Night City

The snow has melted down to the grass and pavement, yet by the time we walked down the street to a next destination, a thin layer of crystalline ice formed over the sidewalks so that clinging to each other by the elbow made sense.  The air was still, and in spite of the freezing taking place under our feet, it felt warm.  Of course, considering the happy state we were in, everything was perfect.

The battered, jury-rigged outer door of the first establishment leading to the uneven stairs and inner sanctum were lovely in its brokenness.  The totally painted black insides lit by red bulbs and orange strings of Christmas lights, which hung like stars where wall and ceiling met, were punctuated by opinionated scribbles and the throughly welcoming patrons whose feelings were underscored by variously fancy pronunciations of the F word depending on beer intake, and were deemed as icing on the cake.  We settled on layers of duct tape committed to holding the seats together, as the host of the beginning part of the evening, Chris the barkeep, came to attend.  Diane found a dime, declaring that this would bring luck to the goings-on.

The crowd we are part of doesn't have the energy for a bar fight, thank heavens, and most are done by eleven, the starting point for the next crowd of which I am no longer a member.  Sleeping till three in the afternoon just isn't my thing, so fare thee well, early morning breakfasts at 4 a.m., and I don't miss being up till the sun rises.  No, no, no.  The arguments at the other end of a long bar, if that is what you could call them, centered around New York state taxes for businessmen, the stalled building of another bridge to Canada, and who was in charge of what down at City Hall.  Sincerity and heartfelt emotion oiled the wheels of these discussions, and loud approval or dissolution bounced off the black walls.  Diane and I stuck to topics of humanity, film, and who played what in which rock group until we decided we were hungry, and so bade Chris farewell and wished him luck in finding his way to Aruba.

This is when the night people were milling about, and we saw a group of about thirty college age kids traipsing down the street, dressed as though they were putting on a play of Clockwork Orange crossed with Cirque de Soleil.  Other folks were in hoodies pulled up and over faces, tweed jackets, suits, or ninja bandanas wrapped around foreheads.  We were seated by darling waiters wearing long, white aprons next to a small, burning fireplace, which proved that the dime was working and thus preserving the glow of pinot grigio and Coors Light.  What else but wings, and the waitress suggested that we would save four dollars by ordering a double rather than two singles, craftily adding to her tip, for no one else had ever been so thoughtful in evening fiscal expenditures.

The wings were grand, the fireplace was grand, and we were grand.  After an hour or so, it was decided that it was time to go grocery shopping.  Apparently, there is a better selection of coffee creamers on this side of the border, and Diane wanted to grab several before returning to her native homeland.  Me, I just needed milk and a sweet potato.  Grocery shopping after a night out is a hell of a lot more fun than a 4 a.m. breakfast.

Immediately upon entering the grocery in my mostly Hispanic neighborhood, another young man came over and helped extricate baskets for us from the stack.  We weren't having trouble, he just ambled by and was brought up right by his mother.  Hello, ladies.  Mira, por qué necesita una cesta?  Yes we do, sweetie.  Dos, por favor.  Then we wandered the aisles and dug through the half price candy canes, of which I now have three boxes for my kids.  Di was trying to convince me that peppermint is an excellent flavoring for coffee. I'll go as far as caramel, but after that, I'm not messing with mother nature.  It was after eleven, and police cars were starting to cruise the street.  And by golly, it felt like time for bed.

I stayed up for a while, it's always good to get an I've-made-it-home email from the other, and hers came a bit later as there was a back-up at the Peace Bridge from Canadian shoppers returning home.   Jammies, then; brush teeth, feed the fish, and turn out the lights.  Tomorrow is Sunday, beautiful Sunday, a day made for art.  I have my painting clothes on,  I can't tell you what they are, but the functionality outweighs the decorum factor.

Sleep well, we are on the other side of the solstice and I've read that the moon on New Year's Eve will be new, an event that last happened 19 years ago.  Think about a fresh start, what would it take to put one foot forward?  I know that can be a steep step, but as for myself, watch my paints fly.  I dream of canvases to fill with stories and history, of loved ones and ocean tides bringing coquinas and broken corals to the water's salty edge.  Just as the moon pulls on the bodies of water, be assured it casts a net over our human selves as well.  Sleep as the planets spin above, each in its own orbit, each with its own  moons.  What if the earth had two moons, would we go twice as mad each lunar fullness?  Wouldn't that be interesting....get home safe, traveller.