For a New York City Stand-up

Hotel room. Drunk. New York.

These are the first few words anyone needs to read to have an immediate investment in the storyline. And to add to this, imagine coming to, with your eyes closed, and feeling the heartbeat of someone else next to you. Someone else is snoring next to you in the depths and bleak results of your shut eyes. The air in and out, your mind tries to race but staggers instead, like your feet on the cobblestone parkways of soho a few hours ago before you lost consciousness. 

Two things register. One, how did I get back to the hotel. two what time is it? The irony is you didn’t capitalize the word “two” in the sentence before this and you’re still not sure who the person is next to you. 

Eyes shut, in the fear of opening them, and the release of apprehension, are at constant war. The idea is when you do open them, the rush of responsibility hits you. But at this level of intoxication, anything that hits you is going to feel like a rush of air instead of physical. For a split second, you glimpse the future.

You glimpse working another job entirely. 

You glimpse another life entirely. 

You glimpse thinking back on this moment and realizing that life can be made up of tiny moments of confusion rather than the landmark days of when you get that big promotion or bought your first house. Maybe life isn’t what you read about in major magazine publications and human resource literature found in the waiting room of a major corporation that is going to buy your life one hour at a time.

Really, maybe the idea of getting trashed in the village with some incredibly funny, quirky standup comedian is what the entire universe is about. For the moment anyway. What else is life?

Other than some bizarre string of moments reoccurring continuously into the bleakness of some forever repeating pattern of dark matter collapse, then rebirth. Supernova inspired explosion across the space-time continuum all aligning in such chaotic odds to bring life to a small diminutive piece of the universe just so it can evolve enough to analyze the irony of its own self-existence.

Or maybe its all for the tiny moments you have. Between opening your eyes and the thoughts you have when nestled between a pillow and a stand up in New York City at five in the morning.

Flash back, which is a no-no in any lit class, and you’re on the rooftops looking at the skyline. Thinking about how the fuck you managed to get their in the first place and still feel as alone as you do. 

Bump into the disarming girl. 

She laughs. 

You laugh. 

You both sit, talk, laugh more. 

You become intoxicated. 

You find yourself rolling over in your mind about seeing her again. 

You do. 

Then you get lost. You get drunk.You get immersed. 

You feel the heartbeat of some bizarre time. 

You are nostalgic and sentimental, a brutal combination.

You’re also a writer. So that means you’re an alcoholic. Flash forward, another no-no in lit class and you’re in an airport terminal sobering up hours after the sun rose. Gazing at a plate of eggs, toast and bacon, trying not to throw up. And repeating to yourself where your gate is in the airport.

Flying home. Not the first time you flown home. In the mix of life itself, you see the docks of New Jersey. The life moving containers of whatever, from ship to shore, and think: There has to be something more. But really the universe is contained in the eggs you’re about to eat to calm your dehydrated stomach. The hangover is coming, it won’t be gentle.

Skip forward and as you watch the inflight movie on the plane home, you’ll think about the night and the decision to have opened your eyes at five am. The stand up you found in your bed clothed in a cute ensemble of quirky adorableness, you kiss her forehead and leave her the hotel key to the thousand dollar a night room. You whisper, “It’s yours till checkout this afternoon.” There’s no telling why, so I won’t tell. After that, you remember still, a pivotal moment in life. Part of you feels pathetic, the other part feels incredibly appreciative and lucky. That’s how most things in life go anyway, right? 

You log the memory and are better for it.