a state of anti-grace

I'm always amazed at the overall clarity I feel when immersed in the fecal-laden womb of a hangover. No joke... it's as if the darkness takes you to the basest state of being. It's here you'll find that every simple idea hits your eyes like a blinding light, whether it be the wonder of surrounding architecture, the infiniteness of an ocean vista, or the genius of a Denver Omelette. Granted, you want to puke your eyeballs out, think the world hates you and feel the closest you've ever been to death. But I think it's also the closest we come to realizing beauty, in its rawest form.

Nowhere can this state of anti-grace be more recognizable than at noontime, late July, in any given New York subway tunnel. It's around then that the sun and humidity have soaked into the ground long enough to turn every wet spot on your persons into a mini water park. And if you're lucky enough to also be sporting a whiskey driven withdrawal, all the merrier friends!

On the particular day I've yet to reference, I was dragging along at my loftiest state of anti-grace. Waiting 5 minutes for a subway turned into a year long crucifixion. I had already thought of a thousand ways to kill the guy next to me, listening to his tinny mp3 player with no headphones. But at the same time I was a tad too nailed to my bench to move away.

But you've never heard a sweeter sound than the distant screeching of subway breaks, sparking her way to your rescue. Nor the brilliant rush of air-conditioning that swoops out of her doors and carries you into her graffiti splattered bosom. However, the goddamn train ride lasts 5 minutes and spits you out into yet another hell-bound tunnel, where you are forced to somehow walk another 5 minute execution march to your transfer train.

It was here in the transfer tunnel I saw the sweetest fucking thing I can remember in ages. I was moving along at my usual up-tempo New York pace, one that I can surprisingly still muster in the foulest of conditions, and I noticed that a little 4 year-old black kid didn't want to let me pass him. He was so goddamned adorable. His little legs were power-walking in a Fred Flintstone-like blur, then running to catch up to me, then Fred-Flinstoning all over again. He kept looking over at my much longer legs, wondering how they still managed to pass his superhero gate with no effort. It was heartbreaking to do this to him. I in no way deserved to win this race....

I still remember being that age and wondering when the hell my legs were going to be long enough to go that fast. I could hear this kids thoughts in my head... "this tall person must be the happiest guy in the world to go so fast with such little work..." Unbeknownst to him that I would give the world to trade places: lucky little fella with no hangover, credit-card debt, bills or rent checks. No responsibility in the world other than to make the best of this shitty hot weather, and take on willing competitors in a race down the tunnel.

Our race lasted all but 20 seconds, whereby I left him in my dust to fight on against other heartless New York commuters to follow. None of whom, I can guarantee you, took as much joy in this little turbo-charged beam of light. His lesson was on my mind the whole way home. He actually took some of the edge off the heat and discomfort for me. He transported me back to a time when the simplest things in the world could speak mountains - without the need of a whiskey induced state of anti-grace.