ed

[trentm32]

...tweaked some stuff, added about two more pages...

[joe_canadian]

you're a fantastic writer, man.

thanks bro!

just wondering but did you get the names from the people on here?

nope, let's see...

alex - an homage to my fave character on the now defunct TV show Roswell.

Cassie - a bit character on a seventh season episode of Buffy The Vampire Slayer; I just loved the name.

Julia - from the song. Julia (Piano) is 'effin gorgeous.

Holy shit, another male who actually watches Buffy.

[trentm32]

my friend, Buffy is the schiznit.

[joe_canadian]

Xander is my hero yo.

[trentm32]

ditto.

[happening fish]

alex - an homage to my fave character on the now defunct TV show Roswell.

Damn.

and also an homage to one of my fave CM-ers.

*mwah*

[clumsychild_]

Xander is my hero yo.

Buffy = awesome. I need to buy more DVDs.

[joe_canadian]

He seriously is.

If you watch the first two seasons you will know me.

[clumsychild_]

I have to get the first 3 seasons, I haven't seen too many of those episodes. The early seasons are upwards of 70 bucks, though. I own seasons 5 and 6 and I rented all of season 4 from Blockbuster (disc by disc).

[Random Name]

I have a friend who is (or was) terribly obsessed with Buffy. Before they came out on DVD's she had literally every episode on tape. There were shelves of tapes. It was scary. None the less, its a kick-ass show.

[trentm32]

I've got all the DVDs.

[joe_canadian]

I watched Once More With Feeling last night.

"They got the mustard ooooooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuuuut!"

[Rusty]

buffy's hot

[clumsychild_]

I watched Once More With Feeling last night.

"They got the mustard ooooooooooooooouuuuuuuuuuuuuuut!"

I get the songs from that episode in my head all the time.

[joe_canadian]

Buffy is the least interesting character on that show.

And I sincerely don't find Sarah Michelle Gellar remotely hot.

[trentm32]

agreed that she's about the least interesting character; but, come on, she's hot as FIRE.

[joe_canadian]

I disagree sir.

Giles, however..

[trentm32]

To make things a little easier on the eyes on here, I'm gonna cut future posts of the story into chunks. I would call it chapters, but I haven't decided where to cut the chapters. So, I cut off the first part toward the end, and here's the next part. In the future I'll slice it at about every new five pages I write.

So, what you guys think about where it's all going?...

"fallen leaves" [CHUNK 2] (Edit Six)

On some level I always knew the answer: I wanted to write. I’d written short stories ever since I could remember, and I’d been scribbling poetry before I even knew what it was. I had notebooks upon notebooks filled with stories, rants, journal entries, poems, and pretty much anything that came to mind. I hadn’t taken much time to write since I left home. I hadn’t noticed until then how much I missed it. I stopped then and there, spread out under a tree, with the late morning chill in the air, and began to write. I wrote a few pages about what had happened since I’d left; trying to keep a log so I could look back on it someday. It was too early to tell exactly how I would look back on it. But, whatever the future holds, maybe I’ll have learned from this past.

After close to an hour of just pouring out my soul, I got up feeling refreshed. I was lacking sleep, but I at least got everything that had been building up inside my out. If you aren’t able to talk about your problems, writing them down is definitely the next best thing. I started walking again, and pretty soon I came upon a truck stop. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a bath, so I popped in and took about a forty-five minute shower. I got the dirt off, but on some level I was hoping the water would wash the confusion and defeat off of me. It didn’t work. I suppose a superficial wash was better than nothing, though. I changed clothes, and loaded my dirty ones into my duffel.

I left the truck stop and started on my way again. I only made it a few minutes until a truck driver who had seen me in the station pulled alongside me and offered me a lift. He was headed to North Carolina, so I gladly took him up on it. After a few minutes, I picked up on the fact that, back in his younger days, this guy must have been a hippie. He was about in his mid-forties, and pulled out a dime bag and started rolling a joint a few minutes after we got moving. All I could do was chuckle. “You want a hit dude? Always seems to mellow me out for driving.” “No thanks” I replied. “The stuff never mixed well with me.” “Cool, cool” he said. “To each his own dude, to each his own.” For obvious reasons, this guy got me thinking about Connor. If Connor had lived to be that old, I bet that’s how he would be. A little burned out, but still a pretty nice guy. Rest in peace old buddy, rest in peace. We crossed into North Carolina without me even noticing, and he dropped me off in some little faceless town. He was heading out West from there, so that was the best he could do me. I thanked him.

