(Brooklyn Bridge – historic Tobacco Warehouse – Photo and Photoshopped by Joe)
Okay, I’m back after a hiatus from posting. Who cares, right? No one. I sure as heck don’t.
Anyway, things haven’t been going so well on my side of the fence. I’ve been living at my boss Nick’s house, yet not going to work (though I do drag my butt out for job estimates). You’d think after weeks of not showing up at the job sites, Nick would say something, but to him I’m as inanimate as the couch or the table or the chairs. I don’t know who or what he cares about other than gambling, it sure ain’t me. I did ask him one college-football-Saturday if he wanted me to move out, and he just waved for me to move away from the TV. The man’s a stone. Whatever.
Most days I’ve been sleeping into the afternoon, and in the evenings I usually head over to this seaport dive on the Brooklyn side of the East River. I won’t say where the bar is exactly, except that it’s just outside the glitzy(to me it’s glitzy!) Brooklyn Bridge Park area, while the door to the place is three steps from one of my favorite views of the bridge. It’s a bar where you can really immerse yourself in the moment. The patrons tend to be euphoric and unbridled, particularly after midnight when rough-hewn characters begin to slip in among the crowd of slick-heeled wannabes. The dregs make a game of leering at the ladies, who don’t seem to mind much, though some give dagger-eyed looks. These men also love to violently cry out, sing, and yowl. I can hardly tell a word apart, or if they are truly singing or yelling at one another. Most peculiar is that although everyone sees and hears the dregs, they appear ghost-like, as they breeze in and out of the bar as if on jets of air. It’s no wonder that in looking back the day after, the night spent in the place always seems like a dream.
After one especially long night there, Benny, “the cigar store Indian,” popped up on me as I plodded to the subway. I can’t remember much of what he said, something about me having to change my ways, that I was on the path to becoming irrevocably nocturnal. It was all blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Oh, he also said that I was messing with the type of forces that lure in the mind, only to consume the body. Whatever. I haven’t talked to him about it since. Though the next day he did orchestrate a meeting between me and my estranged lady friend(LF). I was dying to see her, and didn’t want her mad at me anymore. Benny even came along and did a lot of the talking. He really helped smooth things over between us.
In the week or so since LF and I have been back together, I haven’t gone to that seaport dive. Plus I’ve been working everyday and even going to the gym. She is my everything. I know that, and so do my readers. I won’t go into our reunion, though you can read about our breakup. It wasn’t my fault. A trickle of demon blood made me sick. Read Episode Thirty-Four and Episode Thirty-Five, if you want to know all about it.
Otherwise, because of the dose of demon blood from that runt of a kid I met at the “House on the River’s Edge“, I do get sick now and again. When it happens, besides the fact that I get a little nutty, my extrasensory perception sharpens. Though you’d be surprised, things get very clouded, and I usually have to search the streets really hard to see a ghost or true spirit matter. As far as the nuttiness, I won’t go on about it, except to say that no one should fear me. I don’t want to bite anyone. And I don’t get that crazy, so long as LF is with me. I trust in her, and know after a few hours, I’ll be fine.
Unfortunately, Since LF’s in my life again, the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts) are back stepping on my tail. Not having seen them in two months, they appear more primitive and bizarre than ever. They seem thrust from a TV commercial, or sprung from the pages of a fashion magazine. They both work hard to evoke fashion-conscious personas; whether they’re on a street corner, at a bar, or at the dinner table waiting for a helping of garlic mashed potatoes, corn, cranberries, stuffing, and gravy, those two love to pose with pouty mouths and affected gestures. They are whacked, plain and simple.
Today is my first day back living in the old apartment with LF and num and nuts. In a little while the four of us plus Benny are going out to dinner. Afterwards, Benny wants me to meet someone who can offer some insight into NYC’s darkest paranormal secrets. It’s partly because I’ve been toying with writing a book on the subject. The old man thinks that’s a great idea, especially because he’s always telling me that I need to learn more about the supernatural to help myself. Benny says this person is someone who has lived many past lives, yada, yada. I don’t care. And as far as the book, I’ll be upfront and honest with you like I always am, I want to write it so I can make a few extra greenbacks. E-books are easy to do.
So, whatever, I’m really hungry and can’t wait to stuff my pie hole.
But I will say that I owe Benny one for bringing LF back into my life. I know I complain about the old man, and always say how I don’t trust him because he’s doesn’t tell me all he knows, but now I’m truly indebted to the bastard, that is, at least until I pay for his dinner tonight.
Thanks for reading.
Bald Punk aka Joe
P.S. I’m happy to be back blogging with you.
P.P.S.S. To that person from the Bronx with the demon problem, sorry I couldn’t help you directly, but let me know if my suggestions were of any help?
Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Seven
Brooklyn Bridge Park (Photos only)
DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge) in Brooklyn (Photos only)