I rode the bus instead of the subway on my last night in Harlem. The high points of the M60 line that night were the ghetto fabulous albino I shared the back seat with and the chromy rims on the Ford Festiva I spied on 110th Street. Otherwise it was just hot, stinky, and slow. Beers with Bill and Betsy were quiet and lovely, just like the two of them. Betsy tried to lure me back onto the M60 to get back to the other side of Harlem, but I told her I’d rather move slowly in the wrong direction than stand still waiting for that damn bus.
I dropped down to the 1 train and headed to 96th Street. The train screamed into the station like it was riding on the backs of an army of meth-fueled rats. I tried to not to visibly recoil from the noise and reveal myself as the small-town Ohioan I still am, somewhere under my delicate timpanics. I eventually made my way back to Mount Morris and fell asleep in the calming glow Being Bobby Brown. Clearly the stuff of dreams.
I spent the day memorizing Kai and battling Nelva in broken English for holding rights. I put him down for his nap and after one last trip to Uptown Juice Bar for a ginger apple aloe elixir, I headed to lunch with Nicole and her baby cousin. Then it was the E to the Air Train to the Jet Blue terminal to San Jose. Of course, I swallowed five straight hours of Trailer Fabulous, Master Blasters, and While You Were Out on the plane. I’m ready to spackle something. But first, a long shower. It’s amazing to me how many New Yorkers wear flip flops on the subway. It just ain’t right. The stink can wear on you, but the practically crawling grime? That requires more than a thin flap of foamy plastic. I’m glad to be home.
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