We walk the streets of Red Hook with the bottle dangling at my side. A guy on a bike makes an illegal move in front of a car and gets honked at. The guy on the bike yells at the driver.
“You think you can hit me!? I’ll fuckin kill you!”
The car drives off.
Crossing a bridge that spans the interstate, I think about suicide. Others obviously share these thoughts or the bridge wouldn’t be fenced with tall chain link. The cars pass rapidly beneath us. It would be a rapid barrage of impacts disintegrating me and spooling my guts around the wheels. There must just be too many people involved in the process. That’s why they fence it off. Why else keep us from such a quick and easy method of failure?
A red brick church is ahead of us on the other side of the bridge. It has juxtapositioning pastel green window shutters on the steeple. I like this. It reminds me that art is a religion.
There is a house with vines of pink flowers crawling up the front yard’s lamp post. I want to take a picture and post it on Twitter, but I don’t. There is a park that looks like a place I would have loved playing in as a kid. A stone monument is in the center. It could have been anything to my even more brightly imagining mind.
I begin wishing I had been born in this city and figure it might be a good idea raising children here. What a teenage wonderland it could be for the young adventurer with friends and drug enhancements. Rooftops, parking garages, fashion city central, streams of cars, and the real life threat of gang members. A heroic gauntlet of the most present.