Habitats

New Mayor

Except on New Year’s Day, Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day, Thanksgiving Day and Christmas Day, when the tow lots are closed, the new mayor’s efforts to tow illegally parked FBI cars has led to longer lines at the precincts and a spike in privacy.

Birthday

I don’t know how many people drowned today. Without warning, the Hudson burst its bed and flooded Manhattan. It’s Edie’s sixth birthday. Nothing happened to her, mind you; nor to Matt, who’s secretly glad the water ruined his little sister’s birthday party; Joanna, my wife, is fine too. We’re on the twenty-third floor; the water stopped rising at the twelfth. The Carringtons, our friends on nine, probably didn’t make it. For a while, we were all watching the water recede. Matt spotted the first rescue boat, Edie, her neck bent skyward as usual, saw the first helicopter. The kids are now playing in the living room. Joanna is in the kitchen, preparing sandwiches with whatever will perish first. I keep watching the water.

Blind Date

Writing is my search for God, he said on our second date, at The Library, a bar on Avenue A. So how’s that working out for you? I said. I’m not sure, he said. I keep finding myself. We agreed on a third date, again at The Library. I wonder whether I’ll show up.

Habitat

We live underground. We go as deep into the earth as we can. Depending on the territory we cover, we use the groundhog or subway tunnels. Underneath the old cities, there are still wooden pipes, which makes some of us feel nostalgic, others nervous. Moving through roots is hard: they’re sticky. Caves make us merry and frisky. They are our playgrounds. It takes time to get used to life underground but it’s worth the effort; not that we have a choice. The sewer can be humiliating. It doesn’t bother me. I’ve bonded with many an affable rat and even the occasional cockroach. They know their way around. Some I now consider friends. 

Windows

Here I am again, I thought. Hiding again. For how long? An hour? More? Expecting what? The concrete walls, the darkness, five porthole windows: five faces without lips or eyes or even a nose, yet staring at me with predator intentions. Someone turned the lights on, and five rays were slicing through the dark, creating a five-fingered spot for me to stand on.

Voice Mail

In this book you left in my place tonight it says the Koyukon believe the caribou sings when it’s ready. The hunter wakes up with its song in his mouth and knows where to find it. The caribou is the only creature that does that. You highlighted that. Ever since I read this I’m wandering the streets. I’m exhausted but I can’t stop. Where are you?