lessons that i'm learning

At 4:30 a car slid on the rain slicked street outside and slammed into a light pole. This resulted in a bright green flash from a nearby transformer, followed almost immediately by a tremendous boom. This woke me, naturally, but I was able to drift back asleep within seconds of realizing what had happened.

At 4:34 the cat jumped on my back, nervously purring and terrified from the noises of the previous four minutes. This woke me, and after lying there for 15 minutes and turning on the TV for 20 I was unable to return to sleep.

I crept down the carpeted stairs and went to the hall bathroom, where I'd kept the machine under the sink. I had debated bringing it along for the holidays; eventually the prospect of bored nights spent with distant relatives seemed to necessitate stowing it in an extra suitcase. Surprisingly, security at JFK never said a word after running the bag through the x-ray machines.

In a few seconds I was back in New York, quite clearly a different version than the one I had left a few days previous. It was anywhere between the late 1960s and late 1970s--I have to fix the specificity of the travel, but it's pretty hard. I can't find any cool dials and I'm not really sure how it would work from an engineering standpoint.

I joined a couple of incredibly stoned guys in their 20s at the corner of 3rd Avenue and 78th Street. A hulking factory sat drab in red brick a block south, towering over the surrounding tenements. Above us a robin's egg sky was cluttered with dark-bottomed, puffy clouds hanging high up above the roofs.

On the northwest corner was a felt-covered green sofa recklessly tossed to the curb. One of the cushions was missing, revealing the springs and mechanisms of the pull-out bed stowed in the base. I sat on the opposite edge, sinking comfortably into the foam and tossing one arm over the side, letting it dangle a few inches above the sidewalk. People walked by and cars drove up the avenue in a steady stream but I was about as comfortable as could be.

"It would be a shame if this thing got rained on," I told one of the stoned guys. "This is gonna be my new clubhouse." He just stood a few feet away, no reaction, staring at the passing traffic with clenched teeth. His loose button-up shirt and corduroy slacks were surprisingly clean.

Sitting there for what could have been hours as the afternoon passed, I don't remember much of the details. Eventually Tracy showed up, which was no surprise, though it should have been. She wore a gauzy green dress that half hung, half clung to her waist and shoulders. We sat on the sofa and chatted but it was the most insignificant of small talk.

Across the sidewalk from the discarded sofa was a pawn shop. Around sunset the proprietor showed up at the doorway of the business with a large cardboard box. Tossing it to the curb beside me, he exclaimed with his arms that the contents were ripe for the taking. Within seconds I had found something of interest.

I turned it over in my hands, oblivious now to the traffic noises or Tracy's continuing conversation. It was a black object, about the size of a Dustbuster but as thin as a ping pong paddle. Made of molded plastic, it tapered on one end to a small square point of dull aluminum. Above this metal was a small slit, almost resembling the slot where a strip of paper would print out. Opposite of this point, on the other end, was a molded plastic handle, which I gripped while inspecting a large red plastic trigger in the shape of a cheese wedge which when squeezed sunk into the black frame and caused a loud buzzing to emit from the center of the thing.

I was thoroughly puzzled as I held it, before turning it over once more and noticing a red warning sticker, which read, in neat white Helvetica lettering: "This is the most lethal weapon available on the civilian market. Please keep out of reach of children and practice safety accordingly."

Suddenly the buzzing I had heard while squeezing the trigger troubled me immensely. I tossed the device back into the cardboard box and rose from the sofa. Tracy followed me as I walked down to 2nd Avenue.

She knew of a fancy dinner party an office in midtown was hosting. Wanting to distance myself from the killer device and always in the mood for free alcohol and food, I agreed and we set off in a taxi.

The party was hosted in a rather small banquet hall on the first floor of a decrepit old hotel. The walls, the table settings and most of the ceramic serving dishes were a depressing shade of off-white. In the center of one folding table was a large ceramic fountain pouring alcohol. It too was off-white, and men and women in business clothing shuffled about it in clusters.

We took seats on a plush banquette surrounding a concrete support column. Tracy kept fiddling with some oddly shaped chocolate and offering me some despite my insistent declination. Time seemed to sludge along until I looked up and suddenly you were there, dressed in the same off-white that bathed the room. You looked tired--maybe even sick--and one couldn't help but notice the large bluish bruise surrounding your right eye and spilling over your high cheekbone. We shared a second of recognition before I averted my gaze and abruptly stood.

"I'm going to get more to drink," I told Tracy, who had scooted over to give herself distance between us, I had noted to a degree of annoyance. Instead of walking to the fountain, though, I left the building.

In a few seconds I was back here, in the downstairs bathroom. The machine was on the floor, resting silently. I felt incredibly sleepy at last.

I'm not sure how you got there, or who had hit you. I'm not sure I want to know. I'm wondering if maybe I'm finally getting somewhere, moving on, or maybe this is all a premonition for something coming soon to bridge the gap between us.

I'm not sure which one I'd prefer.