34 Montague Street

The second version of this piece, cleaned-up with the help of Damian Hey, master grammarian and prolific writer.

One night in late July,
when the weather was as stuffy
as the inside of a cocker spaniel’s mouth,
I got up from my sweat-drenched bed,
pulled on my shorts and white t-shirt,
and planted myself on the stoop
in front of my building at 34 Montague Street
with an ice-cold beer that I had
commandeered from my barren fridge.

Alone I sat on that sad stone stoop
with just that paltry beer to keep me company
musing about the great mysteries of the universe—
a solitary man clinging to his cold can of comfort,
contending with the brute realties
of the human condition
on a sleepless summer night.

It was at that moment,
on or about 1:15 in the morning,
that she appeared as though from nowhere,
her cotton dress clinging tightly to her
with such extraordinary intimacy
that the two seemed almost fused together.
She was absorbed in her own thoughts,
like one who had more than her share
of great human mysteries to solve,
and I knew at once by solemn appearance
that she too was a wayfarer in
an otherwise alien universe.

Determined to catch her eye,
I placed the can down on the step where I was sitting,
and the sharp kabang of aluminum against limestone
cause her to turn towards me suddenly,
the yellow glow from the streetlight
illuminating her like some kind of ethereal being.
And she smiled when she saw me sitting there alone,
sensing, I assume, as I had,
that we two were cosmic bedfellows.
Then, noticing the beer can next to me,
she said, in a voice that purred softly in the quiet of the night,
“Got another one for me, Joe?”

Well, my name’s Bill, not Joe,
but that really didn’t matter much at all
when fate had conspired with such grand eloquence
to bring her to me at this very moment.
And I really wish to god-almighty
that I had another can of beer to offer her,
‘cause there was nothing that I wanted more
than to feel that angel of the night
pressed close against me
on my apartment stoop.

“Sorry. Last one,” I said
with a voice that betrayed my deep-felt regret.
And looking intently, she smiled at me again—
a smile so wistful that it
damn near broke my heart….
She smiled at me and replied,
“That’s ok, Joe, probably better off, anyway.”
And wiping the dirty blond hair from her eyes,
she slowly continued on her journey,
till eventually she completely disappeared
into the darkness of Montague Street.

“Better?” I thought ruefully to myself.
Better for whom? Better for her or better for me?
Perhaps it was better for the damned universe not to allow
two solitary creatures like ourselves
to find some single shred of cool consolation
on a blisteringly hot summer night.
“Yes, probably better, anyway,” I reassured myself,
not wanting to agonize over a possibility
that could now never be realized.
And so, draining the last drops of cheap brew
into my eternally parched mouth,
I crumpled the empty can in my hands and tossed it
spitefully onto the empty street.

I went back upstairs
around three or four, I guess,
but didn’t get much sleep at all.
How could I?
I lay there alone in my bed,
dreaming about that girl,
about her skimpy cotton dress,
and about the opportunity that was lost
for lack of one more stinking can of beer.

A few hours later, the sun finally rose
bringing with it yet another day
of endless preoccupations and distractions.
On the way home, I made it a point
to stop into the little grocery store
‘round the corner from my apartment,
and bought a few six-packs of Miller Beer
to store away…
just in case.
You never know, after all,
when some angel of the night
will suddenly appear at your doorstep,
looking to share some inexpensive swill,
while holding out the promise
of a few sweet sultry moments of magic
to help pass the lonely summer evening.

And, as every boy scout will tell you,
it always pays to be prepared.