I should’ve known after I saw the young man vomiting in front of the costume store, but too much time on the West Coast has left me soft– I’ve lost my New York paranoia.
Like all the best people, I associate public intoxication & its dreadful results with the island of Manhattan. Whenever I return to that corner of the world, it’s inevitable that I see someone– and always within a few hours– forcibly expel the contents of his or her stomach. It’s a time-honored thing, an awful way of knowing that I’m home. The city welcomes its wayward son with a reminder of low ways and old days.
But I’ve forgotten my natural defenses. So I carried on. A few blocks later a dude on a skateboard came blasting West, playing chicken. I side-stepped to my right, avoiding him, and took two steps forward. My right boot slipped and I slid down Hollywood Boulevard, almost falling on my face. My balance in these situations is near impeccable– a relic of New England winters and black ice– and I recovered before the crash.
I looked down. An enormous slick of vomit. Then I realize what block I’m on and it makes sense. This post is intentionally cryptic, but I say this: every piece of serious writing eventually comes true.
March 15th, 2008 at 5:37 pm
balls AND sack.