(See what I am saying?)

life and death

I was sitting in the back seat. out the open windows the white mountains blurred past me like a water color painting left out in the rain. Prada and Kiaya were curled around each other in the back. it was afternoon. the sun shone through the back windshield and fell on the sleeping dogs. Woddy was tapping his hands on the steering wheel to the sound of the music. He was deep in thought about things i could never tell, but was sure he would be telling us all about before long. Leanne was sitting shot gun. she was leaning against the door.

her black hair poured out the open window like a spilled ink in the sunshine.

I was in a place i have never been before, i may not ever be here again. here the license plates say 'Live Free or Die'

A car passed us in the right lane. as it drove past, leanne said out loud:

"It should say, Live Single or Die."

Woody nodded in approval. I leaned back and smiled. I closed my eyes.

If that were case, i am afriad i would live forever.

or die trying.

once in a lifetime

We pulled into the gravel driveway past the historical marker. I turned around to try to read it . The engraved letters were trying to tell me that George Edwards was born in 1828, and grew up on this farm. When i turned back around, i saw it and its barn, rising out of the flora five stories tall. It stood out stoicly with it's harsh angles and steep corners from the gentle green hillside. It's sharp roof cut into the sky and it's faded skin and skeleton was stained like bandages wrapped around a wounded soldier. Without a word it screamed out at me from the twisted and tangled green of the summer.

Leanne and Elizabeth had driven ahead and were already there. Elizabeth drives, like i picture all Vermonters do, a volvo station wagon. She even has a green canoe to put on top. postcard perfect. The dogs rode ahead with her, and were out with their noses buried in the tall grass by the concrete foundations of long gone grain silos. Their tails stood in full attention, and rose out of the green like golden periscopes in a sea of timothy grass and queen anne's lace.

"Isn't it odd," i said to Woody as he parked the car, "To think about the string of people you have met in your life that has led you to being here right now?"

I could see him give it some honest thought for a minute, then smile with incomprehension.

"Yeah." he then said.

We stepped out of the car and walked up to the stoic barn that rose out of the gentle green hillside.

Jason was sitting in the green grass on a lawn chair. He lives in the front of the barn with his girlfriend, Elizabeth. Jason met Elizabeth a bar in burlington when she was out with her friends. Elizabeth and Leanne met in the fourth grade in Pittsburgh the day they both wore the same t-shirt to school. I met Leanne 12 years later on a dark night as she sat at the end of a dark bar talking to her boyfriend. She had a stack of her resumes in a clear plastic kinkos bag. She pulled one out of the bag and asked me if i thought it looked nice. I met woody when i walked into my freshman college dorm room and saw him standing there with a rachet in his hand as he built a loft for his bed.

and there on the green grass Jason stood up and met Woody and I on a vermont farm in front of a barn during the summer of 2003.

We also met huey; jason and elizabeth's friend, and now also another knot in the thread of the history of my life. We all sat together and had a picnic as we listened to disc two of huey's six-disc box set of classic country tunes. After dinner huey let us ride his 4-wheeler and follow the trails that snaked under the shady trees and along the rocky ridges of the green mountains.

Later we built a bonfire with the shedding skin of the barn. As the sun yeilded to starlight huey broke up a pile of faded boards and threw them on the fire. As the fire burned bright with the wood older than the age of electric light, it lit up leanne's face from across the millennium like a once in a lifetime dream.

Suddenly i began to realize my life is very short, and the long string of connections leading up to the firelight that shone bright in the girl's eyes beside me started long before i was born. and the centuries and eons that have lived and died and fallen like a line of dominoes wrapped around the world to this night, make up my life and all the beautiful things in it.

a full hand

The boat was bouncing along the water. my head sort of bobbed around on top of my spine like a buoy in turbid water. Woody leaned over and put on his dad's hot pink 'Clear Lake Michigan' hat, circa 1989, reached into the glove box - cooler and pulled out a can of PBR and opened it up.

