Fall '23 (random writings)

I took a taxi down to the train station that Friday afternoon. I never traveled much in my lifetime -besides the holiday trips down to Long Island to visit my too-big-to-remember Italian family. So, all I took with me was a backpack that I slung over my shoulder; filled with a change of clothes, a Kerouac book and two packs of cigarettes. I wasn’t sure if the city prices would be more expensive or not, but it wasn’t a chance I was willing to take . I was as ready as I could be. Compared to where I was headed -compared to anywhere outside of Upstate New York really- the train station was pretty meek in size. I’d seen busier bars on the weekends. I waited around for my train to be called with a few other weary travelers. Most of them wore business suits, and I assumed most of them were heading back home to the busyness of Manhattan. I felt as though I stuck out like a sore thumb in my boots, tattered jeans and band t-shirt; an obvious tourist. The train got called before too long and everyone who had been waiting boarded. I ended up sitting next to a young professionally-dressed girl, around my age, and didn’t even bother to strike up any conversation. What could we possibly have in common? She likely had a steady career with the biggest aspirations for herself. Meanwhile, I was barely scraping by in life and on my way to see the most vagrant of hearts there ever was, Paul Cardiel. The train ride was mostly quiet as the quiet side of scenic New York passed by the window -the side that no one ever talked about and would just as easily be forgotten as soon as we passed it by. We rode along quietly for quite some time, and then somewhere around Yonkers is when things started to change. The quiet slow roll of Upstate was gone, and the looming mass of the city could be seen up ahead. The glow of the lights gave the coming night an electric breath like I'd never felt before. This adventure was much larger than anything Caroline Street had to offer. The train came to a stop under one of the many endless subway tunnels. As we got off and headed towards the massive stone staircase, I swore that I could feel the ground shaking as I made my way up into Penn Station. The place was spinning with so much life that it was hard to keep track of where I was going. Every turn of the head there was another traveler running with their suitcase; someone giving their family a hug hello or a kiss goodbye and the sound of trains being called echoed through all of it. I made my way through the shoulder to shoulder bustle of the crowd so that I could make a call to Paul and see where he was at. I called again and again but there was no answer. Of course this would happen. I put all my trust into the one soul who was too free to commit to anything. I started to fear that this trip would end up being a bust as I sat down at one of the many cafes inside the station; while I mulled over my options. I didn’t have enough money for a pricey NYC hotel and I’d feel stupid buying a ticket back home already. Part of me considered calling Chantal to see if she’d be able to save me from this wreckage of another bad decision, following the advice of Paul. At least I had my cigarettes to keep me company. As I got up from the lonely cafe, I started heading towards the front doors. Along the way, I saw a face that stuck out in any crowd; a face that sneered in the face of consequences and the one I’d been looking for over the past hour. It was good ole Paul. 

  Jackson had managed to drag me along for the ride down to Albany. I knew that no matter how the night went, I’d feel hopelessly miserable by the end of it. I could drown myself in distractions all I wanted, but the thoughts of Maria would make sure that I wasn’t left lonely for too long. Jackson would try to catch me up on some of the bands that were playing that night; letting their songs sing through the speakers of the car. None of them seemed to interest me much, but we had free drink tokens and that was all that mattered. The lowlights of Albany were sad and underwhelming as the melancholy gray of the city passed by the car windows. All I could feel was the emptiness that used to roar to life in the downtown Phoenix lights; now replaced with the sighs of Upstate nights that had nowhere else to go. I had nowhere else to go. We pulled into a parking lot by the port of Albany, where small boats docked to sail around the Hudson River. I hadn’t been on many boats in my life, much less ones at night. “Little Apple Cruiselines” was painted along the side of the double-decker boat -a dismal homage to the big city that was a few hours away. I lit a cigarette under the lone streetlight in the parking lot and said a prayer as the boat began to board -knowing that it would be a night full of awkward silence as everyone else had the time of their lives around me. I followed Jackson onto the boat and was impressed by the size of it -not looking to big from the parking lot. There was an open floor inside with a bar and room off to the side all of the band’s that would be playing equipment was piled up. There was an open deck on top, where everyone went to smoke weed. Everywhere else was just corners for people to hang out and smoke away their bored cigarettes. We immediately used the drink tokens we had and settled in to catch some of the first band as we waited for the boat to sail off. “He’s gotta be here