We were walking in Central Park, smoking of course, on our third packs, with ducks on the pond. Symbolically. It seemed as though we were in another time. Likely around the late 1940's or mid-1950's. Potentially. It really did seem that way, however.
He started to ponder aloud something vaguely relating to Eastern philosophy. I nodded along, thinking of his entire credibility. He was the most genuine person I knew, he really was. Just so ---dam honest all the dam time.
"You wanna go get a cocktail? I'd really like to go get a cocktail right about now. The ducks are so depressing, they really are," I said.
He took a Salinger-protagonist-length drag on the current cigarette he was smoking. Unfortunately for us, we knew how ridiculously idiotic such a habit was to have, but we did it anyway. He shrugged, and we started heading for a bar, a club, anything, anywhere. New York City was sorta phony, at least where we were, but we were there anyway.
We found some dank place, but we got a couple of drinks anyway. We looked at all the people there. All phonies, all of them. I talked about some people I used to know, how hard it was to have a real intellectual conversation with them. He nodded along. He totally understood what I was saying. It was nice, that he was so terribly older, but not too much older, than I was. He knew enough. I didn't know much. But he did.
"That's about right," he said, in response to some offhand comment I had made about our cynical culture and my odd friendships. Or potential friendships.
"Yeah, I thought so."
He nodded. I took a look around. It was such a dank place, full of phonies anyway. It was depressing, actually.
"Wanna stop over somewhere? Go back to that old hotel? Your girlfriend probably wants to meet up with you. Your dad, maybe."
"In a minute or two."
"Okay."
I wanted to go back. I had a few people waiting for a call. I needed to get to a phone, at least.
He paid for the drinks and we started heading back. It was a long walk, but he never seemed to have as many problems going too far as one might expect. He once walked about 12 hours of an entire day in some phony hipster town. It was a painful walk, he said. But a good one. Long bus ride, too. I would've gone along if he would've told me he was going. He brought his dad and I a couple of pomegranates from their gigantic farmer's market. I wish he would've taken a couple of pictures.
We walked into the hotel, him and I, tired as hell, really. I wanted to go to bed. We took the elevator up, and I headed down the hall for my room.
"I'll meet up with you all again later. Dinner, maybe," I said, as I headed for my room.
"That should be fine. You know where we are," he said, sticking his keycard in the slot.
"Yup."
I followed suit, and entered my room, curtains closed. It was three thirty in the afternoon, and I could hear the sirens and horns and cars driving, a little bit of music from somewhere. And I heard the words of others just beyond our thin walls. With this, I collapsed into the hotel bed. 'Till six, I told myself. I'd get up at six.