Impressive. considering 8 hours earlier we had our first visit to our friends newly aquired bar, the clevelander, named, no doubt, after the city that it sits inside of. but after a night like that, i wondered if the city wasn't named after the bar. what also is impressive is the fact that my dear friends who once shared the same clogged toilets and moldy refridgerators at 8 1/2 church street are now proprietors of 6,000 square foot bar, whose six-story shadow is cast by the stadium lights of jacobs field. and if they treat every friend like they treated me, the most amazing part is how they will ever stay in business.

As we skimmed along the lake, i tried to replay the previous night of my life:

Woody was just finishing up explaining his plan on developing a line of products that could be used for both hair gel and fast food condiments as we pulled up to henry and pat's house. The sun was slipping below the mismatched awnings that lined the street. The kids were playing on the sidewalk, pumping up half filled two liter bottles with a bicycle tire pump and sending them up into the tall sleepy trees. Prada and Kiaya bounded out of the back of the jeep and were greeted by Henry at the front door.

It was a big house. They lived upstairs. The sort of place that looked like it belonged in my parents photo albums from their days before being responsible adults. The kind of pictures were my dad is on the porch wearing really short shorts drinking out of pull tab cans with what looks like the allman brothers as his buddies.

We too, drank on the porch, but rather out of 22 oz. aluminum cans taken from the bar. As we arrived downtown soon after, henry led us to our destination. I meandered through the tables on the front patio. I walked under the brightly colored table umbrellas. I walked past the outdoor bar and the guy playing the alto sax by the front door. I stepped through the doorway and into the electric air of neon lights, spilled whisky, high ceilings, and higher blood alcohol contents. Most people who have friends who leave the day after college for another time zone only to return out of the blue a couple years later want to shake their hands. Mine put budweisers in both of mine and give me a bear hug.

Soon after, Woody was in the back of the bar running through fininacial models and profit margins with P.J. Todd Miller was slurring his speech with jamison running down his chin. I used to wonder in college what it would be like if we all could fast forward a few years and see ourselves in the real world but not all grown up. Now i know i didn't need a time machine to do that, just patience. Pat showed me around the place. Upstairs the floor boards ached with immorality and the walls reeked with potential. The place was huge. I would have given them a standing ovation for their ambitous endeavors, but by then i was having a hard time standing, and my hands were full of beer.

These are the photographs that fill my album, pasted in the chapter: "before being responsible adults." And it is looking like it might be a long chapter.

"You want a beer?" woody yelled to me over the sound of the I/O motor and the hull as it bounced along across Keuka Lake.

"No thanks." i replied. I had my hands full last night.

clairvoyance

Perez rolled in from alabama like a storm and slammed into town like an amtrak derailment. with him came molly, whose handwriting is on the bar napkin sitting here. the napkin says:

Cla(i)voyance - The ability to see outside one's self.

We were at the bar, and molly and i were discussing the little one sylablle words that everyone tries to give big definitions to, like life, and love, and dogs. I had a handfull of matchbooks scattered across the bar, mapping out the cordinates of this upcoming weeks interstate travels, and explaining the mileage between points in my trip, which also coincidently seemed to represent the spatial relationship to much of my fragmented ideas: they were all far apart. and everytime i pointted to a different matchbook across the bar, there was always a drink sitting between me and the place i was wanting to go.

"i think what i am most thankful for," she said later, "is clairvoyance".

"what is that?" i asked.

she told me. i had her write it down on this napkin.

later, at the other end of a 7&7, and at the other end of the bar, i was talking to my friend ben cooper who was in town from denver. i looked around at the girls tighlty fit around the bar in their tightly fit shirts. i looked at my life scattered out on the bar amid the spilled seagrams and empty cigarette cartons. there was new york, vermont, and cleveland. columbus was just past the ashtray. There was love, by the empty beer bottle, and success had it's cover torn off. cooper is a tall lanky guy. he pulled out a cigarette and fumbled for his lighter, and then looked down the bar. in one reach he swiped up half the matchbooks. opened one, and light his cigarette.

