Portraits of the Night

Early Sunday morning my head cracked the pavement of Times Square. It started with a few playful jabs, but adrenaline overrode the prefrontal cortex. We knew how this had to end. Leg, take down. Choke hold, reverse. Police sirens. Run. One of us snags the speaker as we take off around the corner towards the safety of our hotel. Blood was rolling down my face, my jeans were torn.

It is Monday night at 1 am, and I cannot sleep. I am writing this blog post, sick as a dog after this weekend’s bender with my boys. We met during college and have stayed in touch since. India was our last reunion, for one of our boys’ weddings. The weekend started on Wednesday evening when my first friend flew in a couple days ahead of the crew. On our way back from La Guardia, we stopped for shawarma on MacDougal Street in Manhattan, then after we got home, ripped a local Jersey City Pub. Easy night, we were in bed by 4 am.

Downhill mountain biking is a lot like New Jersey. Fast and unforgiving. I took my friend to Mountain Creek Bike Park the next morning, the most dangerous place in New Jersey after Camden. I love nothing more than sharing these beautiful experiences. “Keep high! Keep high!” crashes “Stay right, big drop!” falls off, walks bike Adrenaline and adventure. On our way back, we stopped by Natoli’s Italian Deli, a perfect refuel station for the night ahead. Then off to Brooklyn to see a Berlin techno duo, Brutalismus 3000. Brooklyn boasts one of the largest clubbing scenes in the world; it is a zoo to witness. The Thursday show was out by 2 am, so we stopped by my favorite Mexican restaurant (El Regalo de Juquila will leave you rolling your Rs) and the Brooklyn Piers on our way home. Watching the fog roll in and engulf the concrete jungle was spectacular. A silly little boat sat across the East River from us. Two days later, it crashed into the Brooklyn Bridge.

Forces were combined the next day, creating a beast that would leave King Kong shaking in his boots. Diving into The Library’s happy hour, the drinks flowed like water. I have never been one to argue with BOGO beer. The McSorley’s gauntlet followed, against my better judgment. After round three at Blue and Gold, we slurred with the night. A current swept us into Brooklyn, and we pulled ourselves ashore at Duck Duck. The natives dressed in vintage clothes, marked by their tattoos and colorful hair. They spoke their own language, like the dialect used out west in Portland. Becoming one with the locals, our group expanded and contracted, moving bar to bar to avoid danger. We stumbled out of Jupiter Disco at 3 am and took a cab to the safety of Manhattan. We tossed a ringer at 7B Horseshoe Bar in the LES. After closing with Jager bombs and pitchers of Bud Light, we attempted to infiltrate an after-hours bar, which I will not name out of respect for this establishment. As a testament to their judgment, they did not let in six womanless drunks. Nor did they let in the homeless man who lived on their porch. I indulged in incoherent and nonlinear banter with my homeless brother before handing him my last dollar. We began our pilgrimage to Adel’s food truck. Now full of food and friends, we pushed on to Central Park. The lesser men napped on the damp earth, while the rest of us frolicked in the morning dew, observing the early bird health nuts.

I woke up on the hotel floor, strangling myself with a blanket. Begrudgingly, we rose. One of the boys went missing in the middle of the night. Our sleeping conditions were dismal, six of us and two beds. He probably fled to find shelter; I don’t blame him. We were all in one piece, besides a broken hand from the night before. These things happen. I stayed behind while the others got breakfast so I could submit a half ass Big Al Project newsletter amidst my raging hangover. After last night, I could not afford breakfast anyways.

I rendezvoused for dinner, which was a few liquor store shooters. We hopped around, hitting Pretty Ricky’s and Whiskey Town. Two of us side quested to Brooklyn for a friend’s birthday party, then returned. A shop owner was dumb enough to sell us more liquor after all the bars closed, and we posted up in a park for the remainder of the night. Just us and some fireball shooters. Daylight intruded on our night, and we headed back to the hotel. One of us did not survive the night, so we tucked him to bed before we decided on one last push. At 6 am, we rallied in Times Square. Equipped with a speaker full of house music, we vibed out till the police chased us home.

This weekend was an all-out bloody sprint, right off the starting block. It was an act of savagery, a homage to our college days. While body and spirit tremble in aftershock, I ask myself why we did it. Maybe because my friends do not settle for less, or our screws are looser. Regardless, we grabbed this weekend by the balls and squeezed a little harder. And damn if we did not get a more. I love my crazy friends.