By now it was inching toward late afternoon, so I started looking around the town. I was right in the middle, best I could tell, so I started looking for anything of interest. I spotted a coffee shop, but I was kind of burned out by then. I had drunk more coffee since I’d left home than I had in the entire month leading up to it. If I had much more I’d probably get the shakes. I continued past it, and stumbled into a record store. Pretty cool place for a small town. I didn’t have the money to spare to actually buy anything, but browsing was fun enough. I ran across some cool indie stuff; an old Bright Eyes record, some imported Matthew Good; darn cool store. I lost track of time, and spent close to an hour in that shop.

If I ever opened a store, this is how it would be. Cool posters covering the walls, hard-to-find (but well worth finding) CDs; this is the type of place I’d like to have had around to work as an after school job. The best I could do for an after school job was moving furniture part time for a local mobile home lot. Swapping the couches and chairs out of trailers they had sold. It was easy, kind of lame, but easy. It gave me enough spending money for high school, so I can’t complain too much.

As I was walking out of the store, I looked down at the lower part of the door. On it hung a poster for Better Than Ezra. Cassie had always been a big Better Than Ezra fan, so it got me thinking about her. Actually, now that I think about it, she was the one who got me listening to them in the first place. I hadn’t talked to Cass in a day or so, and I was bored, so I decided to send her another postcard. I walked over to the grocery store across the street and found a pretty cool one on the small rack by the registers. It had a picture of a sunset on it. I checked my wallet but I had used my last one, so I bought a single stamp, as well.

“Cassie—

I miss you so much. I’m seeing so many things out here that I never thought I’d see. Doing things I never thought I’d do. I have no money, barely any plan; and for some reason I’m happier now than I’ve ever been. The only thing I miss about home is you. You’re my best friend. I miss you so much, Cass. I just wanted to let you know I was doing alright out here. I think I’m gonna make it…

—Alex”

I found an old postbox, and dropped the card in. By now the sun was setting, and I had nowhere to go for the night. I found a Waffle House, open 24 hours, so I went in there and sat down. I headed to the back corner of the empty place, where hopefully no one would bother me. I had to order something, so I got a cup of coffee. I didn’t really want it, but I was so hungry I just started drinking it to fill up. After about four cups I was feeling a little less starved, so I wrapped my duffel in my arms and leaned my head against the wall for a little shut eye. I suppose the waitresses took pity on me, and they didn’t wake me up or run me off until morning.

At about six in the AM, one of the waitresses woke me up and asked me if I wanted a refill on my coffee. “Want another cup son?” She gave me that sly smile of slight pity, the kind you give to a homeless man you meet on the street, as I thanked her for the refill, and took a few sips to get that nasty morning taste out of my mouth. It didn’t work, so I hit up the bathroom and brushed my teeth. I settled my bill, left what bit of change I could for a tip, and trotted out of the little run-down building and back toward the street, to try and hitch a ride. It took about two hours of shining the thumb, but finally a vehicle pulled over. I jogged to the rolled down passenger window and said hello. It was a cherry red, four-door Ford Explorer. In it were three guys about my age.

They were headed to Canada, and more than happy to give a fellow vagabond a lift. Turns out these guys were from Texas. They were on their post-high school senior trip, making a massive road trip around the country. “So, where you headed man?” they asked me. “I don’t know… up North I guess.” I chatted with these guys the whole time I was with them. They were, I guess what you’d call ‘rich kids’; but still pretty nice. I guess not all stereotypes turn out true.

…you lived life as an understatement,
a beatnik to the depths of your soul…

The three of them were taking their time and having fun, so we stopped at about every town we came to, you know, didn’t get in a very big hurry. The day flew by with hardly any progress, and we only made it about halfway through Virginia by the time nightfall came. The guys knew I didn’t have too much cash, so they offered me a spot on the floor in the hotel room they were renting for the night. I gladly took them up on it. “Thanks guys, I really appreciate it” I said. I sprawled out on that floor like it was a king-size bed in a hotel suite. That dingy hotel room floor became a palace. My God it felt good to sleep lying down for a change. We all slept late, and didn’t get up until about eleven o’clock in the morning. It took until a little after noon for us all to get gone.

