Man, I feel like an idiot walking down the Bowery, staring at pretty women in slim outfits – like a bobblehead with sketchy intentions, I’m not fooling anyone with the little half-turn/head-scratch. I’m just bored. But, I keep it moving – on my way to meet Billy, my best friend from the fourth grade.
Last time we spoke, he came out to me via Facebook chat, and told me he may have acquired Hepatitis from using a dirty cocaine straw. Things done changed.
It’s hard for me to hold on to friends like Billy. I’ve never had trouble with meeting people, but as often as I come to new cities and leave them, I make sure that no one can grab hold of my shoelaces and pull me back in. Somehow, Billy’s been able to do so without ever pulling too hard.
My escapes allow me to never feel too connected to anyone who could “hurt” me. But I’m safe from Billy, and I’m safe from judgment, meaning that I remain with clean hands at the ends of days. Cleanliness is next to godliness, but it does nothing for the spirit - it’s the dirt on sneakers that prove you’ve been somewhere.
Even still, in each new city I buy new shoes and become an entirely new me. My mother once said that people don’t have two personalities, they have millions. She exaggerates, but I always agreed with the idea. In all parts of the day, our moods envelop us and serve as transitions to another “us.”
We like to think we control these moods - by taking vacations or taking the wrong right turn down a street we meant to turn left on, but these simple escapes are idealistic. Hop on a train to take yourself from yourself, and all you’re really doing is hopping on a train to a different place where you’ll still be you.
Biggie said “you’re nobody ‘till somebody kills you.” In my thinking, you’re nobody ‘till nobody knows you - making life a perpetual lie, but at least I can say that I’m honest to the people who matter.
There’s no sense in creating some sort of false persona, like the people who used to wear those “WWJD” bracelets – living in an image of a man whose now just slightly behind the times. Who cares what Jesus would do? He’s not living through my problems, and he’s not living through my times. He went through his own drama, but what Jesus would do during a walk alone through the city can’t concern me much.
The question instead should be – what would I do? If I were me in any other context, what would I be doing?
Well, when Billy doesn’t show up because he’s probably stuck on Christopher Street, wandering and wondering about the riots of ’68, I’ll keep on walking. I’ll walk, and I’ll listen to my music, like I always do.
I’ll walk, past the unsavory gal on Orchard Street who yells into her cell phone about a broken promise from a man she never trusted.
I’ll walk, past the tall black guy in front of a bodega who asks me for a dollar, but gladly accepts a swig of my Olde English as a fair substitute.
I’ll walk, past the gloomy couple with matching pea coats, who peek over a young girl’s shoulders to read People, filling in their own blanks with more stories about people they don’t know.
I’ll walk, through a city that’s the perfect breeding ground for contented loners with broad imaginations, and I’ll become those million personalities that my mom warned me about.
And finally, I’ll walk to my temporary home – a sleeping bag on my friend’s floor in the East Village – where I’ll eventually wake up sober and smiling.
