February 07, 2005
I was taking pictures of every single person in the bar. I captured the images of those just arriving, ran after those who were leaving and made friends with the folks that finally came to accept my ever blinking flash. The place was lit up like a disco floor as I made my rounds and shook the hands of every convivial patron present. It wasn't long before I was officially dubbed 'Wisconsin.' By everyone.I was requested to repeat the name 'Wisconsin' several times as it is apparently very entertaining amongst half sloshed bar flies to hear the pronunciation of Wis-CAHN-sin from native lips. I suppose it makes sense when one considers the slouching, single guy at the end of the bar who's enthralled with peeling the labels from his sixteenth bottle of Miller Light. Drunk people are usually easily amused.
I was not fully aware of the fact that I, myself, was extensively inebriated until I met John's friend, Jerry, who works at the Con Edison building. Although I was entirely interested in what he had to say, I could not, for the life of me, remember what was being communicated. When he mentioned that he had access to the upper levels of the Con Edison building, I grabbed onto this piece of information for dear life, fearful I might lose it if another five minutes passed. I became fully charged with the anticipation of conquering my fear of heights (or 'acrophobia,' according to Plopphiz-nitchel's absurd but brilliant mind) and the idea of seeing this new city from such a summit. And so, off we went.
I know not the exact location of the building.
I know not the number of floors we traveled in the elevator nor the number of stairs and ladders we climbed in pursuit of this grand adventure.
I know not the reason for my sudden surge of bravery in regards to immense heights--
Oh, wait a minute - I was drinking...
Thus we climbed the length of this amazing apogee and looked tenderly over the stunning brilliance of that New York night. We were behind the clock, above the world, and simply enchanted.
** The Con Ed. is the tallest in the foreground**
We ventured even higher than this last picture suggests. John managed to get nearly all the way to the top where only a set of four wing nuts holding a metal disc obstructed and dissuaded our entry. But I must say that John was certainly tempted (as was I); save for the fear of having this whole piece of round metal fall squarely on his head.
I asked John for his keys and immediately began the laborious task of scratching our initials into the metal of that small, round space. I was employed with this intense mission for a good five minutes before noticing another set of initials and remarking,
"John! Those look just like our initials over there!"
"Yeeees, they sort of do, Laura," he answered slowly.
He would not spoil my absolute ignorance until the following day when he admitted that, in fact, those were our initials. He had simply taken out a black marker from his coat pocket to effortlessly write our names onto the wall. Nothing gets passed Laura. Ohhhhh, no, nothing indeed. *please insert dramatic eye roll here*
We headed back to the bar where I continued my fanatical photo taking and where I was substituted glasses Captain Morgan and Coke mixes for just Coke on the rocks (to which I was also not made privy to until the next day). I met Q, the most adorable doorman of all time:
These three people, whom I do not know, made for a great showcase of the paintings on the wall in the back ground:
This guy, whom I accosted on the street (or he accosted me - I'm not sure - but chances are, it was the former):
And scary cheese/coma guy:
By far, despite the fact that I still felt under the weather and intoxicated on top ot it, this was my best evening I spent in New York and, to some extent, it was also my last.
*** To be continued...