Out of the three of those guys, I bonded most with Josh. He was the least financially endowed (my fancy way of saying poorest) of the three, and also a bit of a musician. He was taking all the time stuck in a car on this trip to work on a few songs for a demo album he was going to put together when he got back to Texas. He had brought his guitar with him, and we all spent most of the time I was with them singing along to Beck and Pearl Jam songs strummed by Josh. Hanging out with these guys reminded me of chilling with my buddies back in Alabama. Just kicking around, goofing off; having some good times.

On their way to visit Canada, the guys were planning on going through New York City. I myself had never been, so when they said I should just hang with them for a few more days; I was more than happy too. It turns out Josh has an aunt that lives in Manhattan, and she didn’t mind at all if we crashed at her apartment for a few nights. From the way he talks about her, she seems like a pretty cool lady. Josh and I got into a talk about music, and before I knew it we had gotten about an hour into co-writing a song between us. I didn’t know much about music, but writing was sort of my amateur foray. We worked on that song the rest of the way through Virginia, and almost all of the way through New Jersey. By the time we got to a little place a bit outside of New York City, the song was sounding great.


…I'm digging through my notebooks,
for a picture I haven't taken yet
I can see it in my head,
as that's where the sun sets…

We parked the Explorer in a secure parking deck, and started into the city. We had to catch a bus in; there went a couple of bucks from the little bit I had left. The bus ride lasted about twenty-five minutes, and by the time we pulled into the station I had an awful case of the jitters. From the road I had seen the back side of the city. Buildings that reach to the sky, smog, it was amazing. Some nobody kid from small town Alabama would soon be walking around in one of the largest cities in the world.

…my camera just sits idle,
too busy trying to remember
that the reason I brought it with me,
is so all of this would linger…

As the bus stopped and the door opened, the four of us just kind of stood there, dazed. “So guys, you ready for this?” Josh asks, looking at me and the other two guys I was with; Bill and Jeremy. “Absolutely,” we replied. The four of us slowly, sheepishly walked off the bus. The station we entered was massive. Dozens of buses, restaurants, and stores scattered around the complex. It was positively mind-blowing. We spent half an hour just wandering around the bus station. I found an awesome little book and magazine store in there. I spent so much time looking around in there that I almost lost the rest of the guys. Everything in there was so new, so metropolitan. Once we finally found our way out, we walked straight out into the middle of the world. We were in Times Square, New York City, in early afternoon.

…I suppose I'll just keep walking,
maybe someday I'll get there
and for every fall I take,
God give me strength to bear…

From the moment my eyes lay sight on that city, I knew then and there that it would be a defining moment of my life. The buildings reached so high. It was like they were scraping the bottom of heaven. The streets went out in every direction you could see. There were people everywhere. You couldn’t stand still without having a million people a second bustling by you, into you, through you. I craned my head straight up. Once I finally passed the tops of the buildings, I found the sky shining above so blue. Such a thick blue. Everything seemed so bright, it all seemed so unreal. The billboards were larger than most buildings I’d ever seen. It was so big. I’d seen pictures, I’d read books, I’d seen movies, but I never could have imagined how truly big it all is.

We stood there, entranced, for what seemed like forever. None of us had ever been here, and no one had a map, so the four of us just looked at each other. It was Josh that broke the silence. “So… left sound good?” “Works for me,” Jeremy said. Bill and I just shrugged and started laughing. We all had our different things we wanted to see while we were there. I had to see the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Josh wanted to see The Phantom of the Opera on Broadway, Bill wanted to buy an “I Love New York” shirt, and Jeremy wanted to go to Chinatown. With that as our rough agenda, we started walking left.

Jeremy stopped off at the first souvenir shop we saw to get a map of the city. After careful inspection, he decided on this insanely detailed five boroughs map. The map included all the placed we wanted to see. Bill bought his “I Love New York” shirt there; I picked one up as well; they were only five bucks a piece. We wandered from place to place until we had surely seen everything the souvenir shops had to offer. They all had the same things in them, but somehow it all seemed different at every single store we stopped in. The key chains, the post cards, the t-shirts; all of it was brand new, every time.

