I remember this. I don’t consider myself a sloppy, stupid drunk in public, at least not anymore. But when I hung out with a certain friend from college (unnamed but present in this little story) I think the behavior was contagious. Yeah, I remember cartwheeling straight out onto 6th Avenue and then pissing out of an opened subway door. Good times? Not really.
Tonight, I don’t know what I’ll do exactly. Maybe get drunk. I’ve been on the wagon for a while now, not including new years when I nearly got myself killed cartwheeling down 57th Street. More precisely it was at 57th and 6th Ave. where I impulsively announced “I think I’ll do a cartwheel.” I did and a woman screamed because I spiraled through the air directly into the street where heaven only nows how many cars could have been coming. Then I pissed on the subway station at 200th Street/Dyckman but not before tearing down some of the signs up in the subway lightboards and stuffing them in my coat and finding them, much to my chagrin, the next morning, and not only that but the black plastic strips that held the signs up in those light boards. The conductor of the train, a woman, scolded me for pissing out the door of the car and onto the station, but she seemed to understand, saying “When you gotta go you gotta go”. It was embarrassing but somehow I felt strong and secure in my piss. Then I ran stupidly on the park area between 211 and 213 on Broadway. It’s a steep, treacherous, and in the winter a prickly area. I galloped freely and gallantly across that space too drunk and removed from my daily self to know what the hell I was doing. I plopped down and feigned sleep on one of those benches. I sang really loudly. I belched and farted. I did more cartwheels, not realizing at all until the morning how stupid and dangerous they were.
