there are no limitations on length.

OK, I'll stop sounding too desperate. E-mail me if you have any questions or if you want dibs on certain decisions (the dibs part will make sense once you visit the Twisted Tale site). Thanks!

Never Ever Ever

OK, so I know I wrote an “Urban Legends Part 1” - believe me, there is definitely a Part 2 coming that has to do with more roof tops and subway tracks, but I feel a bit out of time. All of these posts have a time lag. For example, as I've written this, I am back in Chicago to pick up my boxed belongings from my former apartment. However, I have this one done for whatever reason, and I'd like to post it for any lovely readers who keep reading. It takes place as I'm about to leave Boston, anyway:

I met a wise man and his name was George.

I first encountered him while walking to Boston's South Station to catch my 10 PM MegaBus back to D.C. I felt tired, out of place, and sad like I had lost something but couldn't remember what had been lost. I sized up other people on the street, hoping for a reference point, some flaw to make me feel better about myself.

George had combed-back white hair, a shiny forehead, a huge gap of missing top row teeth, and bulbous blue eyes. I was walking a few steps behind him with my luggage as a line of three people, strung out across the sidewalk, approached us from the opposite direction. Rather than sidestep or angle himself between the group, George fluttered his hands in front of his face as if a giant moth had just attacked his head. My luggage and I followed him through the gap he had created in the group.

Within a few seconds, I was side by side with him. He muttered something and kept pace with me. I cooed and grunted something soothing. He hummed back and asked “are you lost?”

“I don't know,” I lied and sped up my pace.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO,” George yelled. A sane-looking pedestrian crossing the street laughed at him. I couldn't smile – George's bellow sounded desolate, lonely, forsaken.

I sped up my pace even more and heard a distant “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” again. When I looked back, I saw George flutter his hands in front of his face again as his forehead lightly bumped a street pole. I wondered if he needed glasses.

I learned his name because he later said “My name is George. My name is George. My name is George. My name is George.” I think he was saying that to everyone and to no one in particular.

This name-learning happened about 20 minutes later, since I had spent that time circumnavigating South Station, guided by my horrible directional instincts. If you ever ask me where to go and I say right, then you should probably go left. Anyway, I somehow eventually put two and two together and walked into the corner building with the huge South Station sign over a series of double doors. After buying a generic but generous amount of Chinese food at the station's eatery, I situated myself at a table with a lone chair.

There was a group of four people, two guys and two girls about my age, occupying two tables to my left. One of the guys was talking about European taxation practices versus United States procedures; he was speaking in a lecturing tone, the sort of tone I had used with my ex when I wanted to expound upon some topic for which I had little to no research or experience in.

George was sitting behind me with what I took to be a big meal. After he left that seat and a South Station worker cleaned up the table soon after, I realized that it had just been trash. He pulled up a chair and sat next to the cuter girl in the group of four. The lecturing guy kept on speaking and pretended not to notice George.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Hey, I'm sorry,” George said as he touched the girl very lightly and cautiously on the forearm.

“No it's OK. It's fine,” she said and tried not to shift away. They repeated this same back and forth response several times over the next two minutes. Why didn't she ask him what he was sorry for? Were you sorry for not wanting to be invisible, George?

The group of four eventually decided to vacate the tables that George had tried to share. The girl next to George told him to have a good night – the group of four reconvened about fifty feet away. Thus, I was left with George sitting to my left. I halfheartedly stirred my honey chicken, mashed my soggy green beans, and chewed absently on a few more forkfuls of greasy noodles before giving up and staring into space.

I had tried to prolong my travels by buying a series of excruciatingly long bus tickets that would allow me to stop over in Washington D.C. for a day and night. But this first round of travels was admittedly coming to a close – I had had adventures and minor revelations, but I didn't feel changed.

“Are you going to finish that off?” George asked me.

“No, please take it,” I said and handed the styrofoam platter to him. He ate daintily and didn't pay much attention to me. Perhaps I was the invisible one.

“So you said your name was George?” I ventured.

“Yeah, George, George Adelman,” he said.

“I'm Robert, Robert Egan,” I replied. We shook hands and fell silent for awhile. I eventually asked him where he was from and told him that I was traveling. We made small, disjoint talk before he sighed and put down his plastic fork.

