2009-11-13 - 9:03 p.m.

Well, what's wrong with staying at home on a Friday night, drinking tea, reading about growing up black in the Appalachians in the 1950s, listening to sad Bruce Springsteen songs to keep out the wet chill? Probably nothing but it feels like an apology anyway.

So, here's this. I could be, right now, at a birthday party down by the stadiums, drinking in someone's kitchen, sneaking out when the talk gets slow, smoking on someone's fire escape. I could be at the the bar, up the street, crammed into a plush corner, a friend and his new girlfriend holding hands underneath the table, plenty of others angling for something: a kiss, more than a kiss, another drink with a little red straw, a last song on the jukebox. I guess I could be playing poker up on 33rd, shuffling every eighth time around the table, fingering those endless sets of cards, hoping for something good, settling for a low pair. I guess I could even go to a movie, a bag of popcorn between my legs, wiping off my glasses every half-hour because the view from those squeaky seats can never be too clear.

But I'll take the warm mug, and the humble little book, the Boss singing sad songs about Atlantic City, he the one going out on the town and not me. And that's all right with me. Let's slow it down now, way down. Let's just stay right here, and let's keep our eyes open, our ears open, everything else open. And in that way, I'll let a little out.

previous - next