One Summer Night

Saturday night went so well even the R train cooperated.

Residents of Bay Ridge and the surrounding areas know all too well the misery associated with the Broadway local that chugs through our fair neighborhood…whenever the hell it feels like it, apparently.

In fact, the R train and its express associate, the N train, are often referred to as the Rarely and the Never ‘round the parts.

But last night the little engine that wouldn’t came through big time to put the finishing touch on an awesome save as I abruptly flipped the bird to the comfort zone.

Now my weekend started off nicely on Friday when I met two of my writing class buddies in Park Slope for an evening of food, drink, and yakking. We had talked about meeting up and, following the advice of sister and auntie, I took the lead in making the thing happen.

Saturday’s weather report had initially called for rain most of the day, so I decided to skip making any serious plans to focus on a slew of household chores that I have been putting off since the Johnson Administration.

But in turns out you really don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows—or when the rain falls, because after a heavy morning storm, the clouds took a hike, the sun came out and the temperature rose.

And I was all lit up with no place to go.

What followed was a rather depressing exercise in denial. A Brooklyn filmmaking group was having an event in a bar in Williamsburg, but I managed to talk myself out of going because it’s a pain to get there, I didn’t want to come home late on the subway, and I don’t know the people running the thing, and blah, blah, bullshit.

My next tactic was to get dinner and watch an old movie I had recorded a while ago but suddenly just had to watch right now. Naturally by the time that was done, it was too damn late to go to Williamsburg.

Under the Moon of Love

Step three was self-abuse. I proceeded to berate myself for being a procrastinator and a hopeless loser who’ll never change. This tactic is particularly insidious because it gives the illusion of motivation, but actually uses self-loathing to dig myself even deeper into a hole.

Finally, I pretty much evicted myself from my own home. I was not going to sit in front of the TV on a fabulous summer night—that’s what February is for.

The Brooklyn Museum has a First Saturday event every month and while I didn’t want to go, I pointed my butt to the subway and rode downtown—whining and complaining the whole way about the trains and the noise and the freaks hanging around me.

I kept on bellyaching as I got off at the museum stop and walked up the subway stairs.

And then I saw people—living, breathing people, not images on a TV screen—laughing, singing, and hanging out. The museum had a Caribbean theme and they had a steel drum band with people walking around in all kinds of wild costumes.

I had a nice chat with a cigar-smoking lady near the museum entrance, but other than that I didn’t interact with people all that much. And I was fine with that.

I was amongst humans and that was good, as opposed to being sequestered in my living room in front of the widescreen.

I was alone, I suppose, but I wasn’t isolated, and the distinction is important. Sometimes it good to be alone so you can think, make plans, and assess your life. Isolation, however, is a grotesque greenhouse for all sorts of poisonous thinking.

I stuck around for a couple of hours and then skipped on home. I braced myself for a long wait at Pacific Street for the local ride back home, but I had barely touched down on the platform when the R train came rolling down the tracks as if I had called ahead for a reservation.

On one level, very little happened. I took a train ride to one place, milled about for a while, and then turned around. But there was a lot more going on beneath the surface. I had broken free of the ruthless tentacles of despair, routine, and self-pity to rub elbows with reality.

More of this kind of action is needed. Summer is burning away, and I don’t want to be locked away in February wishing I had gone out more.

Let’s just hope the R train gets the message.