Some Nights are Better Than Others

Tonight's writing isn't going so well, and the more frustrated I become, the sleepier I get. Eyes blur and words separate into letters that squirm like ants on the page. I type the same word three times without looking, dreaming of something else entirely.

If I could capture what I'm dreaming about when I sleep-write, I'd probably give voice to the shade of Shakespeare, channel Chekov, but as it is, I shut the computer in disgust before my eyes close on their own.

Intrusive

I've somehow made it to the end of the block without any memory of the last five minutes. My heart is pounding and my fists are clenched, and the dog is panting from having walked so fast.

I can still see the kids that mugged me  - what is it, four years ago, now? - in my head, one posting up to block my path, the other trying to sweep in from the side, and me, beating them with a bag full of tupperware, the big kid cowering back with his hands up.

But what I can't seem to do is to stop seeing them.

All In My Head

The two grim looking guys propping up the one bike on the crowded subway have said nothing to each other the entire ride. My stop is coming up, and I can feel my anxiety level rising, knowing I'll have to ask one or the other to move.

"I'm afraid I've boxed myself in," I say to one of them apologetically as we pull to a halt. A wide, toothy grin splits his face, completely transforming him for a moment, and he deftly switches his hips to let me slip past.

Formalities

The small, screw-haired dog runs up, absent any sign of a leash or owner, and stops, one front paw raised daintily and a stricken look on her face, as Coco and I pass by.

But there, a few yards back, comes her owner, apparently. He walks straight up to me with his hand stretched out to shake, saying, "Happy spring to you."

"And to you, sir," I reply heartily, and shake his hand for lack of a better response.

Dinner Table Conversation

Our food has arrived, but nobody is eating until the owner of the restaurant finishes his story.

"So if you have a problem in the place that I am talking about," he says, with a gesture that indicates maybe the genitals? but he couldn't possibly mean that, "you put a little of this medicine on and bam, is gone."

"Or if you have a problem in the other place I am talking about," maybe the ass? it's really hard to tell, and my food is getting cold but I am absolutely NOT taking a bite while he's talking about this, "you put a little" (hand gesture that looks like shoving a finger up an invisible person's ass) "and is all fine."

Later, after he's gone back to the kitchen, Katie says, "I only understand maybe every fifth word, but he always tells such fascinating stories."

Hell is Other People

At the end of the block, a guy stands under a streetlight, smoking a cigarette. The dog has stopped to inspect a fire hydrant, giving me the opportunity to consider him, and he me, from half-a-block away.

My heart beats faster, but before I have a chance to work out my escape plan, he's tossed the cigarette to the sidewalk with a casual flick of his wrist and walked the other way, leaving me with the metallic whine of adrenaline singing in my ears.

I think back to New Hampshire roads, late at night, walking in darkness with no one around and feeling safer than I ever feel on a street with other people in New York.

Freedom/Invisibility

Walking the dog on a quiet deserted street at night, the lights all out in the windows of the brownstones above, I think to myself, "No one knows exactly where I am. I am alone."

I remember, as a kid in elementary school, the thrill of discovering that, if I simply walked away from class at the right moment, I could disappear completely for awhile: no one would be looking at me, or thinking about me, or telling me what to do, or judging me. I remember the vertigo, the sickening, half-pleasurable thrill I felt, when I returned to the classroom after what I deemed to be an appropriate interval, and realized that no one had even noticed I was gone.