Freedom

On my drive to the Harrison PATH station last night I kept my gloves warm by putting them underneath my shirt, against my stomach.

I thought this was pretty clever.

Then I parked where I always do, underneath this 280 overpass, which would make a handsome backdrop as a murder scene in any number of TV crime dramas, and I grabbed my bag from the passenger seat and it—and I—took a very crowded PATH train to midtown NYC, where we ate a burrito bowl at a big burrito chain and then walked by an Outback Steakhouse, a Home Depot, and several other suburban shopping outlets along 23rd Street, none of which I passed on my drive to the train in Jersey. Then my bag and I sat in a meeting on the seventh floor of a building on Madison Avenue. A meeting which, sadly, wasn’t about how best to sell a Kodak Carousel, and was woefully lacking in tumblers of scotch or cigarettes. It did have cold CPK, though. And a gluttony of glutinous packaged cookies that were probably purchased at Duane Reade.

Anyway, the point of all of this is that my gloves remained here on the sidewalk next to my truck for the roughly six hours I was gone, probably smoking weed and talking about the tragedy of weak handshakes and how dammit, I hope I never have to be next to that weird guy’s hairy stomach ever again, and do you think this is what freedom feels like, and oh, shit, here he comes.