long division

I was never good at math. so without the chart there i would have had a hard time trying to establish a comparison between how many of them and how many of us there was. I was reading a magazine. it was hot, and the fan was trying to make it cooler. the sun was shining, and the blinds were trying to make it darker. I was interested, but was more intereseted in not thinking about her.

the article was about korea, and the war and the 50 year cease fire that has divided the penninsula in half. The t.v was on the country music channel. the article said there are 37,000 american soldiers in the southern half of the division. toby keith began singing. the photo caption read "yankee go home" as the faces of hate and anger blurred in the crowded photograph as they raided a U.S. army base. he was singing to me about the glory of this country and how the 'big dog will fight' . i turned the page. a man was crying behind barbed wire.

what is the name of that song? i asked my sister.

"angry american." she said.

i closed the magazine and went out on the porch. if i wasn't so bad with numbers i would have memorized my calling card number, and i would have called her. but i didn't want to. i didn't have anything to tell her. i didn't have anything to tell anybody. i wanted to say nothing to everyone i ever knew. and everyone i knew was a long distance calling card away. i was here but nothing else seemed to be. except the country music station, and the fan that was turing the pages of the magazine, making it dance silently for the music.

this world is full of contardictions. so am i. i am also bad at math. and the science and machines and numbers and calculations that turn and connect and crumble this world i will never come close to understanding.

but division is something i will have to learn.

the perfect lonliness of a long distance runner

The feeling always captivates me. but it is better than just feeling that blossoms in me at the present situation. it reminds me, at all once, of all the countless other instances in my past that i have felt it and forgot it, and i am both shocked by the feeling for the first time, and reminded of it like an old friend.

And like every other time in the history of my life, it split through my mind like dry firewood, jarring the sediments of my memory. It sent me back to county fairs, flat tired 10 speeds, smoldering towers of hay in dusty barn lofts, and the peaceful feeling that there was still more daylight to be lived.

the feeling was summer. and i was running alone right through it. and all i could do to honor it was to breath. and as my body ran forward, my mind was running the other way. As my parts began to fragment, i was reminded of one of the many battles i wage with myself.

I am always struggling between the happy but static role of observing life, and the fullfilling and brutal process of creation while living in it.

As i ran past the west end tavern and past the silent dry rotting houses on the edge of town, i tried my best to understand my affliction. It is some strange breed of vanity, i suppose, to be satisfied only by the temporary notion that next time it will be better. next time it will be beautiful. next time it will be perfect.

i began to run faster as the ground flattened out and the houses at the edge of town crumbled into the ditches. I ran across the driving range. I ran across the baseball diamonds. i ran across the battlefield inside myself.

As i past under the the power lines behind the chain linked home run fence the space relaxed and i stopped running. I will never be able to explain my motives with any certainty, and times like that make me wish with all my heart that i could be happy observing life i am in, and not twist and writhe inside of it in the pursuit of creation.

I laid down in the open field. my heart punched through my spine and into the warm ground. i arched my neck back and looked at the horizion as it bent around the top of my vision. i spread my arms straight out to my side, and open my eyes as wide as i could. i could see both of my hands and the world between them. i laid there and watched the light begin to bleed out of the sky and drain into the horizon. I looked straight up, and stared into the sky until i lost all frame of reference. It was the most perfect and gentle gradation of color in all the world. And then, in the empty field, past the power lines outside the fence, i observed the world. and for a private and perfect moment, i was happy.

i was happy knowing i will never create anything as beautiful, as clean, as simple as the sky. i was happy knowing nothing i create will ever be seen by so many. i was happy knowing i will never create anything perfect. I was happy watching the world as it was, knowing it did not need me to make it look any better. and as my mind came to a standstill, i laid alone, facing the world, with the peaceful feeling that there was still more daylight to be lived.

confirmation

"I would also like to insure this package" i told the lady behind the counter.

"Would you also like a delivery conformation?" she asked.

"sure. that would be great." i said.

"how much would you like to declare for the replacement value?" she asked as she placed the box on the worn in scale.

"Well, it is all wedding photographs." i said. "it would be hard to replace them." i filled out the insurance slip, feeling suddenly awkward trying to quantify my work in dollars and cents.