“You know it's hard. It can be really hard. I'm not a bad guy – really I'm not a bad guy,” he said. He stayed turned toward me and his huge blue eyes searched my face.

“Well, no one's really bad or good. I mean you can say that people are bad in some ways but good in others. And who's to say who's bad and who's good?” I said.

“You're being an asshole,” George replied.

“Right now?” I asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Oh, OK.” I supposed that I could have come off as patronizing while I theorized on bad and good. Hell, I had started using that same lecturing tone that the guy from the group of four had been using earlier.

“Listen, I'm not a bad guy. I have never ever ever made fun of someone,” George said. His blue eyes twitched from side to side as he gauged my facial expression to see if I understood. I guess I didn't because he continued speaking and pointing out people. “You see that guy over there, carrying all the drinks. I could say 'look at that asshole.' Or that guy cleaning the tables 'what a jerk.' But I don't. All these people in here, they're trying. And who knows where you'll be in ten years. It doesn't matter – you never ever ever make fun of someone.”

“I've made fun of people before,” I said.

I remembered some of the extreme instances when I had done just that, mostly junior high and early high school. There had been a kid with a neat, semi-froggy voice whom I had mocked incessantly. Other classmates with funny names or funny faces were subjected to humiliating doodles, movie references, and nicknames. On an eighth grade trip to Washington D.C. I was part of a group that included a wheelchair-bound kid who was slightly overweight. I and another friend came up with a nickname for him – FAF or Fat Ass Fuck; there was even a poem and everything. Awful.

“You said that you made fun of them,” George asked.

“Yeah, but I wish that I had never made fun of anyone,” I said.

I hadn't been a full-time bully and had been bullied myself, but I had been the worst kind of bully in the above instances. I had done my best to make others feel ashamed of what they could not or didn't want to change. I had tried to rob them of their basic human dignity. I had felt out of place then. Now, I was waiting for a bus to Washington D.C. a decade later, and I still felt out of place.

“Now you just contradicted your own self,” George continued.

“No, I said that I wish I had never made fun – oh,” I said.

Was I contradicting myself? Had I ever stopped making fun? I no longer gave people ignoble nicknames, but from time to time I've caught myself putting people down silently, smugly. Was I more handsome than that guy across the street? Would I ever let myself go completely to fat like the lady waddling up her driveway? How many people within a quarter-mile radius had a dick as big as mine? If we had to fight to the death, then who would win? Was the guy serving me coffee as smart as me? What is the best way to pick up on people's imperfections so that I can feel more awesome, slightly less out of place? 'Look at that asshole.' 'What a jerk.'

“I bet you think you're smarter than me,” George said.

“I never said that,” I replied.

“You're about 20, right?” he asked.

“I'm 23. I know that I have a long ways to go,” I said.

“No, don't say that. You're smart. You just never ever ever make fun of someone,” he said.

“I'll try. I mean, I won't. Thank you. I have to catch my bus. Thanks,” I said. George didn't say anything and went back to eating calmly.

I thanked George because he had pinpointed a major source of unhappiness so elegantly – insecurity, the fear that I'll never be good enough. You start trying to find ways to feel superior to others. The catch is that there will always be someone who is better at some part of life than you'll ever be. You can block that out and focus on people who are worse or just less experienced in the things you've decided to take pride in. You can pick your comparisons carefully and try to design categories where you'll always win.

But if comparing yourself to others is all that you can do, then you cease to be your own person. Take responsibility – you're good enough when you believe you're good enough. No one else can decide that for you.

That personal control, what makes me me, is what I sometimes feel has been lost and forgotten in the losing. It's always a relief when I realize that it's just been waiting patiently. Whatever uncertainty or loss may follow, I'll always have that.

Look around you – short, fat, tall, skinny, ugly, weak, strong, young, old, beautiful, stupid, smart, slow, fast, dark, light, straight, gay, bisexual, poor, rich, saved, damned, two-balled, one-balled, no-balled. Enjoy - laugh but don't make fun. Never ever ever.

