Night Walk

I came home at night. I had seen a movie in the dark, wandering alone in the city like the bags of trash that breezed around me silently. I had iPod earbuds on. Some music was consoling me.

The movie I had seen was one about a child molester punished for his sins, and a hysterical 14-year-old child that forced him to do it. It seemed like proper viewing for someone wandering alone in New York City at night, eating scraps of fast food as he ran into the theater at 10:45 pm. The theater, at the top of the majestic stairs and worn-down carpet, was still strewn with sloppy popcorn and half-drunk, mouth-smeared bottles from the show before. The few folks in there with me didn’t bother to talk silently or turn off their phones. I nearly drank the half-empty bottle in the cup-holder next to me, out of habit.

After wincing for two hours and walking home alone to the sounds of John Williams’ soundtrack for Munich, I came across my local 24-hour newsstand. I peered into the window at the magazine I’ve worked on. And I remembered that I had written a short piece recently. So I went in to look for it.

The magazine wasn’t on any regular shelf. It was stocked in the back, near the bad mags. I bought it with the last pieces of change in my pocket, and carried it home in a black plastic bag. I opened the wrapping as I walked, gingerly. I was excited, but not for the magazine’s content. I still felt a thrill at seeing my name in print, even if it might not even be there, even if it might be a pseudonym. I felt like Charlie looking for the Golden Ticket, in a mangy 42nd-street flophouse version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

As I entered my building up the street, turning the key, I let the magazine fall open to the table of contents. And I saw a familiar face. An old friend, who had written a feature in the magazine. His face was prominent, and the feature was headlined. They touted the book he had written.

The elevator doors opened onto my hallway. What had I been looking for, again? I lost track. My article, my name. A 100-word piece of sales copy, a bubblegum wrapper. And meanwhile an acquaintance younger than me had written a feature. And he probably didn’t consider it anything particularly special.

I entered my tiny apartment, stacked with dirty clothes and piles of magazines I had written little piece for, little bits here, little bits there. I sat down on my bed. I took off my shoes. I looked around. I felt small.

I feel small. And I make this promise to myself, to finally rise up. To become that writer. To wipe that embarrassing feeling off the back of my neck. It’s a low feeling, a scavenger feeling. Maybe I need to delve into that feeling, in order to understand what I need to write about, and where I need to go.

I write this as a reminder of that feeling. I post it so that I’ll see it. I guess, so will you.