"so you are a photographer?" the mail lady asked with interest.

"um.... yes." i replied as i signed my name on the slip.

"My daughter was studying photography for a while. She wants to be a photographer." she continued. "Did you go to school for it?"

Suddenly felt like my frame of reference just got reversed. like i just woke up from a dream to see myself, not where i was sure i was, but rather lying in bed with mismathced pillow cases.

"Yeah, sort of." I answered.

"Well, i hope she gets motivated to go back to school and continue." she said.

"how old is your daughter?" i asked.

"She's 20. She was going to school and taking photography classes for a while."

Suddenly i found myself trying to remember the day i became a photographer. I tried to remember the day stopped wanting to take pictures- and woke up (or fell asleep), and started taking them.

"Is it hard?" she continued as she taped up the box and put the bar code sticker on it.

"No." I said after I thought about it. "You just have to do it, and you get better at it as you go."

As i walked away from the worn in counter in the silent marble and granite building, i thought about the thin line between wanting to be somethng and being it. I thought about perception. I thought about how i saw myself, and how the mail lady behind the worn in counter sees me. I remember being 20, and wishing i was a photographer. I remember thinking what it must be like. I thought about all the people in the world who work their life away trying to be something. i thought about all the people who seach for some objective method and measure by which to legitimize, and limit, themselves by.

I guess today i am a photographer. I became a photographer because i started taking photographs. and this is what it feels like. the king never called me to his throne to touch his sword to my shoulder. the uniform was never sent to me. and i didn't get the ID badge either.

I need to understand that reality, like photography, has to be created. Sometimes to make it happen, you need to reposition yourself. move around the subject and take it from a different angle. sometimes you need to turn around and look at it the other way. i need to learn to be comfortable with the relativity of accomplishments via professional labels. i need to accept the fact that becoming what i want doesn't make me become any different. i need to learn how and when to acknowlege such things.

"Sir." the lady called from behind the worn out desk. "Here is your confirmation. Don't forget it, your number is printed at the top."

the first take

"We have to go out to the studio and record one more track for the last song on Bob's album. Would you like to come watch?" Chris asked as we carried our plates to the kitchen after supper.

I have always been enamoured by the making of music. it is the temporary and fleeting beauty of performance that compells me. sure you hear it on the radio. you can hear on a CD. but to watch it happen, and to know it will soon fade back into silence forever is beautiful to me.

"I would love to." I replied.

We walked out under the wet trees and into the small studio. I took my keys and change out of my pockets and sat on the couch.

"there are no right angles in this room." Chris said. "It helps the room sound bigger." and he handed me a pair of headphones. I looked around at the sparse room. The only detail in the space was a lone computer monitor on a wooden table, and a sound board on a stand that looked like a geranium that long ago outgrew it's pot, as hundreds of feet of cable and wires grew out of it and fell to the ground and snaked across the floor.

"this board is a classic. it is has the same tubes as the one the beach boys recorded on." he continued.

We had just finalized the design of the album. And after this last track was recorded, the albulm would be done. I as i sat there motionless on the squeaky couch, i suddenly felt very aware of how it all works.

I could hear my heartbeat through the silence. Bob took of his shirt and threw to me. "I can hear the buttons scratching against the back of the gutair'' he said. I laid it over the arm rest of the squeaky couch. Then he sat down on the stool, chris moved the microphones in place and he began to play.

I guess maybe it is the things you can't do that amaze you the most, but its also the acting out of feelings, of ideas, of art, that will forever move me. It is the moment of creation and those who are so compelled to do so when all we need to do in this world is eat sleep and die. No one said Bob had to play the guitar. No one told chris he had to spend his evening watching the sound waves and listening to every vibration in the air inside the oddly angled room. No one said music needs to be made. No one said paintings need to painted. No one said the great words of our world needed to written.

Bob said when this albulm is released, he is going to quit his job selling cars and give music his full attention. I suddenly realized that anyone who has ever followed thier passion did so not becuase they were asked to, not because they were invited to, not because they were expected to. They do it because of the invisible gravity inside their soul that blindly and sometimes destructivly pushes them towards the elusive satisfaction of finding the art inside themselves.