Urban Legends (part 1)

“Bwwwrrrrzappp and then she said but he said and zahazaha,” muttered the 30ish-something man with thinning black hair and a thick black moustache. He was either tripping balls, crazy or both. Every once in a while his phone would ring, and he'd stop talking to himself and slapping his knees in merriment to take the call. He sounded sober then, although he spoke in a strange language that sounded like a cross between Spanish and Russian – Turkish? When another passenger asked him where we were along the route from Washington D.C. to New York, he chuckled and said “somewhere in the States, right right?”

I was on the second level of the MegaBus and had spent the last hour and a half waiting for my connection and drinking beer and bourbon at this Irish cop bar. The place was fantastic with deejays, young professionals, established business men, law enforcement, stoners and grungy travelers such as myself brushing elbows. I intend to give it a longer visit on my way back home, but the point is I was slightly drunk at the start of the MegaBus trip. I took the seat near the stairway because it was across from a cute, thick but toned girl. The mustachioed crazy man was sitting behind her.

I opened my netbook, checked my bank account and saw that I had approximately $4 left – how had this happened? My bank had charged me an overdraft fee, which had never happened before. In my drunken, immature state, I tried to put on a show for the cute girl and called my bank to complain about the fee in what I thought was a level, cultivated, confident tone. I was probably very annoying. To my surprise the bank dropped the fee within a minute of me calling, apologized and promised to set me up for online notifications about my balance. I glanced at the cute girl to share my stupid victory, but she was staring out the window.

Mr. Moustache man was slumped forward behind her, clutching his knees and moving his mouth like a fish out of water. When she turned around to look at him, he seemed startled that his dream bus was populated by other human beings. He asked her name in a thick tongue. She responded with something exotic, probably South American, that I knew would be hard to pronounce. He nodded and forgot about her. My net book was about to die and the outlet above my seat wasn't working, so I asked the cute girl if I could use hers. She said yes very nicely and even helped me drape the cord across the aisle. I tried to hang up the cord from the roof outlet without lifting my arm because I'd lost my deodorant in Richmond, Virginia.

I don't think she smelled anything offensive because we started talking. She was an au pair just outside of New York and had been in Washington for the last week visiting friends. Brazil was her home country and she grew offended when I asked if she spoke Spanish. Portuguese is a beautiful language and she started teaching me, laughing at my horrible pronunciation. I gave her one of my dinky business cards, and settled back in to my net book, pretending to work diligently, although I was merely IM-ing friends on Gchat and making pointless loops on Facebook. She facebook-friended me and immediately sent a message when I accepted the request:

i think this guy behind me.. is crazy... he is sooo weirdooo! =O

We debated whether he was high or crazy over facebook for a while before she told me that she was worried that he would stroke her hair. I said something noncommittal but potentially manly along the lines of “let me know if he does stroke your hair.” I've tripped balls before and the guy behind her seemed harmless if a little nutty – but he turned out to be more than that; he became my psychedelic wingman.

The Brazilian girl eventually invited me to sit next to her and watch a movie on her laptop. I adjusted the screen so that our thighs had to touch. The movie wouldn't load, but I found out that she liked the show “Fringe.” We talked about that and she showed me a blog, which consisted of insanely detailed critiques for each episode. I started to lose interest when she started reading the blog intently and grabbed my net book from the seat across the aisle. I nearly dropped it when Mr. Moustache hawked a loogie behind us. I looked at him questioningly; he looked startled, innocent – there was no spit on the floor or on the back of the seat. He had been imagining himself spitting? He gave a guileless smile and I shrugged.

“I think I'm going to try to get some sleep,” Brazilian girl said.

“Oh excuse me, I didn't mean to be creeping up on you,” I said. Our thighs were still touching, so I gathered up my netbook, nearly tripped over the cord, and pretended not to be embarrassed as I sat back in my own seat. I was trying to finish web writing an article about retirement specialists when she spoke again.

“These cookies are definitely not from God.” She held up a box of Oreos.

“Not from God – like the devil? I mean they aren't bad – they're good but not good for you,” I said.

“No, not from God – what is the word?” she said as she proffered the box of Oreos to me.

“Artificial.” I started laughing at her because of her accent and because the phrase itself was delightful. She laughed too and handed me the box of Oreos. Later on, she gave me some of her sandwich and food that was “from God.” The sun had set and we were about 2 and a half hours outside of New York, but Mr. Moustache was still going strong on whatever substance or wavelength compelled him. The Brazilian girl was restless in his presence and couldn't sleep, so she told me so.