somewhere,” Jackson was keeping a feverish eye out to catch Ronny -the guy who booked the cruises and set the whole night up. Jackson was always chasing another gig to get booked playing in the hopes of advancing his own musical ambitions. The boat took off from the dock and everyone around let out an ironic cheer. We hung around for a few songs from the first band but nothing they played held our interest, and we decided to explore around a bit instead. It was a b***h to light a cigarette when we stepped outside; the wind was blowing and I couldn’t keep the lighter going to save my life. This would be a recurring issue for the rest of the night. We made our way up to the top deck, where the faint scent of marijuana lingered in the air and the almighty Ronny was holding court. Ronny was a husky guy in his forties, with a gregarious demeanor and barbershop-fresh haircut. Above anything else, though, he was a salesman. You could sense this right off the bat with the way he talked to people. Everyone was complimented and then sold an idea about how they’d make a great  edition to one of the many local shows that he booked. As long as they promised to sell a good amount of tickets. Jackson and Ronny had apparently worked together before. So Jackson was given a big welcome when Ronny finally took notice of him. They struck up a conversation, and Ronny immediately started throwing in his sales pitch for Jackson to play at his next cruise. “We’re already working on a killer lineup. There’s going to be a huge crowd. Now, do you think you can get around fifty people to come?” Ronny said. Jackson’s eyes lit up and he readily agreed to anything Ronny said with a smile -so long as it got him booked. Ronny was quick to turn his attention to me, asking if I played anything. I explained how all of my stuff was still in the process of being shipped back from Phoenix. That of course posed the soul-crushing question, “what were you doing out there?” I could already tell that the ghost of my most heart-wrenching mistakes would haunt me around for the rest of my days. My soul had died somewhere out in that Arizona desert, and I wasn’t sure if it would ever be brought back to life or if I would forever be a shell of who I used to be. “You’re better off anyway. Women and marriage are a waste of time,” Ronny’s voice brought me out of my self-loathing haze. “ I’m sure you have a lot of emotions built up from that bullshit. You should write some songs about it. I have a great ‘Heartbreak On The Harbor’ show coming up…” Ronny trailed off and I was so sick of everything that I had no desire to hang around there any longer. I left Jackson to mingle with the rest of the vultures looking to please Ronny, and headed for the bar. I got a can of the cheapest beer they sold -having no interest in the band that was playing- and went outside to light another cigarette. I leaned on the railing of the boat as I smoked away the last of my fath and washed it down for good measure. Why the hell did I ever let Jackson convince me to go? I should’ve known better -accepting that life would be easier if I just folded in and kept to myself. My wounds were bleeding out enough for me to deal with. I didn’t need to make it everyone else’s burden, too. I sailed along the lonely night; just the breeze that whispered nothing, keeping me company. And there she was. In the middle of all my despair, stood a girl smoking away all of the disappointments that life had become. This was when Chaela walked into my life. I was never even thinking of talking to her -or anyone for that matter. Fate and empty lighters had other ideas, though. Her deep green eyes pierced over at me through the dismal breeze and scent of the passing Hudson River. She wore a ragged and patched jean-jacket with the logos of her favorite bands displayed like a proud shield of individuality. The piercings along the tops of her ears reflected against the dark red of her short hair. “Do you mind if I borrow that for a second? Mines all out,” she pointed to my lighter as she shook the emptiness of hers. “Sure,” I handed her my lighter as I took a drag of my smoke -figuring that would be the end of it. But she handed back my lighter and leaned against the railing as she continued talking. Apparently, she had a friend -the bartender- who also dragged her out for the occasion; despite all impulses to stay home and hide away from the world. There was something about the way she spoke that poured out with modest honesty. She was herself through and through. I didn’t get into all the ins and outs of where I’d been or who I feared I was slowly becoming, but I at least mustered up the spirit to introduce myself. I wasn’t sure what else I shared, as I was in a haze of alcohol and emotional-numbness. I was lost as could be. Our conversation started to slow down as the boat neared the docks where the night began. Just as the boat began to dock and people began getting ready to unboard, Chaela reached over and handed me a ripped scrap of a cigarette pack. I was confused as to why she was handing me trash, but then I looked down and saw a phone number scribbled on it. Chaela gave a half-hearted winks -almost to say that love was hopeless but why not? All sorts of confusion swirled around my head as I heard towards the parking lot. Jackson was full of glee and high spirits. Meanwhile, all I could think to myself was ‘why’d she have to happen?’. 

