You don't have a set route tonight as you take the big, white dog out for his nightly walk. You offered to do it because you needed a few minutes to yourself. A few minutes, not necessarily of quiet--New York City is notoriously more noisy than your apartment--but just a few minutes to get lost in the anonymity of the bustling city. You walk down the relatively empty sidewalks nestled in the East Village and before you realize, you're in Union Square.
It's late, all of the tourists have gone back home or back to the safety of their hotel rooms. The only people in the square tonight, in the cold, are local kids with skateboards and portable stereos. They don't notice you--you with the big white dog and hobbling, heavy gate--but you notice them. You size each teenager up, reading his or her body language, figuring out which neighborhood the kids were from just by a few minutes of observing. You can't help yourself; even trying not to think, your brain still works in cop mode. It never stops.
Your feet--and the dog--propel you forward, North. You haven't been paying attention to how far you've gone, but if you were to stop and look around, you'd know where you were. You know this city like the back of your hand. Living here for forty-seven years counts for something. There's a liquor store on your left and you stop. The never-ending thirst in the back of your mind--the one you had been ignoring--pushes its way forward to the front of your senses. Part of you longs to go in, to spend money you don't have, to stop thinking for a night.
Beside you, seated on the sidewalk, the big white dog barks. He probably knows what you're thinking. You're thinking about that thirst. The thirst that can numb you from the inside out and stop all thoughts. You're thinking about the burn of amber-colored liquid on the back of your throat. You think Just tonight, just once. You know you shouldn't. You start thinking about the guilt and the shame and the disappointment. You think about the look on her face when you wake up on the floor. It makes your thoughts of Just once, just tonight louder.
Your feet start moving again.
Your walk now has a direction. You're still going North, but you walk away from the liquor store. You cross the street, heading for 6th Ave. In all sanity, the Avenue of the Americas is one of the last streets you wanted to find yourself on tonight, but you have a destination in mind. A destination you haven't gone voluntarily near in forty years. You're still thirsty, but you thirst for feelings. You want to remember. Just once, just tonight. Beside you, the big, white dog trots along happily, but you're not seeing him. You're seeing yourself, a you who's not much older than five. And in your place now is your older brother and he's holding your hand so you won't get lost in the crowds. Neither Mom nor Dad would notice if he came home without you, but he would notice. He wouldn't let that happen. He looked out for you.
Looming in the distance is a 72-foot-tall tree brightly lit with 5 miles of LED lights. No minor detail or snippet of information escapes you and you know all the details behind this years tree. You push through the crowds, still not having reached your destination yet. You're searching out a spot on the railing to look down at the tree and the skaters and the poor saps waiting in line to skate. And finally, you find an opportunity and you seize it. It's the perfect spot. It's the same spot you stood in with your brother. Tonight, you're feeling, you're remembering, you're living. Standing here, you're satisfying that thirst for things you've lost or thought you could never have.
And it hurts more than anything in the world.