“Well, not to be a creep, but maybe it would better if you had someone to lean against?” I said. It wasn't even good enough to be a lame pick-up line, but she nodded. I sat back next to her and ended up stroking her hair before realizing that she had been worried about Mr. Moustache doing the same. I guess it depended on context. Mr. Moustache spit another imaginary loogie and the Brazilian girl leaned in closer. We kissed.

She had this weird, amazing way of sucking on my bottom lip and flipping it over, which should have been physically impossible. We kissed and cuddled for the remainder of the trip to New York. Since, as an au pair, she lived with two small children and their single mother, I didn't think we would see each other after the trip. We made tentative plans to meet up that weekend, but I figured that was a New York thing, a mere courtesy that didn't mean anything.

We got off the bus and tried to help each other figure out the subway routes, since she wasn't used to taking them either. She got on the right train for her destination. I got on the wrong train. I don't know what became of Mr. Moustache, my psychedelic wingman, but I'm sure he had a mystical journey.

Oh yeah, my cell phone also died. I had forgotten to charge it on the bus. I've lived in Chicago and have taken the El trains frequently, but I wasn't prepared for the New York subway system. Apparently, the signs above the trains on certain platforms only hold true for certain trains at certain times and sometimes certain dates. The E train followed the F train route after midnight. The platform I went to was for the A, C, and E trains, and I knew that I needed a C line, which was also called the blue line to 110^th. I would be heading north toward Manhattan or in the uptown direction. But first I'd have to take the E-line connection at 42^nd Bryant, which would require me to double-back, go south, and then get the C-line. But since the E had become the F then the C would include another train whose letter I have long since forgotten.

I determined this and nodded sagely after asking three different people and getting three different routes. I ended up taking an E train to Queens. After about 7 stops, I asked some more people where I was going. I didn't quite understand their directions, since I'm basically mentally handicapped when the answers involve anything more than left, right, or keep going. I got off that train and walked to the opposite side of the platform, since that would mean that I would catch a train going in the opposite direction, right? No, 20 minutes later I found out that I had to climb the stairs and walk around to another platform.

My MegaBus had gotten in around 10PM – it was now about midnight. The E train had become the F train, but the F train was now following a slightly different express route for the dates of April 18-22. And older Polish woman looked at the big subway map with me and gave me several different options, saying that those directions could change at any time, so I would have to listen to the intercom, which made no sense to me (I also don't have the best hearing). She also told me that, under no circumstances, should I get off at the other 110^th stop, east of Central Park.

I started getting paranoid – would the predators of New York smell my fear? How would I defend myself if I got off at the wrong stop? I remembered that I had a compass and at a straight edge. I chuckled to myself about possible geometry jokes as I dug into my duffel bag side pockets for my razor-sharp straight edge.

Ow. I had found the straight edge, which slashed open the middle finger of my left hand almost instantly. The straight edge was a rusty razor that I had bought from an antique shop after graduating high school – the rust specks failed to completely cover the logo “Army Special” on the steel blade, which had been adorned with a cheap black plastic handle that had long since shattered. Anyway, my finger wouldn't stop bleeding.

I reached back into my duffel bag and grabbed a cheap collared tee-shirt to put pressure on the cut. I realized that I looked exactly as I was, a stupid fucking kid who had no idea where he was going. If any of the New York monsters who feasted on outsiders smelled my blood, they gave no outward signs.

I finally found a D line train that took me to 110^th – the 110^th that I shouldn't go to under any circumstances? Once, I got there, I asked one of the public transit workers if I could use the outlet behind his plexiglass fortress, which was probably also bullet-proof. He nodded and slid open a small counter door with a steel tray for me to put in my cell phone and charger. The cell wouldn't charge; the public transit worker claimed it was my charger. I had taken the shirt off from my left hand, and the finger began to bleed once more. I thanked him, asked how to get to 108^th street, and set out.

