Thirsty is not a mood (7/25/07)

thirsty is not a mood
Current mood: thirsty

Unless the only way to slake it is with mint juleps, a shot of rye, and beer from my growler. THEN you're building yourself a mood. The growler's a throwback to my early days of dousing myself in 64's of Olde English. Now I drink 10 dollar brooklyn microbrews out of a similar jug, and it lasts me days instead of an hour or two late at night on a porch in weather just like we been having.

I got new shirts people. Cowboy ones, all plaid and snap buttons. One has pearl buttons, which is sweeter than honey to me. I also got an orange part polyster number that fits like a glove, made by "Mr. California." I found all this stuff out in Ohio while visiting my folks--cost me 6.89. That's yummy price. I haven't found cowboy shirts since california, and not for lack of looking. Seems as though cowboys are not drawn to new york town. Go figure. I think it kills cowboys--all that pavement under bootheels--but that's just a hunch talking. But these shirts are bad-aaaaassss. I feel about finding these shorts the way Nathan does about his lucky hat. And if you don't know then, well, you're probably a hatless know-nothing jerk, and, yes, you can indeed suck it.

Anyway. To summer! clink. This one's to summer, especially east coast summers. I wish I'd written something to west coast summers, too, as they are mighty fine, but here i am on the mosquito coast and sweating my nards off--my arms actually glide together, like a fat woman who rides the wal-mart rascal scoot's do EVERYday regardless of heat cold or otherwise meteorological temperament--so I figured it was time to let the beer glass sit a minute and sweat while I tell you what I saw today on the subway.

Summer's for love, whether it's the maniac kill yourself feverbrained distress signal love of Romeo and Juliet (which I got to see in Central Park last month--I'm a lucky little devil, and not just cause I have that t-shirt), or whether it's a less dramatic form of teenaged, or middle-aged child raising, or newlywed, or wrinkled comfy couch. It seems like all the varieties come out in this season--heat makes passion, but it makes a whole of other feelings mixed up in the cake batter we call i fancy you, too.

So I'm waiting on the franklin ave. platform for the 5 train to union square. You should all know this by now--the peeling brown diarrhea paint on the riveted steel platform girders, the two Indian employees that work their newsstand every day underground without air conditioning and who i get my water for a dollar even from as well as a new york times on sundays sometimes, the fat black almost cowboy (ALMOST) in his big black hat with like gold medallions on it, the countless snide t-shirts on the rail skinny girls and boys and the rampant playground atmosphere amid the squealing train cars as they arrive and depart in metered succession on numbered rail lines--2, 3, 4, 5. That's what stops at franklin ave. And I'm usually stopped waiting for the 4 to union square, or at least once a week when i go to the farmer's market.

Generally I stand close to the edge--close enough to make Olivia panic if she's there, too, close enough to get beeped at....once---and I've got a canvas "Brooklyn Reads to Babies" bag Olivia got free from the public library slung on my shoulder (she works there), and my peripheral vision sees this shape take form, slinky style, right behind my left shoulder. So I kinda half-turn, and this skinny ass girl with permed straight ponytail and a "I'm addicted to my space" shirt stands there like a flamingo on one railspindle leg.

I don't see her again until i sit down and she's nearly right across from me. Somehow, somehwere, she's conjured up a boyfriend. This dude--not tall, but tough looking--bout her height, I'd say, with big steady eyes, cornrows, jeans pale-striped in the fashion of the era and a faded old Notorious BIG shirt, both loose as her shirt and cuffed jeans are tight. Sitting there staring at her, waiting for her to flinch first, not saying nothin. And she smiles and ducks her head down into his shoulder and steals his right hand into her right hand and drags his forearm across to her body and nestles it, pins it there, to hold.

And I realize they're in love.

I try not to stare, but I'm collecting details, you know--this is for a PIECE, for an assignment--and my ipod is barely audible on the train most of the time anyway. I can't hear what they're saying, and it's almost better, because whatever sort of silly spat they're having based on a disagreement, whatever temporary disguise he's trying to wear for the way he really feels about her and whatever wiles she tries to put on him to break that mask down, whether it's the arm tug, the head ducking nuzzle, or the twinkle toes fingers of her other hand that go up the billowing mainsail of his t-shirt tails, I can see it all better without the audio. THe body language and expressions, no matter how tough and no matter how playfully coy they are, no matter how much the city's concrete dust and metal whine and general hard-headed pride-filled nonsense of reputation and respect and glory be cash rules testimony has gotten into them, even early, even at this age--and it has, you can see it--even in spite of all that, toppling it, is that simple scribble you know you put on a napkin or a note in middle school or somewhere, rushed and heart thumping and kind of a thrill, like trying drugs or a roller coaster:

baby i love you so much.

and that's it, folks. I don't care if it's ten minutes, ten days, or ten years, or ten years times ten years, you been with the one you love. If you don't remember baby i love you so much, that rush gush heartflume ride, then you don't know summer, cause your heart's too cold to melt in it.

I'll see you all sooner and more frequent than the last increment's been, I hope.