I was afraid I’d be the only one, eating alone before six, but there were a couple tables taken. Soon after I sat down the late-day sun cut through the rain clouds, catching passersby with umbrellas on their shoulders. The light came in and glinted off the table polish and the goblets and the techno music.

The Indian man to my right orders a biryani very spicy and when it arrives I wonder if it is. Soon I hear him sniffing from the heat. They asked him what he wanted to drink and he said a Coke, a Diet Coke, as if it was the same thing or he didn’t give a fuck. He devoured quickly and even had some kind of fucking dessert. I’d ordered my chicken curry medium spicy and could have stood a little more. It was good but I perceived a terrible sameness in the dish. Why do I always get chicken? Would lamb make me happier, or shrimp? Where is that magic dish out there that satisfies everything?

All I want to be is a good patient, a good customer. Good guest. To say the right, vaguely pleasant thing when called upon. Not to fuck up. I specified the garlic naan and from the look in the waiter’s eye it seemed to go over well. I was proud to remember the name of the mediocre Indian beer when I ordered a second. King Fisher. Is there any other kind?

A young couple came in, she of Indian descent, he a milk-fed American boy. She asked him if he’d ever heard of tikka masala and he said no. You order for us, he said. It became clear they’d just started going out. The tentative jibes, excessive deference. She said she told her parents about him, that he worked in finance. He reacted warily. “Finance but not finance where?” and she said no.

On my way there I passed by the 9/11 memorial and I’d never seen it before, didn’t even know it was there. I just had to look. I didn’t know what to expect as I approached the wall. And then I saw the maw, the water pouring down then down again. It brought to mind a scene in a bad science fiction movie or TV show, the hero in danger of falling to the center of the earth. It also seemed like it had been there a very long time, many decades, a century or two. On my way out the sun was gone and the wind picked up like crazy. I went to see it again.

A woman at the bar has a t-shirt that says Steak Diane.

A man sat on the train at the end seat near by the pole and the door where I was standing. Rush hour home, everyone so close you can read their thoughts. I wondered if maybe something was up with him and I felt bad for thinking so but sure enough he began to babble. I took out my earbuds to hear what he was saying. But it wasn't words, not even in another language. Just sounds. Vocalizations, high and low, with the cadence of speech. Maybe only he knows what he's saying and we're like cats or dogs who hear but cannot understand.

The disappointed supporter came out to the back garden and sat by himself at a far table with a full Guinness before him that he didn’t touch and didn’t even seem to see.

Manchester United 4, Liverpool 3. 

Margaritaville is quieter this year, no “Five O’clock Somewhere” seemingly on the hour, every hour. And no Jimmy tunes at all. It had seemed for years that they were mandated to play the one about the lost shaker of salt at a certain frequency, at a certain volume, perhaps by the fine print of the franchise agreement. And now nothing. Are they in mourning? No. They’re liberated.

I turned over unhappily in my abbreviated sleep, the wake up time of two-thirty looming over me, an oppressive, inescapable force. Then when it happened I was fine, not even really tired. 

The haphazard ordering of drinks by people, a beaujolais, what IPA do you have on tap? Uncertainly. Unknowingly. Not doing the thing I expect everyone else to always do: know what they’re doing. Well now I know. I didn’t know but now I know. 

The bartender hands me back my change, a couple bucks, I want him to keep it for a tip but he’s holding it, holding it. I realize I’m meant to accept. Fuck. It had been going so well. I always did want to be a good customer. At a bar. Like a good patient at the doctor’s.

And now the washing machine company sends me spam and I want to unsubscribe but I’m scared. What if they have an important product update? So there you go. And as always with predictive typing this text writes itself, and it writes itself, and it writes itself.

The smartphone is the refuge of the lonely.

Waiting for the bus we turn away from the street cleaner when it comes around the corner hugging the curb like it’s some shameful thing.

I saw myself as the woman on the sidewalk saw me: a middle aged asshole in jogging clothes, jacket matching shoes. Suddenly I’m a human occupying space and time.