With every touch of his guitar, the lime green lights flexed and pulsed on the black boxes scattered through the oddly shaped room. He played so naturally. he might as well have been pouring concrete, he might as well have been melting iron. He might as well have been anyone in the world doing anything as they labor silently and somberly through life.

But he was a car salesman. Who was making music in a little oddly shaped room under the wet trees somewhere in a lonley summer evening.

I leaned back cautiously and closed my eyes. I listened to the music as it happened. i began to consider the notion that people are art. And art is made not because it needs to be made, but because some people need to make it. As the music shook off the strings into the microphones, and as it poured through the limp wires around my feet and up to my ears, i thought about the housewives tapping their feet on the floormat of their SUV's to this CD stuck on some interstate beltway at rush hour in faceless city. I thought about the drunks at the end of the bars in the lonley midwest towns. I thought about them and their regrets as they listened to this song. I thought about what it means to pursue art, and to be at the mercy of it, while so many others labor silently and somberly through life.

And then the song was over. Bob put his guitar back in it's case. and the oddly shaped world faded back into silence.

putting the top down

I realized it east of lake Chautauqua when we left the last of the city lights behind. It looked like a 12 gauge had blown a hole in the ceiling of the world. I looked up through the roll bar and past the kayak tied on top, and into the stars.

I also thought about it sitting in a turquoise lawn chair on a roof top in manhattan. The heat from the concrete below rose like smoke into the dark summer air. And later that next night drifting on the midnight water of Lake Keuka I leaned back on the bow of the boat and watched the fireworks tear holes in the darkness.

The hail storm outside of slippery rock turned the hot air upside down. As we drove head on into the storm, woody kept wiping the rain of the inside of the windshield with a beach towel.

"I think we should maybe put the top up." woody laughed.

That was one of the only times i was covered up this week. My mom was surprised we hauled the kayak on top of the jeep, thus being unable to put the top up in case of bad weather. I guess it didn't even dawn on us. But even the rain west of Pittsburg, we left it down. The smell of rain and wet pastures is worth a million wet dashboards.

Finnaly as we curved along rt. 22 in the yellow light of an evening rain, I began to understand.

It doesn't always have to be sunny or warm or even comfortable to enjoy the life i am in. and the vurnerablity of self exposure is a risk i am beggining to welcome.

sure there are consequenses to such an act. but i found myself strangely at ease; and i am beggining to be comfortable with often being uncomfortable. with being open, and knowing i can, and eventually will, get caught in a storm.

i felt the sun. i felt the wind that moved across the lake as woody trimmed up the prop. i felt the cold rain as ran down my neck. i smelled the lavender and honeysuckle that sat just out of sight of the headlights. It was then i realized that letting myself be seen is sometimes the only way to find anything.

Maybe it is not the safest way. Sometimes it feels good. sometimes it hurts. but it is real. it is all beautiful. and what i am finding is worth the risk.

I smiled to myself as woody and his brother pulled in the rope after wake boarding. Kaiya and Prada were strethced out under the captian's chair. the sun was setting. the heat from the day was sinking into the water and the violet horizion bled into the dark lake. I was open. I was vunerable. I was exposed to world, and all that is in it. and in turn, am finding beautiful things.

I took a deep breath, looked up into the violet evening, I and hoped, with all my might, i will remember the summer i lived with my top down.

Independence Day

The pale blue light of early morning sat on the street. The sun was slicing it’s light across the rooftops and encroaching ever lower on the sides of the grey buildings across the street. Soon the white morning light would be shining on the over dressed ladies standing on the street corner, and the man in a spandex running suit walking a standard poodle. The barges siting on the river 4 blocks west gave an occasional groan and backing signal from the delivery truck dropping off pineapples to the corner store pierced otherwise docile street corner. It was relatively quiet – for New York City. It is the city that never sleeps, but 7:30 am on the 4th of july; it was, at least, catching its breath.

"Man you like you had a good night." He said as he walked towards me. "You looking to get fucked up?"

