It's Always Friday Night

I’m listening to the phone with my left ear when it whispers in my right ear.


That wet worst-kept secret we normally do in a toilet? There’s a guy doing it off a balcony. Just out of range, thank every god of every religion. I tell my phone companion; he isn’t offended: “Of course, I’ve done it before. Stroll to the edge, check for pedestrians, unzip the pants, look at the moon and take a leak.”

“I’ve never done it.”

I haven’t.

But I have pissed on a Staten Island street corner. It was 3am. No one was around. Urgent burn dissolving into dreamy relief.

“Are you enjoying yourself this evening?” I ask.

“Oh, hmmm, well…” his voice sounds like a feather boa, coquettish, ticklish.

The cold makes my muscles marble, then makes them throb. I wish I was indoors, drinking with him. Or just indoors. Or just drinking. Alcohol is a good criminal defense lawyer that represents us to ourselves as misunderstood, well-intentioned, promising. We are just fine, we have always been fine, we will always be fine. It’s a life sentence.

“I worry about you,” I say.

“Don’t worry, pray.”

“All right.”

2 thoughts on “It's Always Friday Night

  1. “Don’t worry, pray.” – It sounds like something I would say, or maybe you.

    I love your analysis of alcohol. I think for me it unravels me and declares to the world that I am broken, vulnerable and alone. Not to shatter your brilliant insight just saying. I think it depends who you are, where and with whom, if anyone, you drink your alcohol that really determines its enchanting or disenchanting enticement.

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