I dreamed there was a celebratory type closeout of the mail room where my old 181 used to be. I don’t know what has happened to that room, or what awaits the old post office. It’s a big space that could house something interesting.

The dream had me present, somewhat illegally, at the final show of the PO Boxes. They would all open and close rapidly, all the little doors (and the big ones too), like a giant wind machine of sorts. They made a joyful racket, fluttering and chirping. It was like they all wanted to fly away, one big mass of doors and empty boxes.

A worker there spotted me, knew I was not supposed to be there, but with a grimace and a knowing near-wink of his left eye he let it go, let me document the unique spectacle heretofore never witnessed by anyone outside the postal-worker clique. To them this was a mild amusement, witnessed every once in a while as post offices close, relocate, or renovate.

I felt deprived that no mail was left in the boxes. At least a small amount of mail should have been left to burst out, to fly free from never being picked up or read.

But it was all air. All empty air exhaled from the PO Boxes, the 181 just one small shred of space among the rest. The boxes lifted off en masse, like an airplane, before slowly breaking apart, each individual vessel of communication  casting off from the nest. I could not distinguish the 181 from any of the other boxes of similar size. As they rose to the sky the boxes became dots, specks, glimmers of nothingness before evaporating into the firmament.

…

I miss having the 181. A little checkpoint in midtown Manhattan where the postal workers knew my name and respected me for being a nice guy. Many of their customers were anything but nice people. I can’t say I miss the 181 enough to renew it, particularly not at that now-undesirable location. But another 1981 would suit me, perhaps in lower Manhattan, or at any of the 24-hour locations.

…

Somewhat stoked about the woman I’m expecting to see tomorrow. She seems kind of insane, but safe. She still lives with her parents so the money she makes here (same salaries) goes a lot farther than it does for me. She gets fancy hair blowups and nightclub-ready yellow dresses. I’m still wearing pants from probably 15 years ago.

I kind of ignored her at first, despite having direct conversations and sensing clues. But I can be pretty oblivious to clues, and at the time this whole scene here was new and I didn’t want to mess anything up. I’ll have the anxiety meds ready, though. She doesn’t scare me but I don’t want to be too anxious. I straightened up the apartment some, not that I expect her to be impressed by that gesture. She obviously isn’t hosting. Hah.

I did enter a bar this week. It was an Irish pub. It seems impossible to have lived in New York this long without paying $10 for a beer but it finally happened. It was not worth it. But upon entry and sitting down I cased the joint, remembering the familiar sense of portent at recognizing immediately who I’d be attracted to, who I would avoid, and where to sit. I’m a professional, after all, even after what I guess has been 6 years of very little barflying.

The bartender was cute but I stay away from the barkeep now. Drama, and all those dudes ogling them all day and all night. Two young women at the middle of the bar seemed, from what I could overhear, intelligent and poised. A couple of dudes seemed like asshats.

But all in all I didn’t stay long enough to really case the joint. it’s a big space. Maybe too big.