"No thanks." I replied. "Besides, I think I already am."

And it wasn’t from the drugs he was offering. But from the girl who was sleeping only a half a block behind me, up 3 brownstone steps, through a glass door, and up three flights of stairs. He laughed and walked on. As the two women wearing headphones ran past me, a stampede of yellow taxis was let out of the gate at the street light. One slowed down in front of me, and rolled down its window.

"No thanks." I yelled out." I am waiting for someone else.

I stood there with my bag on my back, waiting for woody to get the car and pick me up.

I stood there with my bag on my back, waiting to leave her.

I stood there with my bag on my back, waiting for the rest of my life to happen.

It was the first day a new year for me. I was standing in my flip-flops and a stained "havin’ fun west Virginia style" t-shirt. But I couldn’t think that too many people in W.Va. were feeling the way I felt at 7:30 am on the 4th of july on the corner of 46th and 9th ave. Youth and freedom are sometimes sublime agony. I had grabbed my bag, dry heaved over the dirty dishes in the sink, and walked out of her apartment and down the three flights of stairs, out the glass door, and down the three brownstone steps, and into the summertime in new york. There is an energy I am reminded of here. It makes me think about what I should or could be doing with my life. It makes me think about my next job, and it makes me think about money, opportunity, adventure, and the next big move in my life. It makes me think about how I will ever find her again, how I will ever find balance and happiness. I makes me think what it will feel like should i ever be found out, if i ever grow old, if I ever find love, success, and satisfaction, and if it will ever find me.

And as sun poured down the gray buildings, and the corner store opened its front doors, I tried my best size up my situation. I tried my best open my eyes as wide as I could. I tried my best to stop holding my breath, waiting for something big to happen in my life, and start breathing now and realize that big things are happening and they are happening right here and now. I tried my best to be comfortable with the fact that I don’t have the answers, and that my heart is breaking, and I am standing alone on a street corner in new york city on the 4th of july with the drunks, the dog walkers, the hookers, and the fruit delivery guys, with the rest of my life to live. And it will never be this way ever again.

This is my independence. For today.

thank you mrs. woodworth

"Well I think you boys should go there. You can take my car."

We were sitting at the picnic table in the soft grass under the maple tree. We were finishing dinner and the indigo water in the lake was beginning to calm.

Woody just rolled his eyes and smiled with part astonishment part uneasy excitement. He put his head down on the table.

"Are you sure?" I said. "We hadn’t really planned on this".
But we had. It was 4 hours to Manhattan. We would have left that night had woody’s jeep had windows and doors, and been a little more appropriate to park in the city over night.

"Besides." Woody said earlier on the boat. "Believe it or not, my mom is really excited for you birthday tomorrow, she has a special dinner planned. She would be upset to think we had better plans than to be here."

"Sure," she said. It sounds like you two will have fun."

If she only knew.

We left hammondsport at 7:30 the next morning. I gave her a thank you kiss on the cheek. Woody thanked her be peeling out in her grand cherokee as we left the gravel driveway. The last thing I saw was the disgusted look only a mother can make at her son.

The Catskills are beautiful. As I looked out the window at 80 mph, I could almost see them. Woody driving, and as usual, playing with the radio. As we rode along the banks of the Delaware river and into the poconos, we had dug out his mom’s tape with the mom style handwritten label: "Perfect Memories"

So as we barreled down the palisades parkway and over the George Washington Bridge, we had the windows down as Glenn Miller, the Kingston Trio, and Harry Belefonte sang to us about blueberry hills, tom dooley, and countless orchestrated tales of love. After woody offended the Caribbean man to whom he gave his mom’s keys to park the car behind concertino wire on a hydraulic car elevator, we walked out past the dead pigeon and into Manhattan. We were one block into the city and woody was already on his phone stirring up the network. "I wish you were here this weekend." I heard him say to one particular girl at least 3 times.

We made it to leanne’s in time for woody to meet her roommate, one of NYPD’s finest. I came out of the bathroom to find woody wearing her complete uniform, sans shoes and gun. "can wear this out tonight?" he asked her. "And do you keep handcuffs in your bedroom?"

