The weather is turning. Some citizens go shirtless. Street vendors pack up well after midnight. The parks are fairly bursting, so I take to the garden with a long novel & three cigarettes. Months ago, we planted hundreds of bulbs & now the view from my garden apartment is all yellow & green. I know spring explodes one weekend each year. On the left coast, when was it?
When I was young, tornadoes were the only natural disaster to worry about. Now when the weather turns, I scan for green skies, keep a pocket barometer, & occasionally put my ear to the ground. It's not just tornadoes anymore: hurricanes, floods, even earthquakes. When your home shakes at 4 am, do you stay in bed or run for the doorframe?
The combined height of the men in my family is over ten stories. The women, fifteen. My family is what you would call large, but not close. Except when standing on each other's shoulders. We tried, in years past, family reunions, games at Christmas, & once my aunt started a phone tree that never made its way to me. Lately, I am greeted at the door with a drink & a reminder to remove my shoes. When you fly home, who picks you up from the airport?
The way we bleed these days, we must have dynamite in our capillaries. I have two head wounds, but no concussion, which means the skull is a safety belt, fraying. Still, I've been told not to sleep, drink plenty of fluids, & monitor my blood pressure. I don't need a nurse, but I wonder . . . Is your bedside manner comparable to Eve Harrington or Gypsy Rose Lee?
After that, the lines on my hands moved. The woman in the black dress told me my life line split in two, that I have notches for grandchildren but will never be a father. She said my hands were waves. She said my hands were spinning plates. She called me brother, as in Be careful of your liver, hermano, & Escucheme hermano, cruise ships do not auger well for you. This was years ago, before the foosball tournament, before some sickness, before the family became the cultural unit again. What do you call this time?
Late in the night, hoodlums paint maps on my door & early in the morning, I paint over them. This goes on for months until one morning the map is not a map but an anatomical representation of the city. Upside down, South Street Seaport was the head, The Cloisters the broken middle toe. Where does this leave 2nd St.?
Thought experiment: Nuclear armament has gone exponential & all the world's nation are stocked, if not with warheads, then with machetes, clubs, crowbars. Tires burn in the streets--this time, it's not only the students rioting. Democratic nations are under martial law. U.S. citizens are routinely held for curfew infringement, selling rations on the black market. Open graves. Padlocked doors. The world is, in short, combusting.
What would Sean Connery say about this day in history?