Its one of those stranger moments in my life. With the windows rolled down in the middle of winter, blasting Christmas music to the abandoned houses and steel mills. Singing as terribly as I can, at the top of my lungs. Chasing [C]’s car down winding potmarked potholed roads, like a child chasing fireflies, the little light of his cigarette blinking into view when he raises it for a drag. The cold air is blowing my hair around my cheeks and for a moment I could be anywhere. I feel like I can be anything. I remember a cool day when I was 14 walking back from the nursing home where I would sneak my great aunt pizza. 2nd avenue. Something about the way the wind was blowing my hair against my cheeks, I never forgot it. And again I just know, I will never forget this, tonight. I wonder where the wind is coming from. I think it was nor’east those years ago in my old neighborhood in New York City.
Cause I’ve always like a strong nor’east breeze best. Its a feral wind. Not like the lazy southern whispers of summer in the tristate areas waters, or western puffs, warm like stories and memories. The Nor’east wind can be cold a bitter one, it can be savage and inviting at the same time. It can swell into a gale and make every hair on your body stand on end as it shakes a rig. And it can paint a memory on me. I sail easterlies in the Carribean these days, but I still like a good nor’eastern breeze.
We’re almost home now. I got a song starting to stir in my heart - me and [C] driving cars. A little drunk. But we started our engines for home before we felt we’d had too much. Perhaps that means were growing up. And “Oh god!” I cry laughing, when the subject lights our minds. We shout “Being a grown up sucks!” It does. Sometimes.
My headlights flicker for the last time - they’re still broken - while I turn off my hazards and pocket my keys.
“Tell me Im not the most obnoxious thing on the road!” I shout at his car across from mine.
“Just cause its you, its okay.” He says.
And as soon as we’re inside and warm, with Brooklyn jumping at our feet and Harley cat running away knocking over things, I’m running back out in a t-shirt laughing and yelling for the forty of Old E. I forgot I bought in its brown paper bag under the passenger side foot well. I think I may never forget this. Well, I hope I never will.