Gettin' Exposed

10-21-36

My apartment was quite the beauty. Well, to the extent that New York City apartments can rival the aesthetic grandeur of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, anyway.

My personal joint had an air of dignified chaos that encapsulated it. The floor's blood-red rug held up scattered pieces of paper and vagabond literary masterpieces, all my half-finished articles and books setting a hazardous scene that was painted by the pen. Traipsing about the room as I attempted to avoid tripping on The Communist Manifesto or The Scarlet Letter, I had the pleasure of falling into the cream-colored covers of my bedside and soaking up their heavenly feel. (If I couldn't haggle my way to a girlfriend's heart, bedsheets were the obvious alternative.)

Though even my blanket wasn't safe from a little productive scattering, its sheets sprawled about the bed and drooping down to the floor like a throng of ivy. And as I peered up towards my ceiling, lost in all manner of flowery thoughts (AKA, meaningless bullshit) like always, I marveled at its quality of both smoothness and roughness, little cracks on the surface muddling up the ceiling's homely feel.

Not only that, my house was filled to the brim with luxurious knick-knacks, baseball cards and imported European antiques (this time, a bunch of useless bullshit). There was hardly a time when there wasn't something to gawk at, regarding both the room's contents and my own adonis-esque figure.

But hey, this was New York City, dammit! The city that never sleeps! I may be a vagabond reporter who prefers waxing poetic about the wonders of morality over getting beat up in an alleyway, but you've got to curl out of your cocoon and see the real world sometimes! Reporting, as it turned out, required some sense of actual physical activity in order to get pen to paper, pronto.

Strutting over to the windowsill, rolling up the ornately-colored curtains with intrigue in my eyes, the view of contemporary NYC was laid bare before me: workers huddling together in strikes, police officers accosting criminals and scaring off unionists with impunity, concession stands feeding the masses with overpriced hot dogs--and various campaign yes-men haggling the gullible of Manhattan for votes. (Election year—what a time!)

It was such a melting pot of ideas, people, politics; delicacies, destitution, indebtedness! It all absolutely intoxicated me. So many conflicts of interest, so many things to do, so little time at hand for a recent graduate like me. (At least I had a copious amount of words at my disposal to describe the chaos of this time! As half-assedly as I could, of course.)

Even for all my intrigue, however, it wasn't like I wished to partake in it directly. New York's melting pot could be indeed quite a sweltering one, with enough twists and turns and backstabs to make Hamlet blush. So, for now at least, I wouldn't philander with the Syndicalists or hop on some parade float commemorating how Huey Long will make "every man a king!" if you vote for him.

No, now was not the time for that. Now was the time for sitting back, taking a swig of beer and enjoying the intricacies of America from a safe view. To recline and watch the world burn, if only for a moment. That was my goal.

And why not attend the greatest theater for this display of man's depravity: Peterson's Bar. A recluse for any New Yorker wishing to find solace in the warm embrace of alcohol. Or just to banter with their most charismatic of friends and family. Possibly both. They are two good options.

So, I found myself quickly packing up for a go-around at the alcoholic apple of New York's eye. If apples could get drunk, anyway. The Big Apple damn sure is!

Onward to Peterson's, I went!