Simon Moya-Smith

I just ordered another, and I don't want to look at the goddamn note—the bill—the one in my pocket. Not again. I'm doomed. Oh well. Que sera sera.

The bar is almost empty. Sinatra croons out of speakers unseen about the “wee small hours of the morning.” And that's what these are, the maudlin hours. Midnight – when lonely souls hug inanimate pillows and beasts with venomous crotches prowl and thieve the light from once-wondrous eyes. But I'm not brooding on that now. I have the note in my hand, my hand in my pocket, and I'm about to read it again. ... 

Close to $100,000 in the hole, it reads. Signed, -Your Masters and Bachelors Degrees. ... Shit. To hell with apple pie and baseball, Jack. American as debt. Right. ...

The bartender wipes down a glass with a rag, and then, with his fingers, gently massages a lipstick stain off one of them. Did he know her, the patron with the lips? The poor bastard. He's lovesick. I can spot these sad sacks by their red, rheumy eyes, their slouched backs and how they consistently eye their phones in a desperate hope that the love lost, the heartbreaker, will call any minute and say, "I love you. I made a mistake. Come home."

But no. That's not reality, folks. So he continues to wipe down the martini glasses, the shot glasses and now the bar, sniffling here and again. He's probably waited all night long, his shift, to let out a good cry, and it would appear that now I'm the only wiggy skull left between him and it. Time to go.... Yes. The poor bastard. Let it out, man. I've been there. We all have, and damn the liar who says he hasn't. The prat.

I hailed a cab, crawled in claws first and found a crumpled New York Times on the seat. Like a good friend with bad news the paper seemed to have been waiting for me, so I thumbed through it, ignoring the bill still in my pocket. "Where to, sir?" The cabbie said. "Her house!" I blurted. "She's expecting me." The driver examined me through his rear view mirror ... me, this excited passenger speaking in code and wrestling with a day-old paper in the back of his sullied cab. "Where?" he asked with a tinge of concern. "Her house, man! Her house. In Wash Heights. She does yoga. All hippies do." 

"OK," he responded. "Take the West Side Highway then?" 

"Good idea. Yes. The West Side Highway. Go now. We’re out of time! The hour is late and I have a date!"

And for 30 or so minutes the driver in red slammed on the gas of the yellow bee and zipped in and out of late-night New York City traffic, leaning on the horn and damning drivers and drunk jaywalkers in skirts and loosed ties until we got to the elevated freeway on the bank of the whipping Hudson.

We arrived to her apartment building with a loud shrill of the tires. The mad cabbie kicked me out of the car and, as quickly as he could, sped off into the bright lights of the city. He slowed the sedan as he approached an intersection—the red lights, but kept on his way, not stopping, only checking for traffic on either side, and then he was gone, a blur in the distance and a memory of mine to forget with all the rest of the trivial shit that happens in life.

I rang the buzzer to her shoebox apartment. No answer. Try again, I thought. No answer. Damn. No date then, and the bill continued to weigh heavily in my slacks. So I sat there on the corner outside of her flat for a bit and brooded intensely. Lie back on the concrete, maybe, stare at the stars, possibly, I thought – at least until the fuzz comes and barks at me to “move on” or a mutt comes to piss on me. And this is when the ugly ruminations chewed at my skull and dragged my mood into the gutter:

It’s a bastard of a situation when you’re $100,000 in debt to Uncle Sam yet insufferable citizens of the Know It All Nation continue to hit you over the head with, “Oh, you’re Native American? Well, shit then, you guys don’t have to worry about tuition. …”...

4/19/14
Simon Moya-Smith
3/20/14
Booming in this steel box. Frantic bodies dash to dingy railcars they’ll never catch...
Simon Moya-Smith

I don't know if Woody Allen did it. I'd like to think the four-eyed filmmaker didn't sexually assault the girl, Dylan, but only he knows the truth, and she does, too – and maybe also the fly that was on the wall that fateful day in 1992....

2/21/14
Simon Moya-Smith
2/16/14
Finally, by 10 p.m., you manage to land yourself a taxi. The driver is a gerbil! The runt can barely grip the wheel or hit the brake with his heel...
Simon Moya-Smith

I'm in no mood to write today....

2/6/14
Simon Moya-Smith

He limped into town in the middle of the night, beaten and bitter. He’s an asshole, really, and a good person....

1/26/14
Simon Moya-Smith

Oakland County Executive L. Brooks Patterson is a bigot and a braggart.

But so what?

This piece really has nothing to do with that thug in a suit. There will always be racists with dull skulls and deep pockets, and they will get elected to office....

1/22/14
Simon Moya-Smith

I know it’s not just me – you see it, too.

It’s Saturday morning. You flick on the tube, turn the channel to MSNBC. Melissa Harris-Perry is at her roundtable with her liberal skulls – and that one republican to rep his party. She does it every time....

1/9/14
Simon Moya-Smith

On a commuter jet now—US Airways flight 2128—New York City to Boston....

7/23/13
Simon Moya-Smith
7/3/13
On Sunday in lower Manhattan, just outside the Stonewall Inn—that place where, in 1969, the gay community rallied against the NYPD during a hostile raid and marked the bar as a bea...

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