Why I Am So Sunburned Today
Speeding on a too-short and rusty bike through Brooklyn, from Williamsburg wearing its coffee-house pretensions on hipster-thin shoulders to the high-rise ghetto by Pratt to the brilliant greenery of Prospect Park; zooming past gaggles of black-clad Hasidic Jews and packs of gang-bangers and aviator-wearing parent-supported artists and tattooed moms with double-strollers and painters sunning themselves in front of waterfront warehouses. Readying to reply to the inevitable passerby shout of “Whatchu doin’ on that tiny bike?” with:
“Practicing for my circus clown career!”
Too-short and rusty bike having been custom-built for A. means my knees jackhammering near my chin as we breeze the wrong way down one-way streets at a healthy clip of speed, A. on her roommate’s bike grinning back as we dodge everything from school-buses decorated with Hebrew script to shining-rimmed Cadillacs. Collapse on the grass in Prospect Park, opening my eyes to a blazing blue sky and a random fuzzy puppy peering down at me, drooling on my forehead.
Three hundred miles to the south my friend lies in a hospital bed with his bones fractured and morphine in his bloodstream.
--
Walking into the Post Office across from Madison Square Garden, in search of a suitable box to mail K’s possessions back to her. With J. in tow, because we plan to grab food afterwards, explaining the car-wreck of the last couple weeks. J., for the record, is laughing his head off.
“Dude, totally, listen, in the envelope for the check, just put a photo of you giving the camera the finger or something. Like, Ha! I’m keeping the money! Combat pay! Show that grubby little –“
“Be nice, man.”
“You are a wimp.”
No boxes on view can accommodate a hair dryer and a shoebox of feminine products. This presents potential issues. “I’m just looking for a little good karma,” I say.
“Then send her the stuff. Save the money. Contribute towards an Xbox 360.”
“I said I’d send it.” I look around, as if appropriate-sized boxes will suddenly manifest themselves in one corner or another.
“Um, so?” J. bends at the waist to not-so-subtly check out a passing woman. “You don’t owe her crap. Besides, you paid enough already.”
“You’re becoming my jerk conscience, aren’t you?”
He grins. “I aim to save you from yourself, bud.”
“Practicing for my circus clown career!”
Too-short and rusty bike having been custom-built for A. means my knees jackhammering near my chin as we breeze the wrong way down one-way streets at a healthy clip of speed, A. on her roommate’s bike grinning back as we dodge everything from school-buses decorated with Hebrew script to shining-rimmed Cadillacs. Collapse on the grass in Prospect Park, opening my eyes to a blazing blue sky and a random fuzzy puppy peering down at me, drooling on my forehead.
Three hundred miles to the south my friend lies in a hospital bed with his bones fractured and morphine in his bloodstream.
--
Walking into the Post Office across from Madison Square Garden, in search of a suitable box to mail K’s possessions back to her. With J. in tow, because we plan to grab food afterwards, explaining the car-wreck of the last couple weeks. J., for the record, is laughing his head off.
“Dude, totally, listen, in the envelope for the check, just put a photo of you giving the camera the finger or something. Like, Ha! I’m keeping the money! Combat pay! Show that grubby little –“
“Be nice, man.”
“You are a wimp.”
No boxes on view can accommodate a hair dryer and a shoebox of feminine products. This presents potential issues. “I’m just looking for a little good karma,” I say.
“Then send her the stuff. Save the money. Contribute towards an Xbox 360.”
“I said I’d send it.” I look around, as if appropriate-sized boxes will suddenly manifest themselves in one corner or another.
“Um, so?” J. bends at the waist to not-so-subtly check out a passing woman. “You don’t owe her crap. Besides, you paid enough already.”
“You’re becoming my jerk conscience, aren’t you?”
He grins. “I aim to save you from yourself, bud.”
posted by NiK @ 5:09 PM
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