After all the window shopping, we were getting pretty tired and hungry, so we stopped off in a little pizzeria to chill out. Chucks Pizza Parlor; it was quite a classy place. We ordered up two large deep-dishes between the four of us, and spread the map open upon the table while we waited on the food. Jeremy pulled out a pen, and started tracking down all the things we wanted to see. I poked my head out of the restaurant door to find out which street we were on, so after we’d found ourselves we started figuring out where we needed to go to see what we wanted to see. I noticed in the corner of the restaurant there was a pamphlet rack, so I went over there and grabbed an armload of whatever seemed interesting.

I learned via the pamphlet that the Met museum was already closed for the day, so my suggestion was shot. Bill had already got his shirt, so he was happy. The Phantom of the Opera has started about an hour and a half ago; so we couldn’t do that at the moment, either. Left with only one viable idea between the four of us, we laid out a route to get to Chinatown. At about that time, our pizzas came up. We devoured both of them in a matter of minutes, settled the bill and headed out.

Judging by the map, we could catch a subway a little ways down that would get us within a few blocks of Chinatown. Not knowing for sure what a subway entrance looked like, we just kind of circled the block, hoping we’d run into it. It turns out we’d trip over it. We were all chatting about how long to spend in the city, when suddenly Bill kind of disappeared.

Apparently, a subway entrance is nothing more than a barely marked stairway on the street. After he stumbled down about half the flight, Bill caught himself and ran into the stairwell wall. He was alright, nothing bruised but his ego. Now that we’d found the subway system, we just had to figure out how to use it. Once we’d spent about ten minutes on the little machine, plus pissed off about a dozen people behind us, the four of us finally got our subway MetroCards out of the contraption. We found the appropriate spot, and appropriate speed to swipe at, and were finally ready to get on the other side of the little gate. How could we have known that there would be that many routes jotting around underneath that city? We huddled into a corner, pulled the map back out to the subway section, and took close to ten minutes figuring out which train we needed to be on.

A dull roar started to echo from the empty corridor we were all craning to look down. Suddenly, as if out of thin air, this great light shone through the darkness. Within seconds the subway train was stopped in front of us, with dull expressed people getting off and on, off and on. It’s beyond me how this could ever become routine. This hugely complicated machine, dozens of them crisscrossing around the city. It’s amazing. How could seeing this, doing this ever be monotonous?

We had to ride for a while, but we finally got to the stop we were waiting for. The four of us jumped off and trotted up the stairs to the bustling city waiting above. We made it topside, and Bill pulled out the map to see which way we needed to go. “Left again?” asked Josh. Bill rolled his eyes and continued studying the map. He pointed down a street. “That way,” he said. We only had to trek a couple of blocks before we came into Chinatown. Chinatown was a lot like Times Square. Only it was grittier, more real. Not to mention more Chinese. Hardly anything was in English; it was like walking across the street and into another country. The little shops were run-down, but not in a bad way. The place just felt like it’d been used. Like it’d been lived in. Like all the polish had worn off, and all that was left was this beautiful, homely place. It was amazing.

We stopped at almost every shop we came to. Everything was way less expensive than it was in Times Square. The shirt I’d spent five dollars on went for about three bucks there. I didn’t want to blow any more money on souvenirs, but I saw something I couldn’t pass up. In our aimless wandering, we had happened into an ‘authentic’ Japanese store. While browsing the aisles, I came across this small, brown beaded bracelet. It was then that the middle-aged Chinese lady that worked in the store started in on telling me the origins behind the bracelet. It was made to give the wearer good fortune, more specifically good luck with love. If anyone needed that thing, I did. “See, see this bracelet give you vedy, vedy good luck with the girls. Dey will go cwazy, cwazy for you. Cwazy!” How could I say no to that pitch? I talked her down from the asking price of five dollars to four, and left the little shop styling a little more than when I entered.

With nighttime well upon us, we decided to head back towards Times Square to see what goes on there at night. Now experienced subway riders, it only took us each about three tries to get through the turnstile and into the underground station. From there we again found a corner to pull out our map, and figured out how to get back to Times Square. By the time we figured out which train we needed, it was already starting to load. We grabbed our stuff and ran aboard before it left.

By now we were all getting a little tired, so the four of us kind of propped up against the windows and rested a few moments. I was too excited to actually shut my eyes, so I just scanned the different people on the train. My eyes soon fell upon a young boy of about fourteen years-old. He was reading the latest issue of Rolling Stone, and had little white ear bud headphones in his ears. I followed the thin white cord to an iPod clipped on his hip pocket. He was wearing designer jeans and a rock band t-shirt.

