5 Nights in New York: 1

A clumsy wind is watching me tonight. It’s all I can do to open my jacket and embrace it as I sit on the curb, a cigarette in hand, watching the empty, harrowing street. I’ve told myself I’ll walk the long way and take unnecessary turns into streets that might lose me. I have said I will climb steep streets if I turn near them and run down vertical roads in case I might fall. I’ve promised myself I’ll make my walk home as miserable as possible. I’ll jump childishly into puddles by the road and purposely miss the green man at the crossing lights. I’ve never been good at keeping promises, but this time I will.

Earlier this evening, I huddled in the dark corner of the bar. The dark oak was etched with the names of lovers and lucky drunks. Some had tallies beside them, a primitive sign of promiscuity. I had been sitting in my corner for longer than I knew though the barman stopped serving quite a while ago. He realised my funds dried up weeks ago and my tab was long unpaid. He gave me a pity drink this evening. I was a regular, he almost felt obliged. I neglected to tell him I’d managed to score maybe five or nine drinks before his shift began an hour earlier.
“Why don’t you join?” The barman pointed to the gyrating, slick motion of young bodies entwined on the dance floor. A girl pumped her hips back and forth to the slow beat of the low baseline with a bottle swaying in one limp hand. She couldn’t have been older than 14, her breasts barely buttons under her tight dress. She circled the space with her eyes closed and a thin, freckled arm waving leisurely in the air. A small crowd formed around her watching the swing of her arm and the step of her feet. They smiled at her, mesmerized by her carefree exhibit of freedom. Some joined her until they realised this was her dance, her night. Her metallic mini dress shimmered and reflected the disco lights across the walls and across the faces of her admirers like a prepubescent mirror ball.

I detested her.

I got up slowly, measuring my steps towards her. It was her fault. The sum of my misery was in her fluid dance. The empty promises of the big city, the happiness I left at home it was because of her.
I stammered towards her. The sea of bodies slowly parted and I felt like Moses. She continued swaying, oblivious to my approaching steps until I tapped her on the shoulder. She turned her head in time to reach my tensed fist. I felt my knuckles hit bone as that undeniable crack echoed through the hall. There was blood. I didn’t know whether any was mine but a primal instinct buried under civilised manner broke free and laid claim to its revenge. War it cried as I swung again, this time at her eye. I wanted to wipe the electric blue makeup from it, and pull out those fake lashes. Reveal the pink flesh underneath. That was all.

She was on the floor weeping when I felt thick fingers clasp around my arms. I saw her tears mop onto the floor as I was dragged away. I didn’t kick or scream. I participated, relaxed and enjoyed the ride outside, all the while keeping my eyes on her. The strong arms holding me up and carrying me out pulled back before hurling me forward onto the black glossy bitumen. I saw it get closer as I dropped in slow motion before I landed, plummeted, with my face catching my fall.
“Get out of here you stupid drunk.” The taller of the men shouted down at me with spittle spraying white in the night air.
“Hurry up before we call the cops.” The other man stood at the door with his arms crossed over his chest, nodding.
I peeled myself off the road and walked home. I said I would go the longer way around but I was humiliated enough and it was a stupid promise.

The walk was long and I lost my way unintentionally anyway. The cuts on my face bled down my dress, a red torrent reaching for my knees. My fist stung as I stuck it out to cool against the wind. The darkened streets were never quiet. I heard the sounds that had become my lullabies at night. I wondered if I would ever sleep without them; sirens ringing through the night, cars speeding by, arguments escaping through walls and deep mournful cries. This was the city. When would the time come when one of the street’s melodies rang for me?

I had left the lights on. I almost always left them on, a family warning back home that I had forgotten the reason for now. The answering machine beeped me a welcome. I hadn’t checked it in over a month, hoping it would build up. Three messages.

“Hi, it’s Kevin just reminding you you’re rent’s due next Thursday. You missed last month’s so don’t forget to pay that too. Call me if you’re having any trouble with it. Ok bye.”

“Hello, it’s Patty, would you mind taking my shift this weekend? I have a party to go to but everyone else from work is going. I’d really appreciate it.”

“Hello dear, how is everything in the city? You should really contact us more often; your father and I are getting worried. Are you doing ok? Please phone us this week. Alright, have a good week and I’ll hopefully talk to you soon. Oh and we never got your address in that e-mail you sent. We’d love to visit you. You’re father sends his love.”

I sat on the floor and replayed the messages. It felt good to hear those voices and reply to their questions. The third time around I stopped it. I made my way down the stairs with a bottle of orange juice and a thin cigarette and sat on the curb looking into the night sky.
Now I’ve nearly finished the juice and my head is clearing up. I’ve sobered down slightly and I regret that. I want to forget but I’ve always had clarity after a long night.
My mother calls me regularly, once a month, exactly the day after my landlord. Day and night couldn’t have a swifter routine. I can’t let her see me, here, like this. I can’t bring myself to see her either. That would mean admitting in sobriety I’m not happy here. It would mean telling her she made a mistake and admitting to the lies I sent in letters and e-mails.
I haven’t talked to her in the last three years. The slightest quiver in my voice would give me away. If not that, then the caring questions that hit you where it hurts most, the kind that only mothers know would break my shield. Even the right inflection in her voice could set the emotions rushing like an opened flood gate. So I play it safe and lie well. I create fantasies for her; a life where her daughter lives in an upmarket apartment with two classy roommates and a glass of red every now and then, if only to keep her happy.

I dropped the cigarette into the orange juice and watched the grey smoke rise into the darkness before its feint wisps slithered away.

What can I tell her? It won’t be forever. I promise I’ll see her when things are good and I promise things will get good. I’ve never been good at keeping promises, but this time I will

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alchoholic, city, lost, new york and woman