The coming chill of the late October night followed me the whole walk home. It was the most bittersweet time of year; as the golden shine of summer had faded away and its only memories were the leaves sadly falling to the ground. The feeling wasn’t just because of the changing seasons, though. No. It could never be that simple. Especially, when it came to her; Johanna. There it was, again. I shook my head and tried to block her out as I approached the front of the rooming-house I called home. The paint-chipped sides and collapsing font porch didn’t wear the years too well. It never did, but at least there used to be some life to the place. I could still hear the echoes of the nights we felt alive. Now, I could only feel the silence. While everyone from the good old days had either moved on or gone to jail, I’d somehow found myself back at the house -in one of my many “in between” stages of life. And Johanna, she still roamed around -in my lonely thoughts anyways. The last time I saw her was around the same time a year prior; a regretful sadness that I tried to avoid as much as I could. I wasn’t roaring with the same youth that I once did. So, by the time I got home the only things I had the spirit for was writing and whiskey to some records -while the neighboring college kids below, rapped about their latest drug-fueled frenzy that I didn’t have the guts for anymore. My wild eyes that burned with lust and life had dwindled to a sighing spark. When the whiskey ran dry and the records stopped, I laid my head down and shook off one last fading thought of Johanna. 

  I was trapped inside the apartment all day again. It was one thing to have nothing to do, but it was quite another not to have the option at all. I’d read through my books twice over, and writing could only keep my energy occupied for so long. My pack of cigarettes was even starting to run low. I was slowly losing my mind; one sad-sighing circumstance at a time. That night, I decided to make a list of all the books I wanted to read, but was too broke to buy anything new. I didn’t care how far the walk was, I was going to the library or I was going to lose my mind to the afternoon monotony. The next day, I slung my backpack over my shoulder -concealing two of my tallcans and cigarettes for the trek- in hopes of filling it up with all the great writers I aspired to learn from.  It was about a two-mile walk from the complex to the library, and I had just enough cigarettes to last me there and back. It was one of those summer days where the sun was glaring down on everything below with a golden shine. It didn’t take long at all for me to pull out the beer and drink it down. There was no fear or worry about being caught. The roads and sidewalks were so wide open that I never had to worry about anyone seeing me before I spotted them first. Plus, all my years of running around with Craig had made me something of an expert when it came to degeneracy. I drank and smoked my way through the two-mile walk, and before I knew it I’d reached the front of the library. The pristine ivory walls were a far cry from the graffiti alleyways I was  used to. As I stepped in with my tattered jeans and cigarette-stained fingertips, I swore a mother walking by rushed her children out of the way. Even the librarians seemed hesitant to accept my forms for a library card after I filled them out. Luckily, it was free to get a card. So, there wasn’t much they could do or say. I was already roaming through the aisles. I combed through the shelves, grabbing all of the popular titles by Hemingway and Kerouac that my paychecks were too small to afford when I saw them in the stores. The true magic started when I picked up the books by writers whose name’s I’d only seen printed in other books -never seeing a hard copy of their work for myself. I almost couldn’t believe it at first; D.H Lawrence, Dostoyevsky, Faulkner, Joyce -my backpack was filling up to the point I was worried about my second beer can getting crushed. I was beyond satisfied with how the little afternoon excursion went. I checked out all the books, and had a month to read them all. I lit a cigarette as I started my walk back home; smiling for the first time in a while.