Seeing this kid, watching him sit there tapping his foot to the music and looking at the pictures in his magazine, got me to thinking about how superficial I was. I looked at this kid and saw myself, at least the me I tried to project to other people. I wasn’t cool enough to actually have an iPod, but pretty much everything else had me covered. Wearing rock t-shirts so people would think I was rebellious; designer jeans so they’d think I was rich. This kid was living his life like I used to. Living by the philosophies of popular music, and the quotes in the tabloids. I had always been that way, up until I left home, but now I was looking for more. Looking for the reasons behind the truth. I still had about five minutes of subway ride left, so I pulled out my journal…

a thin leather jacket, act like I don't care
conformist rebellion, and I'm in repair
what we need changes, every look out the door
and I still can't see, what we're fighting for

feigning like truth, so long you forget
the person you are, and what you have spent
it's the mask that I wear, at least the most
got to pick my lie, just avoid the ghost

turn up the volume, can't get any louder
nothing changes, you couldn't be prouder
a tawdry facade, full of flash and fret
been going too long, can't let it stop yet

shed all these layers, therein lies the fear,
once they're all gone, then what'll be here
something much more, wouldn't that be great
doubt that it's granted, too much to create

hang up my jacket, fill a closet with nothing
wish there was more, there's got to be something
replete the world, let the real me just flow
will it just start to pour, God I don't know

let it be change, maybe just what I need
to lose my compliance, and learn how to lead
but with everything gone, there's just so much space
got to learn how to walk, and stumble with grace

The train came to a halt at the Times Square stop. I woke the rest of the guys, who had fallen dead asleep in about thirty seconds, and told them we needed to get off. They groggily concurred, and the four of us stumbled out of the subway car and into the station. On the way toward the staircase above ground, I heard the start of Michael Jackson’s song “Thriller.” Josh and the rest of the guys heard it too, so we followed our ears until we found the source; a Michael Jackson impersonator blasting the song through a boom box. Only in New York. This guy danced an absolutely hilariously choreographed dance to the song; grabbing himself more times than I’ve ever seen the real Michael do it in my whole life combined. Maybe he had an itch. I pulled my camera out and took a couple of pictures of the guy.

We strolled up the stairs and right back into the middle of the world. There was music coming from a thousand different directions, slicing through the thick night air like a blade. After walking about half a block, we came across a street artist. He used spray paint and cylinders to make these 80’s-ish skyline pictures of the city. We stood there for close to twenty minutes watching him put one together. It was pretty cool, I have to admit, but Jeremy thought it was the most awesome thing he’d ever seen. Once the picture was finished, he immediately dropped twenty bucks to buy it. We then started looking for a box office so we could pick up tickets for the next night’s showing of “The Phantom of the Opera.” Jeremy spent the rest of the night holding his picture above his head, trying not to bend or smudge it. I just walked along fingering my bracelet. The way I look at it, you always need to have at least one nervous habit.

After a bit more wandering, we came across a city center building, or something like that. In the window hung a sign that said “Broadway/Yankees/Concert Tickets,” so we went in. There was a young guy working behind the counter. After chatting with him for a minute, we found out that there were four cheap tickets left to the next night’s showing, running for about twenty five bucks a piece. I didn’t need to spend the money, but I always wanted to see a play on Broadway. The four of us bought the tickets, and headed back out into the fray of Manhattan. Judging by my watch, it was already almost two in the morning. We were all completely exhausted, so we decided to head to Josh’s aunt’s house and crash out.

He called her on Bill’s cell phone (nationwide coverage) and got directions for how to get to her apartment building. All we had to do was go down about five blocks, she lives right outside of Times Square, so it only took us about twenty minutes to get there. She met us at the entrance to the complex, and led us up to her place. The apartment was extravagant; high ceilings, classy chandeliers, fancy furniture. It was, without a doubt, a sweet pad. On the way in she was chatting with us. “My husband is a surgeon; he’s gone most of the time and I’m left in this big empty place by myself. It’ll be good to have more people around.” She had a converted Northern accent; you could still hear a tinge of Texan twang at the end of her sentences.

