I walked outside and it was pouring cold rain. My sneakers from the West Coast, white, clean and virginal, were no match for the harsh New York City downpour, and within minutes of my first step from the safety of my home, my shoes were stained and my mismatched socks were soaking wet. A car honked. An old man in a yarmulke almost fell over from the force of the wind. A black girl screamed motherfucker. A broken umbrella sat on the curb, discarded like a drunken one night stand. There was a cacophony of voices and alarms and traffic, like a symphony orchestra from a mental ward. A woman wearing a burka and a raincoat stood outside the new bank, like a statue. Only her eyes were visible, but they told an unhappy story. Water fell down, steam floated up, thunder cracked, the subway rumbled. It was as God above and the Devil below were having a fist fight and New York was frightfully and violently alive from the energy, like a living breathing animal. All I could think about was entering the Colombian Diner and ordering a strong cup of their darkest coffee, then taking the tall, skinny waitress on the table, and fucking her hard, not caring about the other customers or the cheap coffee mug crashing to the floor, breaking into fine pieces. And she would love it. And then I would cry — a cry of happy and sad. But of course, this was in my mind. This was not real. To actualize my thoughts, I would need to follow my ancestors, so I prayed to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, asking Him for a full life. Why couldn’t every day be as powerful, as full of mystery and passion, as today? The rain stopped and He replied. He said Yes. Yes, yes, yes! BUT — he warned, and I knew there was going to be a “but”– BUT, he said, I would be forever blind to the magic and power of the world around me unless I showed him a sign, made a covenant with Him, to appreciate all that He has given me. And that is when I deleted Twitter and Facebook from my iPhone. I placed my phone in my coat pocket, pulled the zipper closed, and continued on, my five senses at my side.
Neil Kramer explores friendship, love, and sex, and the dangerous art of writing about it.
He lives in NYC. He can be contacted at neilochka on yahoo.
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