Being on vacation really just means three things: being in a different place, doing different things, and seeing different people. Though you’re also seeing the same people—your family. But seeing them in a different plane and doing different things with them makes them different people. And you too. It’s also about slowing down your brain, even to the point of idiocy. Thinking things like toast is better than a bagel. It has a certain lightness. And things like vacation means three things.

In the Jay Street station I could smell bleach before I started climbing the stairs out. On the landing halfway there was an MTA employee with a bucket and a mop, cleaning something unspeakable. I walked as far around it as I could and emerged in the pitiless light of downtown Brooklyn, trash blowing down the street.

Google Maps told me to cut down a walkway and across a little urban park, a square hidden away from the streets. There were trees and benches and even a few people sitting. It seemed desolate. Lost and anonymous. A public space you’d find in some Second World city. I asked myself if I liked it or hated it. I liked it.

Just like every day I’m sitting here wondering what’s going to happen soon when I fall helplessly into the powerful and vivid psychedelic space of dreams. The only difference between it and dropping acid is that there’s no recovery time. And we’re so used to it. But what sadness or longing or ecstasy will I drift through tonight? Or maybe just a headachy nightmare about work.

When I saw the American cheese on the burger on TV I nodded involuntarily. I don’t know why. Not in affirmation, or agreement. Almost defensively.

 

The planes look slow and lumbering as they take off and land, almost like you could catch up to them by foot, grab hold of the fuselage.

I love the names on the planes. Like Kalitta on the 747s, a familiar-sounding name, I thought maybe just from every other airport I’ve been to in my life. I looked it up and saw it’s Connie Kalitta, drag racer, Beau Bridges in “Heart Like a Wheel.”

It was the day McConnell froze midsentence. The old crank suddenly at a loss for words. His gaze utterly vacant. You’d think he was contemplating something deep within himself. But there was nothing there.

Sinead O’Connor dead and there’s more talk about her shaved head than anything about her.

TROOPS

I understand, am understanding, do understand.

I peered at the microwave. The light inside was flickering. Was it a grotesque, hazardous malfunction or the normal sign of fluctuating power so as to more efficiently reheat food? I couldn’t remember. “Flickering lights,” I said to myself out loud.

I lay face down on the floatie, wondering what side of the pool I was bumping against. My mind drifted toward sleep. I considered Kim Jong-un. Was it his uncle he had killed? The ashen-faced man in his military garb, being escorted from a party meeting and to his death. The image I conjured of the supreme leader was of him greedily inhaling a cigarette on the platform where his official train had stopped somewhere on the way to somewhere else. He’d had a personal attendant light it of course. His sister maybe? Keep ‘em coming and he might not turn on you. 

On the terrace the black birds descend on plates of leftover food moments after diners get up, their brittle feet clambering over forks and plates like nothing, their beaks stabbing at breakfast sausage and crusts of French toast. You can shoo them away but they come back immediately. They hide in the bushes and wait for people to leave, the waitress tells me.

It occurred to me while reading by the pool today that I never realized womb rhymes with tomb. Am I the last English speaker on planet earth to discover this?

I fell asleep very briefly and woke up breathing fast, adrenaline flowing, fight or flight. I examined my surroundings. Sun, attendants in polo shirts and khakis. The looming concrete facade of the hotel building set against a partly cloudy sky. All was as I’d left it a minute or two before. I picked back up the book.

The waiting area by the gate, one flatscreen showing a storm surge lashing Florida’s coast, another showing golf, white men hunched in a green expanse, the tedious unchanging leaderboard displayed. Plus. Minus. Even. The bar and grill across the way is closed but already at this early hour you can glimpse a server behind the screen of idle taps, getting things ready for the coming onslaught of anxious, booze-mad fliers. The agent at the gate informs us that boarding will begin at five forty-six, one minute past schedule.

Man he really is concentrating on that putt. 

Last call for San Francisco from the neighboring gate. The others in our seating area are utterly unremarkable. No defining features, mannerisms. No intriguing conversation. A terrible torpor has set in; they barely reach their hands up to their faces. They’ve been reduced to this: travelers. When they get back to where they come from they’ll reinhabit themselves. People with jobs, friends, hobbies. Secrets. Features that define a life. But for the time being they’re in a state of grace: they’re nothing.

In fact the TV screen with golf has been frozen all along.