untitled

[originally written some time between 1996-1997]

i recently spit off this balcony. i was at my friend's dorm in the city and we were about to go out bar hopping or to get tackled and while he was in the bathroom, shaving, defecating, whatever, i strolled out onto his little balcony, and it reminded me of our family vacation to hawaii, while overlooking the smoking sewers and rush hour and unpublished pestilence of downtown honolulu that remains unseen in the brochures of mr. travel agent u.s.a.

like, the day we got honolulu, i ran into the ocean and the ocean floor was all rocky and my dad said, "the natives get used to it."

later on that week we met my cousin and her boyfriend who was coincidentally named after my favorite color and who wrote this amazing song. it's really a small world.

anyway, i strolled onto my friend's balcony and i spit and the spit got smaller and smaller till it was illegible, like the bristles of a car wash, and it hit the pavement below. i kinda spit in secret, it wasn't really obvious.

it was inconspicuous spit.

no one on the ground seemed to notice, may be most new yorkers have this saliva shield, this impenetrable wall. which reminds me, one morning i got out of the shower and was watching a cartoon and the cartoon characters said, "point our rings into the water. let our powers combine."

"let our powers combine," that's so cool. i thought that was such a cool line. at the time i was still wet, in a robe, yet i wrote it down somewhere. wetness and robes don't hinder me.

anyway, after i spit, i thought i was free from guilt that would be associated with someone seeing me, yet, to my dismay, a black guy saw me, which was the last thing i wanted, because please, believe me, i'm not racist. i just randomly spit, i have no control over the factors that dictate spit destination, such as wind, gravity, etc.

i heard this interview with a beatnik who went to every diner in new york eating jello. but he couldn't have more than two servings in any two places because he felt the waitresses would start to get suspicious and call the cops. he was a really paranoid fella, and i suddenly empathized with him, for as the sun-dried saliva sizzled on the summer sidewalk below, i couldn't help imagining that guy, in twisted rage, marching up the stairs of the apartment, into my room, and beating me severely.

like, if he was having a bad day, like if the towel-holder-upper in his bathroom collapsed beneath the weight of early morning heaven, my little slip of the gum would be the perfect catalyst for him to exhume his boiling anger. he'd come into the room, pound on me, and my friend would be in the bathroom, hearing lamps smashing, and he'd put down his magazine and say, "hey, are you okay?"

and i'll reply, "no, i am not okay, i am getting beaten up by some man. the man whom i inadvertently spit on." but of course, i won't be able to yell this, because his spacious hands will be choking me, closing in on my esophagus, like the garbage disposal scene from star wars.

meanwhile, while all these horrific visions flashed in my mind's eye's mind, an old lady walked by below. she probably stepped on my spit six seconds after i spit it. she didn't seem to notice, though. she seemed kinda out of it.

there were no cops in sight, although i saw a guy who could've played a cop on t.v.

while my friend was still in the bathroom, i decided to make the carpet walk. this old friend of mine, joey neuman, taught me how to do it at summer camp a few years back.

it was a humid, sticky, august evening, and we all sat up, in our pathetic pubescent glory, explaining our nonexistent sexual exploits. then suddenly, outta nowhere, joey neuman, the quietest kid you've ever seen, goes, "hey fellas, wanna see a carpet walk?" and seriously, at the young age of twelve, we were all cynical whippersnappers, but he showed us good. ah yes, like pilate at the cumberland county foozball championship, he made believers out of all of us.

i approached the carpet with tenacity, rolling up my sleeves, when suddenly i saw an ambulance speed by. i ran out to the balcony again. i once had a dream i was the i.v. bag in an ambulance and were trying to save charles bronson's life. he was shot by some scumbag drug dealer and he was staggering.

it was all me, charle's life was in my hands. of course, being an i.v. bag, i didn't have any hands, just transparent plastic walls, which when compared to real hands, isn't that big of a deal.

the ambulance drove by, its siren screeching. i heard another one in the distance too, probably uptown. it's really amazing, the ambulances, speaking in their siren language, telling jokes with their high-pitched ambulance roars, mocking the silly nine-to-five fools, winking at each other with their siren caps on the ambulance heads; playing tag with the frisky traffic lights, humming nat king cole songs to the street signs, noble and stoic. ah yes, city life indeed.

the whole beauty of the oneness and homeostasis of the urban environment made me want to spit again. i thought about it, but i realized who i'd spit on. this poor guy. he looked so sad. he looked like he had a hard day and it would only get worse, 'cause the mortgage is swelling, his wife is disintegrating, and the remote is just plain gone, man.

i could just imagine, him unknowingly climbing into a cab, then spit hits, then the cruel cab driver (most likely armenian) laughs maniacally. that's just plain wrong, man. i don't want that. i'm not sure if you're familiar with them, but armenian cab drivers can be really wicked people if something gets them worked up, like spit on some guy's head, i assumed.