A Day Like Today. . .

Today was a day for Mr. Frostee. It was time for those milkshakes which seem to go up in price two bits every time we stow our winter coats, but which we buy anyway because, hey, it wouldn’t be June without them. It wouldn’t be June unless we were finishing the last few gulps as the N/R/B/Q rolls into the station, not taking time to savor the last bit of ice cream as we lick it hastily off the end of the straw, taking the container and hurling it like Starks into the nearest trash can. Swish.

Today was a day for Loew’s, perfect for standing outside on 86th arguing about our choices. Finally ducking inside after a small forever, we escape from the blinding head for just a few hours, letting the fantasies of others cool our minds. By the time we venture back into the real world, the sky has opened and has let a torrent rain down, drowning the Upper East in a deluge it deserves richly. We run through it with abandon, caring nothing for our clothes, books and papers. We’ll all be home soon enough, drying out and wiling away a few hours on video games and Simpsons reruns. We wouldn’t have it any other way.

Today was a day for the Bowery, for St. Mark’s Place, for Villages East and West. We’ll sit out on our stoops, too captivated by the weather to do much of anything else. We see men and women of every shape, color, and size, all bonded together by their mutual oppressor the heat. We speak in bad jokes, stupid observations, monosyllabic retorts, each one layering itself onto the day’s sentiments. They feel right as they float their way down the street, lazily bumping into other groups saying the same thing. The last thing any of us talk about is tomorrow. It’s not coming.

But it did, and now I’m not just a dreamer. The dream is approaching quite rapidly, and I’m not sure if I’m ready. I know I could be great if only I could go and do something, but on these days when all my forward momentum is tied up in pending events, all that there is to do is go for a walk outside, where every step feels like a dozen years and three thousand miles ago.

In times of great stress, nostalgia seems to be only a stopgap measure. All I want is a good time. All I need is a rested soul.