“Par West 23rd Street”

I am a man.

I am strong. My lacrosse coaches all told me so. “You are strong,” they said.

People like me.

I like people.

People trust me. I trust people.

I work hard. I deserve this. This is what I want. I want what I want. I deserve this…I really do.

If they look at me and laugh – that is on them. That’s not me. I am a man who doesn’t care what they think.

I am alive. That is a fact. No one can deny it.

I am brave. My forefathers are proud of me.

I will not take a taxi. That would not be brave. And I am brave. Plus, taxis are super expensive and charge extra for the bag.

I want to golf. I want to play golf. I want to hit balls. Alone. And with friends. I want to hit balls with Franco and Roller and Steg. I want to play golf with them.

I will walk to Chelsea Piers. Without stopping. Without being scared. Or feeling shame. I will walk there with my head held high and I will enjoy it.

I must keep walking Do. Not. Stop.

If the revolution comes before I get to Chelsea Piers, I will most surely die. I will be one of the first to fall. They will use my clubs to beat me to death. Quickly, savagely, and incredibly under par.

The straps have begun to impress deeply on my back. My strong, strong, brave back. I have carried metal caskets of beer up tall hills. I can do this.

Damn that Authority of Metropolitan Transit. Damn them to hell.

My sweat has begun to mix with my tears. They must not know which is which. If they knew – if they even sensed the fear – they would use those tears as a brine to moisten the rims of the goblets from which they would then drink my blood.

8th Avenue. Gomorra. My God. The stink of cheap coffee and Axe Body Spray wrenches my sanity apart. Have mercy on me oh Greatest thou!

And then the post–bestial wasted expanse until 10th Avenue. This is the crucible. The cauldron. The darkness before the dawn.

I smell the water. I am close. But I can’t run. That would be too desperate and they might pounce. It would also be too loud. I must live in the shadows, the corners, cling to the walls.

The cars are growling and dashing. They are the dragons and I am their slayer. They honk and beep and scream vicious slander. Though they declare “You look like you gonna be murdered!” I will not falter. Not now. Not ever.

I have made it. I am proud of me. I am a hero. The tears I weep are absorbed by Steg’s shirt. And his tears are absorbed by my shirt.

I am Armstrong. I am Columbus…but when he was still sailing and before the mass slaughter, theft, cultural appropriation, and alcoholism.

I love me.