Today’s soundtrack: don’t pass the recipe around
Today at 6:52pm: riding the rails



Every other day I’m at the post office, ‘cause I’m selling all my shit. Fucking fire sale. I’ve sold most of my books on Amazon and now I’m unloading the CDs. I drink tap water and use half as much toothpaste. I’m selling the whip next month and I’ve canceled my health insurance. Drastic times, drastic measures.

On my way back from the post office I stopped on the street because I saw a sign that said “$96 Million Dollars.” Lotto sign at a newspaper stand. I don’t normally buy Lotto tickets, but the drawing’s tonight and what the fuck do I have to lose.

A buck later I had my dream. Folded it in half carefully and put it in my pocket.

The 7-train ain’t running out of Grand Central anymore, so to get to Flushing I have to take the N to Queensboro Plaza. I don’t care for the N or the R; the six is my train.

Lam talked about how you form relationships with your train lines. For him the seven was always so reliable, always there when he needed it; lately it’s become unavailable. I picture Lam breaking up with the train and then it chases him going “Baby it’ll be different next time!”

The 7-train stations in Queens are aboveground, like in Chicago. From Queensboro Plaza you can see the skyline. Sure it’s freezing out but I’d rather shiver in fresh air than be waiting in the fucking tunnel. Nothing but rats and feces down there.

I look down the track, waiting for the train. Praying for the express. Throw me some good luck! Today’s my lucky day. Train comes. It’s the local.

I went into Queens to catch up with Francis and Logan for dinner. Logan swears by Joe Shanghai’s, even though their Manhattan branch is overrated and packed with tourists. I’m hoping the Queens branch is better but we didn’t have a chance to find out; hostess said the wait would be an hour.

Instead I dragged them to a teahouse on Main where I know the club sandwiches are good.

“Why would you come to Flushing to eat club sandwiches?” asks Logan, incredulous. Bit of a gourmand.

“I like club sandwiches,” I point out. Around Logan I revel in my unsophisticated palate. Lately I’ve been eating oatmeal to get by and my tastebuds have adjusted accordingly. At this point I could eat the cardboard container it comes in and be okay.

The club sandwiches are better than okay, and afterwards we hop into Logan’s car. He drags us to Western Beef, the supermarket.

Place is fucking huge. They’ve got an entire section where the whole thing is refrigerated, like some kind of fucking penguin habitat. You enter through these vinyl curtains and right away BOOM your nipples get hard. Mostly meat in there, most of it bloody. Feels like a slaughterhouse.

The grocery might be called “Western Beef” but it’s still in Queens; the aisles are labeled by ethnicity. Korean, Indian, Dominican, Colombian, Jamaican, Chinese. I love Queens. I was born here. I always wonder if I will come back to die here.

It would be ironic if I passed in the same hospital where I was born. I would have started and ended my life in the same building, my first and last breaths drawn at the same GPS coordinates. All the experiences in between, just filler. You kill time, then it kills you.

Logan buys his fancy cheese or meat or whatever the hell it was--Mr. Upper West Side, don’t you know--then we cruise up Northern Boulevard. Three guys in their thirties driving around on a Friday night. Francis is outta smokes so we stop at a 7-11.

There’s another Lotto sign up. “You guys buy a ticket yet?” I ask.

“What’s it up to?” Logan asks.

“Ninety-six mil.”

The three of us head inside to get a ticket each. Making the standard pact that should one of us win, we’ll cut it up three ways. And I’ve still got the other ticket in my pocket from before.

Back at Francis’ house, I’m getting out of Logan’s car and I slam the door on Francis’ fingers. It was an accident, didn’t know he had his hand there.

Within seconds his middle finger turns black and looks fucked-up, though he says he doesn’t think it’s broken. Upstairs in his kitchen, he breaks out the first-aid kit. Logan goes through it looking for Advil.

“Cipro?” says Logan, uncovering a pack of pills.

“The fuck you get those?” I ask.

“Got some friends,” Francis explains. Good friends to have. After 9/11 and that anthrax shit, Cipro was harder to come by than an honest mechanic.

Francis pops a couple pills and puts his finger on ice. Logan drives me home.

At my desk I put CDs in envelopes, IM some, wait until midnight. Then I break out my two Lotto tickets and log on to their website.

The news ain’t good.

Well, at least my finger ain’t fucked up.

I continue wrapping CDs.