Just like a dozen times earlier that night, I hadn't understood the directions. I got out my steel compass, lined up the red arrow with North and headed West. My straight edge was in my pocket, but I was worried about slicing up my right thigh if I made sudden movements. I walked with a cautious limp until I found the cross streets of 108^th and Manhattan. I thought I had found the building with the address my friend had given me. The streets were surprisingly empty – was that a good or bad sign? I sat down on the stairs leading up to the building and unpacked my netbook with the wireless broadband card.

I had been trying to use it earlier while in the subways to contact my friend, a roommate for all of undergrad, but I hadn't been able to get a connection in the city's underbelly. I also realized that walking around with an open laptop with a hand wrapped in a bloody shirt and trailing luggage was not a good way to go unnoticed. It was 1:30 and I had been on the subway for over three hours by then.

My friend was still up, and I was at the right building! I had made it. During the remainder of the week, I found that New York wasn't a city peopled by cutthroat, ambitious monsters; people were damned decent, genuine, and wonderfully rushed – but more on that in the next post.

I hadn't forgotten about the Brazilian girl; she had taken the time to type her name and number into my phone before it died. I sent here a text Friday morning that said “I want your from God body.” She responded, and we met at a place called Fat Cat's with some of her other friends that she had met couch surfing. The place had pool, ping-pong, shuffle board, chess, scrabble, and live music. Later in the night, we started bragging to each other about how good we both were at ping-pong.

I said that if I beat her in a game, then she should come home with me. She kicked my ass, but we agreed that it was a tie, and she took the subway back with me.

I'm not much of a planner, but I had been preparing for this possible date in my own slow way. My friend that I was staying with didn't have a working shower. This was because his superintendent had tried to fix a shower handle that had fallen off and stripped off an important piece instead. The super allowed my friend and his roommate to use the shower in a vacant apartment next door. As the week progressed, the super ended up scavenging a part from that working shower in the vacant apartment and switching it to the shower in my roommate's bathroom. Still, he had never locked up the empty apartment, so I had dragged my borrowed futon in there that Friday morning.

It was close to 2 when I got back, and I buzzed frantically for my former roommate to open the building door – my cell phone had died again. The door buzzed, we went up to the sixth story vacant apartment, and I brought in two cups for water and the remainder of the “not from God” Oreos box that the Brazilian girl had given me on the MegaBus. We settled in and had a very cool night. I had kept my vow of not getting off if it didn't involve another human being.

I had finished thrusting, whipped off my condom, and started stroking.

“Where do you want it?” I wondered if that would become my regular ending line.

“What do you mean where I want it?” she asked.

“I'm about to come – where should I do that?” I said desperately.

“I don't know!” she cried.

“Auuuuuuuugggggggghhhhh-gah-gah-gah-unnnhhh.” I had turned away from her at the last instant and came on my half of the bedspread instead. It was like someone was spraying a can of streamers. I slumped against the wall while she laughed. I covered my side of the futon with another blanket and promptly passed out. The next morning was even better.

Afterwards, we went to a small Turkish cafe down the street, which had become one of my favorite places in New York. She insisted on buying breakfast, since I had bought drinks last night. I pretended to be indignant but was secretly flattered. It had been raining all that morning, and we had no umbrella as we left the cafe. I covered her head with the side of my jacket and walked her to the subway. She sucked and twisted my lower lip one more time before we said good bye.

Instead of going straight back to the apartment, I walked aimlessly around Central Park for several hours. I figured that would give my former roommate more time to sleep in, but mostly, I had this sweet sadness that I wanted to let linger. I walked around the reservoir several times and made my way back to the apartment.

The door to the vacant apartment was now locked. I remembered then that the Brazilian girl had asked me to lock it as we settled in for the night. The futon and everything I had brought in last night were still left in there. I told my former roommate, and he determined that I could try to get in via the fire escape. He knew a way to finagle the emergency exit door to the roof so as not to sound the alarm.

The roof was wet. I was wet. The narrow, rusted fire escape ladder that curled over the seventh story fire ledge to the sixth story fire escape below was wet too. The light rain kept coming and things got wetter. Did I mention that I have just a slight fear of heights?

“Oh – a phoo – uh Jeezus,” I moaned with each descending ladder rung as my roommate gave me quiet encouragement from the ledge. The metal fire escape was a narrow grating with a 2 foot high rail. I pressed myself up against the brick wall and found the right window on my second try (the first window I looked into having belonged to an inhabited bedroom). I slid the window open, leaning on it all the while.