She had two empty bedrooms, both with king-size beds, so we all got a solid-sized half of one to ourselves. We slept from about three in the morning ‘till about three in the afternoon. I don’t think I’ve ever slept that hard in my life. If the building had burst into flame, and fire trucks were wailing in my ears, I don’t think even that could have woken me up. When I woke up, the rest of the guys were still asleep. I eased myself out of the bed, trying not to wake up Bill (whom I was sharing a room with). I took about a thirty minute shower, and got a good shave and clean-up in. Once I had finished up, and helped myself to a soda from the fridge, I woke the rest of the guys up. I chilled out on the sofa as they took about an hour and a half to get ready. It wasn’t until about 5:30 PM that we were all dressed and ready to hit the town.

Our showing of “The Phantom of the Opera” didn’t start until eight o’ clock that night, so we had about an hour to kick around until we needed to find the theatre. With some time to kill, we decided to hit up the Sbarros pizza joint for some dinner. When we first walked in, the place reminded me of the Sbarros franchise restaurant at the mall a town over from the one I used to live in. It wasn’t until I got my food and went downstairs into the dining area that I realized how huge the place was. It sprawled out table after table, as far as the eye could see. We picked a spot in the far right, a few tables over from some good-looking girls.

We ate our pizza as quick as we could, and headed out to try and find Broadway. After asking directions from a few dozen people, we finally figured out where we needed to go. We fought our way through the thickening crowd of people in Manhattan, and eventually ended up on Broadway. There were huge signs, with bright, shining lights dangling from the tops. Words framed in blindingly white lights running a never-ending chase. In this place, I felt immensely out of my element. The people here had on suits, ties, tuxedos, tight red dresses and high heel, hundred dollar shoes. Then here we come; four guys barely old enough to vote, dressed in jeans, caps, and t-shirts. It took us almost fifteen minutes to make it to the Majestic Theatre, where our show was playing. It wasn’t that it was crowded; it was actually pretty tame compared to the rest of the city. It was just absolutely nothing like anything we’d ever seen before. Before that day, the closest thing to a theatre I’d ever seen was the three movies Cineplex back in my hometown. Being here made me feel like I always wanted to be here. I wanted to be one of those guys wearing a thousand dollar suit, with a gorgeous woman draped on my arm. I wanted to read the Broadway reviews in the latest New York Times. I wanted to schmooze around cocktail parties, chatting about the actors, the writing, the emotion. I wanted to be here.

…the old grey streets,
so filled with history, and with love
running 'round with so much passion,
so lost but finally found

I swear to myself that I'll return,
sadly a promise I'll likely break
for I've finally found my place,
if only I could be there…

The outside of the Majestic was breathtaking. Looking back, it wasn’t really all that big or anything. But, in that moment, as wide-eyed out of my element as I was, it seemed like a towering castle with a “Majestic” sign hanging like a holy grail. We strolled in, about ten minutes before the show started, and kept on moving as the doors opened. We asked the usher where our seats were located. “Go up the staircase, to the left, and keep going up until you run out of stairs.” That was our first hint that our seats probably wouldn’t be too close to the stage. We went up so many flights of stairs that I just eventually lost count, and when we got to the end the usher looked at our tickets and pointed to the top corner of the place. We walked up there to find our seats on the very last row in the house; the four seats farthest in the corner.

We were so excited about being there; being in the nosebleed section didn’t seem to matter. We still had a fantastic view of the stage. When the lights finally fell and the curtain went up I didn’t know what to expect. The only knowledge I had about the “Phantom of the Opera” coming into this thing is that it was about some guy that wears a white mask. When the curtain fell, and that play started, I couldn’t catch my breath until intermission. I was sitting straight up, with my eyes as wide as saucers through the entire first half. The beauty, the grace, the acting; it was positively breathtaking. The story was absolutely riveting, a tragic tale of love, and loss. I looked over at the rest of the guys, all of them were as blown away as me.

When intermission started, all I could do was sit there in awe. When I saw the rest of the guys heading downstairs for a drink I finally snapped out of it. I got up and followed then down the never-ending staircase and into the lobby. Josh got in line for a soda, and the rest of us stood around chatting about the play. It’s really funny when you have three guys talking about a musical, but still trying to keep their machismo intact. “So, that thing’s pretty cool, right?” “Yeah, it’s okay...” “If it just didn’t have all that lame singing.” The rest of us half-heartedly agreed, none of us meaning a word of it. Guys are funny that way.

