written by Domenic
Groggy eyed and with his hair soaked in beer, Beer which had been sprayed from all over the place in different points last night, he came to on some couch he had never known. Where was he? Holy shit the headache made its way onto him like a jackhammer on second avenue. Or was that the jackhammer going off down on Second Avenue? Either way the last thing he remembered was the last out. Then people pushing, yelling jumping shoving and beer being sprayed every which way, his friend hoisted him up to swing him around and he knocked his head against a steel column. Lights out until right now. We goin to work? A voice said to him in the dawn dark room of this 92nd street apartment.
Well we are close by, so yea I guess. He had waited for this day for a while. Planning to take off the next day if it were to have happened however now today after it did happen he felt himself getting back on the six train and moseying his way up to 125th street for a day in the beautiful fall sun. It was November of 2009 and the Yankees had just won their 27th championship, beating the Phillies 4 games to 2 in an amazing playoff race that had taken him into and out of excitement for a month. In this time he had put going to the gym and eating healthily to the wayside. Each game was spent at the bar and with friends. While he knew he could ride out the high of the championship season for a little while longer, the weather would start turning soon. The days were already getting quite short and at night you could see your breath. The end of the baseball season meant the end of summer. The end of long sweaty days and smelly alcoholic nights, nights where cigarettes fill ashtrays and it is so humid the cocaine clumps together and renders itself useless. November is arguably one of the best months to be in the city. It is cool but not cold and it rarely rains. Sometime though, it changes and quickly does it change. The weather seems so quick and confident that only once December hits do you realize what is actually happening.
No point to think of that now, as he strode to work with his hair crisp with beer. The Miller Lite had dried and matted his hair into that of a lunatic. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was going to work one might assume he was a vagabond with a fancy for cleaning himself with lager.
He was walking with a co-worker. He’d been there before and had made this walk on these early crisp mornings with her a few times. He had forgotten she was also at the game. They must have met up after the blackout.
As he walked into the office people began exchanging money. There were bets going as to whether or not he would show up after the game. He showed up, and in the same clothes he wore the day before, with a couple of added ketchup stains and a silly grin. Luckily there was little work to be done on this day so he could just talk shit with his co-workers about the previous night’s events, as was their usual way of operating. Standing outside in the afternoon sun, leaning up against the base of a crane on the jobsite, cigarette in hand, smiling like a lunatic, in his mind, he couldn’t have written it any better.
Groggy eyed and with his hair soaked in beer, Beer which had been sprayed from all over the place in different points last night, he came to on some couch he had never known. Where was he? Holy shit the headache made its way onto him like a jackhammer on second avenue. Or was that the jackhammer going off down on Second Avenue? Either way the last thing he remembered was the last out. Then people pushing, yelling jumping shoving and beer being sprayed every which way, his friend hoisted him up to swing him around and he knocked his head against a steel column. Lights out until right now. We goin to work? A voice said to him in the dawn dark room of this 92nd street apartment.
Well we are close by, so yea I guess. He had waited for this day for a while. Planning to take off the next day if it were to have happened however now today after it did happen he felt himself getting back on the six train and moseying his way up to 125th street for a day in the beautiful fall sun. It was November of 2009 and the Yankees had just won their 27th championship, beating the Phillies 4 games to 2 in an amazing playoff race that had taken him into and out of excitement for a month. In this time he had put going to the gym and eating healthily to the wayside. Each game was spent at the bar and with friends. While he knew he could ride out the high of the championship season for a little while longer, the weather would start turning soon. The days were already getting quite short and at night you could see your breath. The end of the baseball season meant the end of summer. The end of long sweaty days and smelly alcoholic nights, nights where cigarettes fill ashtrays and it is so humid the cocaine clumps together and renders itself useless. November is arguably one of the best months to be in the city. It is cool but not cold and it rarely rains. Sometime though, it changes and quickly does it change. The weather seems so quick and confident that only once December hits do you realize what is actually happening.
No point to think of that now, as he strode to work with his hair crisp with beer. The Miller Lite had dried and matted his hair into that of a lunatic. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was going to work one might assume he was a vagabond with a fancy for cleaning himself with lager.
He was walking with a co-worker. He’d been there before and had made this walk on these early crisp mornings with her a few times. He had forgotten she was also at the game. They must have met up after the blackout.
As he walked into the office people began exchanging money. There were bets going as to whether or not he would show up after the game. He showed up, and in the same clothes he wore the day before, with a couple of added ketchup stains and a silly grin. Luckily there was little work to be done on this day so he could just talk shit with his co-workers about the previous night’s events, as was their usual way of operating. Standing outside in the afternoon sun, leaning up against the base of a crane on the jobsite, cigarette in hand, smiling like a lunatic, in his mind, he couldn’t have written it any better.
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