Morning Stroll

Squinting in the sudden splash of orange that was soaking into the tiers of bricks and rubber-worn streets, my frozen upper lip slurped away at the top layer of lukewarm coffee, pining for the heat which lay beneath. The concrete-laden world of central Queens could almost be featured in a postcard on a morning like this, and without many trees to reference otherwise, the reader could easily assume the picture was taken in the middle of a hot summer.

Across the street, a muddy Chevrolet with blue and red strobes pulled up to a fresh swept sidewalk beside the local bodega. On Friday nights, Eddie hosted makeshift Poker tournaments in the back room, which was only rivaled in popularity by Cee-Lo in the alley, given the absence of “New York’s Finest.” I had another six lonesome blocks to reach the station, when I was interrupted by an unsteady quiver of familiarity.

“You, uh, mind if I join you?” Jessie inquired.

“Just tryin’ to get uptown before nine…” I replied, “not like I’m goin’ anywhere interesting… I mean sure, you can walk with me.”

As we headed South, bee-lining for Jamaica Station, and subsequently the E Train to Times Square within the next 40 minutes; I indulged her awkward small-talk.

“So… How you been?”

“Fine. You?”

“Good.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah…”

“See that new movie with your boyfriend in it?” I joked; a remark about her celebrity crush.

“Not yet… You?”

“Yeah… Kind of overrated… Not that bad though.” Honestly, I hadn’t seen it, but I didn’t want to get invited to a screening.

“I miss you…”

“What?”

“I mean, talking to you, ya know?”

“I miss talking to you, too.” To be fair I did prefer the old days of a substantial tête-à-tête over this superficial chatter, so that wasn’t a lie.

“See you around!” She exclaimed, breaking right, as I crossed the street toward the clanging of subway cars.

“Yeah; catch you later.” I muttered.

As Jessie turned the corner and headed West on Archer Avenue, I merged into a world of steamed suits and polished shoes: where sophisticated conversations were heckled by the screeching of rats and dampened by the aura of grit from the night before; where the glimmer of silver watches scratched against the germ-infested turnstiles.

Once we jammed ourselves inside the steel and plexiglass walls of the cars, my cohorts and I were rocked into a trance of wails and shrieks, occasionally awoken by the jostle of uneven tracks. What a lullaby; what a nightmare. This was the crib of weary bones.

With my sneakers planted on the linoleum, body swaying through the neighborhoods, I was engrossed with the memories of Jessie. Our relationship had been a terrible investment, overshadowed by our bad habits and mood swings. For the year or so we had dated, I was in a constant competition with her love of pain killers, stimulants, and cheap whiskey. If you’ve never seen someone throw a half-full bottle of malt liquor at their landlord over the right to chain-smoke Newports in the living room of their rent-controlled apartment; it’s not a pretty sight. So why did I almost enjoy walking with her this morning? Especially since I was headed uptown to see Meghan…

I had met Meghan shortly after Jessie and I broke up — on the rebound as luck would have it. But she brought me something more than just a consolation prize: Meghan introduced me to the refreshing breath of stability my life had been lacking for years. She was the answer to the riddle your whole class couldn’t solve. She was the epiphany of the lyrics to that song you couldn’t place. And most importantly, she was that first sip of cool water from the fountain, after a midday basketball game in the swelters of July. She always kept her head calm and collected in any situation — no screaming or drafting bystanders into a game of Dodge Ball with her mother’s crystal glasses. Her lifestyle was absent of impudent habits — not even a puff of tobacco; if her closet held skeletons, she kept them to herself.

When the train reached Rockefeller Plaza, I shuffled my feet toward the sliding doors, bound for the touch of sunlight once again. When I emerged onto the Midtown pavement, the world seemed less frigid beneath the warmth of gold plating and mirror tinted windows. Perhaps the sentiment was accentuated by the carts of pretzel-pushers, splitting up the seas of vagrant sleeping bags and goose-down jackets.

Manhattan was the epitome of hypocrisy; lavish lifestyles intermingling with the devastation of the failure of the American Dream. Burberry scarves shielded ears from the incoherent ramblings of those desperate for attention, and in dire need of medical attention — mental or otherwise. Bleached and human-shaped pedestals were dripping in the latest fashion, to be idolized by the few who strayed from Fifth Avenue — or had failed to reach it. This shimmering reflection, guarded by shrill alarms and armed officers, burly doormen and all-seeing cameras, was where I was supposed to meet her.

“You mind if I join you?” Meghan giggled.

“I’m just waiting for this special gal to show up… She’s running late, so I guess you’ll have to do,” I quipped.

We made our way up North, before cutting left toward Central Park.

“How have you been?”

“Fantastic! They finally fixed up the lobby; it looks fabulous now! I’ve done up the living room a bit, and I’ve got these gorgeous crystal bowls for my new coffee table! Maybe I’ll put some Swedish Fish in there for you — for when you visit me, punk!” She knew I hated Little Brazil; not because it wasn’t nice, but because I felt entirely out of place. I was working on that — learning to accept the notion that I could be worthy of a lavish vacation from Queens from time to time.

“You see that new movie with your dearest infatuation?” I teased.

“Not his finest work; I felt the performance was quelled by the director… Lackluster, to be honest. Now you, you could have captured my attention,” she mused, the sentiment solidified by a flirtatious wink.

“Maybe when I get a head-shot from this angle,” I remarked, tilting as she crooked her shutter finger from the side.

Despite a dizzying exchange of words, refreshing and uplifting as the inner-city bustle, it dawned on me that Jessie hadn’t left my mind. Where was she headed this morning? Work was in the opposite direction, but her favorite liquor store wasn’t. But could I really be that judgemental? Could I come to such a effortless conclusion? Was I the reason she was drinking? Should I even feel so guilty? Maybe all she needed was a little guidance; after all, she could be sweet when she wanted to be. Suddenly, I felt split in two.

On the one hand, I was insatiably hungry for the world I previously knew: I could fix things, I could compromise, I could rebuild a life I swore I hated — maybe for good this time. On the other hand, I could deter the life of chaos, and opt for the stability I was so desperate to find: something this good doesn’t come around often, other than one’s dreams. Chaos, yes. That was the keyword. Jessie’s insanity had become too much for me; it was intolerable, and I had found happiness for the first time in years. My decision was final.

“I’m getting hungry; you want something, dear?” We were approaching another vendor, and I couldn’t help but salivate at this stage of our jaunt.

“Sure! I’ll have what you’re having!” Meghan replied, easy-going as ever, which was a nice change of pace from Jessie, who fought over everything, even matters of lunch.

“Can I get a dog for me, just ketchup and mustard, and another for this gorgeous gal— the works?”

“Gorgeous gal? Look pal, if you’re one of those whacked out bums I don’t do charity. They’re three bucks a pop.”

“What?” Talk about rude. How can someone expect to maintain a business on Third Ave with an attitude like that.

“I heard you talkin’ to yourself from up the street, you want two dogs or not? Three bucks a pop!”

Before I could even protest, I turned around to gauge Meghan’s reaction, feeling horrified, when I realized I was standing alone, on Third Avenue, an empty fifth of whiskey in my pocket, and a missed call from Jessie on my phone; I was split in two.