We caught our breath, and started our trek back up the stairs to our little corner to finish off the play. The last half was, as expected, just as riveting as the first. The end was heartbreaking; I barely got the tear running down my cheek whipped off before the lights came up. The sets just slid around like they were floating on air. It was amazing. Once the play had ended, we strolled back down the plethora of stairs, and across the street into the Majestic Gift Shop. Inside, there were script books to hundreds of plays; Shakespearean, musicals, comedies; everything you could imagine was in there. On the front desk, I found a paperback copy of “The Phantom of the Opera.” I needed a good souvenir, and it was only five bucks, so I snagged a copy.

After kicking around in there a few minutes, we headed back out onto the street. It was again crowded with well-dressed men and women, busily running to VIP after-parties, or home to their kids being watched by expensive nannies. We, on the other hand, had nowhere specific to go; we just wandered around Broadway a little longer and strolled back into the less-touristy parts of Manhattan. Here we found extravagantly expensive department stores, and a handful of vegetarian restaurants mixed in with local stored and such. Once we’d finally tired ourselves out with aimless wandering, we decided to head back to Josh’s aunt’s house and get a little sleep.

I wasn’t as tired as the rest of the guys, so I tip-toed into the living room to watch a little TV. About fifteen minutes after I sat down on the huge leather couch, I heard a door creak behind me, and saw Maria, Josh’s aunt, come walking out. “You’re up late,” she said. “You too.” She sat up with me for the next hour or so, chatting and watching old sitcom re-runs on some local cable channel. She was a pretty cool lady. About thirty-five years-old, pretty for her age, and has a pretty good sense of humor. She asked me how I liked the city. “It’s amazing,” I said. “So much more than I could have ever imagined. I’d like to come back someday, stay longer and get a real feel for living here.” “Well, if you ever happen back around, you’re more than welcome to a spot in one of my extra rooms,” she said. Normally I’d have just taken that with a grain of salt, just a hollow, polite invitation. But from her it actually seemed sincere. With that, she got up and headed to her room to call it a night. I turned off the TV, and lay down on the couch to do the same.

The sun came up about an hour later, and I woke up to the rest of the guys eating breakfast. “We’re all going to a Yankees game,” Bill said. “You in, bro?” asked Josh. “No thanks, I’m gonna go check out the museum today,” I said. “Besides, I don’t need to blow the money on a baseball ticket, anyways. Have fun guys, I’ll hook up with ya’ll back here tonight.” The were getting ready to head out toward the Bronx as I was getting in the shower, by the time I got out they were already gone. I got dressed and hopped on the elevator down to the street. The door opened and I made the short walk down the hall, and out the main door into the world. I couldn’t imagine doing this everyday. At my old home, back in Alabama, when you walk outside in the late morning all you see is a yard needing mowed and a gravel road at the end of that. Here, when you walked outside, there was everything. People, restaurants, stores, cars, sidewalks, streets, buildings; everything.

Since I was alone for the day, I wanted to hang out in some coffee shops, hit up the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and scout around for some bookstores. I had to go across town to visit the museum, so I decided to start off walking in that direction. It took me a minute to realize I didn’t actually know which direction that was, so I popped into a little visitor center and snagged a pamphlet for the museum. On the back of it was a map to the place, so I matched up where I was and how to get there and headed that a way. After going a few blocks I saw a little set of stairs headed down into a contemporary art deco coffee shop. There were contemporary art paintings hanging all around; all these different shapes and colors.

I strolled in and took a seat at a corner table. After a moment the waitress came around. I glanced to the chalkboard menu hanging over the coffee bar, and ordered a cup of joe and a scone. I’d never had a scone before, and I always saw people eat them in the movies, so I figured I’d give it a shot. It took a few minutes for my order to come around. Come to find out, I’m a pretty big fan of scones. They’re kind of like biscuits, but better. The coffee wasn’t bad, either. I chilled out in there for a while, reading some articles in the latest New Yorker.

After a few minutes of quiet, my ears picked up on someone mumbling a few tables over in the little empty place. I looked over and behind me and saw an old man crouched down talking to himself. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, so when I finished up my coffee and scone I got up and moved to the booth beside him to hear what he was saying. “…Rose, I love you. Come back to me! I still love you, can you give me another chance? Rose, please, don’t...” He was rambling about some woman. The best I could tell, it was the one that got away. Whoever she was, she must have messed that guy up pretty bad. It must have taken a lot of pain to get him all the way to that state. I wanted to keep listening, but it was making me sad, so I headed back out into the street to continue on my way.

