Wednesday, August 22, 2007

gold nuts

ive got a knife in my hand and i am looking over the edge, down seventeen floors into oncoming traffic. then i look up and see the Hudson River and there is a boat leaving the island headed towards Jersey and it disappears behind a high rise five stories higher than the one im on. i check out the deck to the penthouse and frown. damn, its a little bit classier than mine.

well, its not mine, per se, so much as it is the one i am standing on. behind a bar cutting limes just so thick but not too thin. wearing a black t-shirt that i bought on the way to the subway station and the black slacks i got for my grandfathers funeral. i have my juices all set up and my martini mix prepared. my hair is freshly cut. my teeth are brushed (but still, my breath's not so hot). im waiting for people to start arriving and im staring at the top of the city, where it scrapes at the sky, from the roof deck of a penthouse in the upper west side.

well, at least i was on saturday.

i was working a private event for a friend of a friend. bartending for a caterer for an extra few hundred in my wallet. i needed the scratch. im sure you know the feeling. anyway, this was on saturday and the weather was mild and the sky clear. the party was at dusk. someones engagement. im not sure who. there were only a handful of people there, some old and some young. the young girls in gowns straight off the racks of 5th ave, the old broads in flowing pants and sashes that looked like they were hand knit by an old lady with no teeth and no legs in a small hut in a village where there is always war.

they were nice though. all of them. and big drinkers and hearty laughers and so curious about what one another were doing. i got along famously with a majority of them. my chemicals balanced well with the altitude, the sunset, the slight chill and the view. my blood flowed easy and my charm was on thick.

they'd lived in the -i dont know what you call a penthouse. an apartment? a house?- building- for fifteen years. i dont know what she did (though she seemed the type to take care of her weight) but his gig was about as impressive as could be. he wrote all of Ken Burns documentaries. i poured him a ginger martini, smiling loosely, and quietly gushed about the Jazz series to him. he laughed a little and thanked me, sounding genuinely humble. he told me it was his favorite of all the pieces he had worked on and then asked if i was cold and i looked out over the skyline and tried not to shiver. he told me he would grab me a long sleeve jacket if i wanted. i said sure thanks.

the next morning i forget. and that evening was brutal.

then monday arrived. the weather was miserable but im a man on the go. first, i hopped on the yellow line going to the city and got off downtown in the financial district. i saw a couple of tourist taking a picture while standing next to the balls of the Wall Street Bull. i couldnt tell if they meant it as a joke, or if they were just too lazy to wait in line for a photo in the more iconic front of the bull. like normal, non-animal molesting tourist do. my schools campus is in front of the sculpture, so i just dismissed it. im sure ill be seeing a lot of perverted german bull testicle worship for the next few months, and i didnt have the time to explore it any further at that moment.

im busy.


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:gray matters: by jkg is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at