I was hungry so I stopped in a place where they serve soda and pita bread sandwiches stuffed with greasy slices of meat that some angry guy with a thick black mustache carves off this gigantic hot dripping meatball turning on a massive spit. It’s called a gyro or a souvlaki or something like that. The guy with the mustache was Greek I guess. But the stuff had amazing flavor. Probably not kosher. I sat at the counter and devoured my pita sandwich and while I was sitting there, these three young black guys wearing tight-fitting caps wandered in, leaned over the counter and started stealing éclairs from out of the display case. Right in front of the Greek guy, like they were daring him to try and stop them. I assumed they must be gang members. The Greek guy acted like he didn’t even see them. They walked out like kings.

A bum showed up who stunk like a chunk of blue cheese. He asked for a glass of water. The Greek picked up this huge chef’s knife and told him to get lost. The old bum told the Greek to fuck himself, then the Greek made a move like he was going to jump over the counter and the bum slipped out the door. Then the bum stood outside the plate glass window staring at us and cursing, the glow of the neon painting him an eerie blue and red. Finally, scratching like he had rabid mice under his rags, he wandered off, cursing.

I bought a coffee in a paper cup emblazoned with an image of the Parthenon and the words “We Are Happy to Serve You” and walked about fifty blocks southward to this strange part of town where the streets are all cobblestoned, empty and dark. Even saw a couple of rats. I ended up down by the World Trade Center, these enormous towers that shoot straight up into the sky. The whole area was completely deserted. Probably not safe but I liked the feeling of danger. Eventually I came to a park and to my astonishment realized that I was surrounded by water, looked up and what did I see? The glowing green Statue of Liberty standing out in the bay. (I guess it’s a bay. New York City Bay?) She was so familiar-looking, it was hard to believe she was real. I was shocked by the symbolism of everything.

I ended up in an alcoholic hangout called the Blarney Stone. The place was all dark wood and mirrors and stank of stale beer and boiled meat. The grinning cardboard leprechauns and four leaf clovers from Saint Patrick’s Day were still Scotch-taped to the walls.

I drank six glasses of forty-cent beer and got a little fucked up. I tried to keep up the conversation with the old guys at the bar, but they were too haggard to bother with me. Still, it seemed like a good place to collect my thoughts. I should go back there again.