The GPS woody had implanted in his brain led us to McSorley’s, and then to Hog’s and heifers, where, according to the bikini toped bartender, a $1.50 tip on three PBR’s and three whiskey shots of dickel isn’t a good tip in Manhattan. Woody didn’t apologize, but instead bought us more shots of whiskey, got her life story, and then asked her out on a date. All of the sudden, courtney - the bkini toped bartender, and leanne got up on the bar and danced to johnny cash. Then the bar tender leaned over and gave woody the middle finger. I guess that means no for woody.

The sun was still up as the buildings spun around above me. We walked to the taxi or maybe the subway. All I know is by the time it was dark, woody was still wearing his orange shirt with the silhouette of the state of California on it, that everyone in new york thinks is really either flordia, texas, italy, or a sock. I was still wearing my flip flops, but leanne was now wearing a gold sequined shirt that showed anyone who walked behind her why new york city is such an exciting place to visit.

White wined rooftops blurred into fluorescent lit and pastel tiled subway stations. Woody debated with the hosts of the dinner party as to where exactly in the world the country of Morroco is. But evidently, it is three flights down from the sidewalk by leanne’s apartment. As we walked down past the candles and velvet, an into the incense and music, leanne introduced us to a older gentleman in a linen suit who shook our hands and bowed his head, then promptly kicked out a group from the table on the platform right by the bar and told us to slide in. I blinked and woody, leanne, and her friend amy were playing drums and tambourines to the music. I kept expecting see belly dancers on a flying carpet appear. Or at least a monkey.

The one million lights of time square shined in leanne’s shirt as we plodded through Times Square soem time later. Woody stopped to look for the NYSE ticker that scrolled around the CBS building. I stopped to look at the sky above the city, which looked like it was a tie-dyed explosion aurora borealis could never compete with.

Far and away the best was saved for last. My new york experience was about to come to a crescendo. I walked down into a bar with low ceilings, lower lighting, and even lower expectations. Then from out of the crowd I see the boys at heatherette, the guys leanne works for. We had met them earlier in the day. They are fashion designers, who, in my novice opinion, are the next big thing. Or maybe there already are, for all I know. But what I do know is that the bar got a little bit brighter when I looked back over my shoulder to see wood’s eyes get real big as Mackey gave him a healthy kiss on the neck. I give a wave to richie rich. We bounce through the crowd like a pinball and woody and I end up on the canary yellow couch towards the back of the bar. My head was spinning, my battery was flickering. It was 3:30, and from what I can tell AM and PM have no bearing in new york. Woody and I sat there and watched the entire cross section of humanity, sliced right down through all the strata, walk and drink and dance and fondle right before our bleary eyes. People in Liberia are dying. The skinny guy in the bleach blond mullet was flirting with the dark complected guy in the yankees ball cap. Buildings are burning in Nigeria. The cowboys in the bachelor party were dancing with leanne. The little guy in the backpack and the stocking cap with his pants rolled up to his calves kept walking back and forth, occasionally breakdancing. Soldiers are marching on the Korean peninsula. The guy in the black cowboy hat and primary colored polo shirt was texas two stepping. Richie rich appeared from the crowd around the bar. Leanne said he used to be an ice capade. That must have been where he learned that move he did on the coffee table we had our feet propped up on as we sat in the canary yellow couch. He jumped up on one leg, held his arms out and did a triple lutz off the table and landed between woody and I. He kissed us on the cheek and told me how beautiful leanne is. I was hard to argue with him as we watched her grind on the leg of Traver, the other part of heatherette, who was wearing trousers with the words "post no bills" stenciled on them with spray paint.

As I we left, we bid farewell, and I said goodbye to richie rich.

"Take care of leanne, and keep up the good work, man." I said.

"Thanks, Todd." He said. "But don’t call me man. I wouldn't say i am much of one of those. Just call me Richie."

"Sorry, Richie" I said.

And kissed him on the cheek as I thanked Mrs. Woodworth for the day.