The entire time I’d been in New York, I’d yet to stumble across a book store. There was a massive one around Times Square; some big, corporate one. But I was looking for something a little cozier. It took almost fifteen more blocks toward the museum until I finally came across one. I can’t ever remember the name of the place anymore. It was one of those little, out-of-the-way places. Tucked into a step-down street corner, with hardly any windows, and the store’s name was written in faded white paint on the little foot of tinted window glass that shined at the top. When I stepped in, a quaint little middle-aged woman offered a polite smile and sincere hello. I nodded and smiled back, then headed into the little section of stacks. I didn’t have a clue what I was even looking for, so I just walked to the first section I saw: Mystery Novels. I’d never been too big of a mystery fan, so a nonchalant run through is about all the section got. After that aisle came the back wall: Poetry.

As a fan of the subject, my eyes got a little wider at the sight of the thick black marker written sign. I started scanning around, looking for anything of interest, and soon came upon the section of recommendations. If I would have had enough money, I’d have bought every book in that section. It was an entire wall of barely published, or regional writers from the New York area, all compiled into a tidy little wall. Since I didn’t need to spend much money, I decided to just get one book. I read the titles, scanned a few passages, and kept moving down the wall. It was about in the middle that I came across a fantastic little poetry collection. The writing was amazing. Touching on love, seizing the moment, living life. It was fantastic. It was published in the early nineties by some little publishing house in the city. I’d never heard of the publisher, or the author. It was only about sixty pages long, but, from what I’d read, it had more than enough meaning to make up for the brevity.

I tucked the little book under my arm, and walked back toward the cash register. I would have stayed longer, but the day was quickly flying by, and I wanted to spend as much time as I could at the museum. The middle-aged lady smiled wide when I placed the book on the counter. “That’s a good one,” she said. “Last copy we have, too.” It only cost four bucks, so I paid the little lady, and then asked her how to get to the museum. Pointing behind me, she said “Up six blocks, and over three. You can’t miss it.” I thanked her, and walked back up the stairs, and back out to the street.

The rest of the walk didn’t take too long to make. Out in this area were the older buildings. Huge, gothic style apartment complexes reaching to the clouds. Rusted fire escapes snaking along the backs and sides. When I go to the museum, I realized why she said I couldn’t miss it. It was absolutely enormous. I came out on the far side, and I had to walk quite a way to get to the middle, where the main way in was. The entrance was enormous, a massive grey staircase leading up to these huge, glass doors. You couldn’t even see the sign for the museum. Mile long banners, for new and upcoming exhibits, were draped atop, and running down, the front part of the building.

I was so excited to get in that I practically skipped up the stairs. As I entered, the lobby was almost as breathtaking as the outside entrance. It was a massive room, with a never-ending ceiling, I just stood there a moment in awe, then finally walked over to the visitor help booth and picked up a little map pamphlet. Before I could even look at the map, though, some Egyptian artwork caught my eye and I headed toward the ancient civilizations section. Ever since I was a kid, I had always been fascinated with Egypt. Hell, one of the three paperbacks I cared to bring with me from home was a Budge translation of the Book of the Dead.

I don’t know what it was about Egypt that fascinated me so much. I guess if it’s anything specific, it would have to be their faith. They took everything they were told straight to heart, and believed it as the Gospel truth. In some ways, I always kind of admired that. I was never like that. I have to see something with my own eyes before I can start to process it.

...(see next chunk)...

[christa lynn]

Chunk one, paragraph 49 (I think)

... I was still meditating on that when the café opened, so I broke my thought and went in to try and ease my famished stomach. I took an inventory through my wallet and found that I was down to about seventy dollars, but I was so hungry I didn’t care. I ordered up bacon, eggs, biscuits, gravy, and at least one of about anything else on the menu. After about fourteen bucks, and an hour and a half of time, I was finally full. With a hundred and five dollars in my pocket I could continue on with my life.

He has 70 or 150 dollars?

*proceeds to read chunk two*

[christa lynn]

... all you see is a yard needing mowed ...

"a yeard needing to be mowed" perhaps?