And there was the white iron fire escape security grate that could only be opened from the inside my lifting a lever. I tried to slide between the grate and the window but had to peel off my jacket to fit. I had already looked down several times by accident and was beginning to grow frantic. I jammed my arm and shoulder between two of the window bars while wondering absently if I'd get stuck and have to call for help or pull myself free so violently that I'd topple back over the rail. Neither happened, but I couldn't reach that inside lever with any of my maneuvering. I yelled up to my former roommate that I needed a tool. He left for several minutes as I clung to the grate and stared at the futon inside the room's sweet, safe interior.

He came back with a bent clothes hanger that I somehow managed to catch. I tried catching the latch for the next fifteen minutes.

“Uh, Rob, you should come up – it's starting to rain harder,” my former roommate called.

“I'd rather be inside than come back up. I'll try one last time.” OK, I told myself, this will be the winning move. You will hear the sweet release of the latch and clamber inside. I pulled the clothes hanger and it caught before slipping off and losing its hook shape. “OK, I'm coming back up,” I moaned.

I wriggled back into my jacket and left the distorted wire hanger on the fire escape before crawling to the roof ladder. “Oook ooook oooook” each chant growing longer with each ascending rung as I clung to the dripping rails.

“Don't look down man,” my former roommate called as I was on the second to last rung. This caused me to involuntarily look down. The grates of the fire escape allowed me to see clear through to the alley way below. I think I sort of squealed and threw myself onto the roof. I stayed hunched on the roof for a bit before following my former roommate back inside.

The remaining option was to contact the superintendent and ask him to unlock the apartment. I procrastinated for about an hour, and it took me another half hour to track him down in the building. The super, a short hispanic man, was already not in the best of moods; my former roommate and his current roommate (an ex-sniper for Israeli special forces who I ended up giving my straight edge razor to) had understandably hounded him to get the part for their shower fixed. Hence the super becoming frustrated and stripping the part from the working shower in the vacant apartment to fix the other shower that he'd stripped in the first place. Hence there no longer being any reason for me to have anything to do with that vacant apartment.

I showed him the door that I needed unlocked. “Do you live here?” he asked.

“No, I'm visiting. I was using the shower before the other one worked. I left some uh, stuff in there,” I squeaked.

“No, do you live here?” he replied again.

“No, I don't live here?” I answered hesitantly.

“Then what are you doing in there?” he asked.

“I, I, I met a girl in New York and wanted to take her on a date so... I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I promise that I'll clean everything up,” I said.

“You know people are supposed to move in here today. You can't be in there,” he continued.

“I'm really sorry,” I said again. The super stared at me for several more seconds before letting me in. I had hoped that he'd leave, but he followed me inside. When he saw the futon laying in one of the rooms he shook his head and walked to one of the windows facing the street. I folded up the futon including sheets and two condom wrappers before dragging it across the room. I was nearly to the hallway when an orange ping-pong ball from last night's game escaped the folds of the sheets and rolled across the wooden floor. The super turned around and saw the ping pong ball rolling. He refused to look at me as he turned back toward the window.

“OK, I'm just going to clean up everything else then too,” I said. I went to check the bathroom. The toilet bowl was filled with urine, paper towels, and two used condoms. I hit the flush button. Nothing happened. I had forgotten that stripping the shower also meant no water for the toilet. I panicked for a moment before remembering the two cups I had brought into the room the night before. I went to the kitchen sink, which still had running water, and filled both cups up, pouring their contents into the toilet tank. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

After I did this for about two minutes, the super turned from the window and walked out. “Just lock up after you're done then,” he called. I knew better than to say thanks.

I jumped the gun on trying to flush the toilet manually, since I hadn't filled the tank with enough water from the cups. I had to start all over again and plunge the toilet, but finally the New York sewer systems accepted my offerings from the night before.

The last thing I did before locking the apartment was go to the fire escape grate and unlatch it on the off-chance that no one was actually moving in to that apartment. If you're ever in the Big Orange and need a private place, then I can give you the address. I'm sure you'll figure the rest out along the way.