He will show up looking sane. Perfectly sane.
The past couple of days, I’ve felt the need to get to work by the power of my own two feet. So each morning I’ve gotten up an hour early, bundled up (for what is supposed to be, by all accounts, the last blast of wintry weather here) and begun my day with a stroll from the Upper West Side to midtown, along the banks of the Hudson. And it’s been really nice. Totally worth the sleep sacrifice. I get to work feeling focused and refreshed—a far cry from how I often feel after the ordeal of stumbling down the subway steps, spending a few harried minutes packed in with the masses, only to trudge back upstairs and through the crazy midtown streets on the way to my office.
The irony of this is not lost of me, mind you, given the fact that when the transit system was shut down for a workers’ strike a little over a year ago, I hated every step of that miserable, forced walk to work. Every step. “Those selfish fuckers. How can they do this to us? To this city?” It’s amazing how drastically feelings can change with shifts in perspective. And I didn’t even have to sacrifice any sleep then. No one was expected to be on time during a transit strike.
This morning, somewhere along the river I found a dollar bill, crumpled up into a ball. I bent down, picked it up, put it in my pocket, and continued on my way. It’s sitting here now in fact, still balled up, still a single dollar bill. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what it is, since I haven’t gone ahead and un-balled it yet.
It’s weird. I’ve always had a hard time taking anything that “isn’t mine.” I mean, of course I picked it up when I saw it—you see money, you pick it up. If you don’t someone else will, and there’s no way of connecting it with the person who dropped it. But damned if that wadded up piece of paper didn’t feel like ball of fire in my back pocket for the first few minutes it was in there… My mind toyed with all the “possibilities” of what that dollar bill could “conceivably” bring into my life. What if it was riddled with germs and disease? What if it was a trick? What if it was left there intentionally by some sadistic bastard who had something horrible in store for the person who picked it up? Oh my god, it was rolled into a ball! I didn’t stop to unroll it! Who knows what could be wadded up in the center of it!
Yeah. Crazy. So then I was like, “Christ P/O, you’re crazy,” and the ball of fire in my pocket turned back into a regular dollar bill, and I continued on my way. No doubt to obsess over something else that I’ve since forgotten. And thus, this dollar bill has become a memento—a tangible reminder of a moment of crazy. I should keep it as a talisman of sorts, a tool to try and keep the crazy at bay in the future. Kind of like how business owners frame the first dollar they make. Or something like that.
Eh, but why bother. I really think I'd rather have a cup of coffee.
The irony of this is not lost of me, mind you, given the fact that when the transit system was shut down for a workers’ strike a little over a year ago, I hated every step of that miserable, forced walk to work. Every step. “Those selfish fuckers. How can they do this to us? To this city?” It’s amazing how drastically feelings can change with shifts in perspective. And I didn’t even have to sacrifice any sleep then. No one was expected to be on time during a transit strike.
This morning, somewhere along the river I found a dollar bill, crumpled up into a ball. I bent down, picked it up, put it in my pocket, and continued on my way. It’s sitting here now in fact, still balled up, still a single dollar bill. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what it is, since I haven’t gone ahead and un-balled it yet.
It’s weird. I’ve always had a hard time taking anything that “isn’t mine.” I mean, of course I picked it up when I saw it—you see money, you pick it up. If you don’t someone else will, and there’s no way of connecting it with the person who dropped it. But damned if that wadded up piece of paper didn’t feel like ball of fire in my back pocket for the first few minutes it was in there… My mind toyed with all the “possibilities” of what that dollar bill could “conceivably” bring into my life. What if it was riddled with germs and disease? What if it was a trick? What if it was left there intentionally by some sadistic bastard who had something horrible in store for the person who picked it up? Oh my god, it was rolled into a ball! I didn’t stop to unroll it! Who knows what could be wadded up in the center of it!
Yeah. Crazy. So then I was like, “Christ P/O, you’re crazy,” and the ball of fire in my pocket turned back into a regular dollar bill, and I continued on my way. No doubt to obsess over something else that I’ve since forgotten. And thus, this dollar bill has become a memento—a tangible reminder of a moment of crazy. I should keep it as a talisman of sorts, a tool to try and keep the crazy at bay in the future. Kind of like how business owners frame the first dollar they make. Or something like that.
Eh, but why bother. I really think I'd rather have a cup of coffee.
posted by P/O at 3/21/2007 10:42:00 AM
2 Comments:
Maybe it will be magic coffee.
I thought all coffee was magic. Well, except decaf. That s--t's nasty.
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