31 October 2000 ~ A whole damn town...

Woke up early this morning and went to sign some papers at my new apartment.

Went downtown, had a muffin at Java Joe's, and walked to the post office to mail my current landlord the rent check for November and to mail Mike his Christmas present from last year.

On the way out of the post office, I saw two different men talking to themselves. Rather, one of them was talking to JFK, and the other was talking to himself. I believe the latter was discussing either the closure of Paul's Diner a few months ago, or the stabbing of Jerry-the-barber a few weeks ago.

I reflected that there must be a lot to mourn when you're an old man wandering around outside the post office. The closing of Paul's, the shooting of President Kennedy, the stabbing of Barber-Jerry... (FYI, Barber-Jerry lived and went back to work; JFK did not...)

I reflected that, even if there isn't a lot to mourn when you're old, there's a lot to reflect on.

I walked past the Greyhound station on my way home. I glanced at that oh-so-familiar blue and red Greyhound logo. I love that sign. I recalled long, LONG hours spent waiting for my next glimpse of a blue and red Greyhound sign. Six hours. Five hours. Three hours. Six and a half hours. The Texas panhandle, which seemed like about a thousand hours. And finally, always last, the last four hours into Binghamton, and that sign, familiar all over the country, and somehow signifying homecoming.

(Nonsensically, as I walked, I hummed an old Rolling Stones song: "...and I just can't seem to drink you off my mind..." Realizing that this was perhaps more nonsensical than the old guy's conversation with JFK at the post office, I giggled to myself.)

On the corner of State Street and Henry Street, there is student housing with a long red fire escape. I went to a party there once with Jeff. Jeff got drunk on two beers and I had to help him home so he didn't try to walk to Denny's via the middle of the road.

...And near the corner of Washington Street and Henry used to be a bar called Melody's. They had the fucking best chicken wings I've ever had in my life, although the bartender, Gus, had problems discerning the difference between ginger ale and gin-and-tonic.

I walked past Lost Dog Café. I didn't stop in, just walked by, reflecting on all the times during my last two years of high school, when I'd skip classes to have coffee downtown. Once, a teacher on her lunch break saw me there. Several times during my senior year, the attendance office called Java Joe's asking for me, and the employees would grin at me over the counter and say they had no idea who I was.

I walked past the weird blue structure dedicated to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. The state headquarters for the Ku Klux Klan used to be located in that precise spot, according to the Binghamton historical society.

I took a right, and walked down the sidewalk above the river, staring up at the old abandonned Derby Fashion Outlet Building. I don't remember the Derby Fashion Outlet ever being open. I only remember it as a vacant building. It must have closed in the 70's or early 80's, if not earlier. Now it is only fashionable as a broken red brick building -- not exactly the height of fashion, but the very height of beauty, for me at least. Norman and I climbed the fire escape there once and had sex on the roof, overlooking the Chenango River. The sky was very blue, the trees were gold and red, and the River flowed by, absolutely oblivious to the two kids fucking in its presence. The River is old and has better things to think about.

I crossed the River via the Clinton Street Bridge. "Chenango" means "peaceful" in one of the Native American languages, according to the Binghamton historical society. The River, walking over it, looking at it, dropping things into it, is maybe the closest I'll ever come, (short of dying) to understanding eternity.

("She blew my nose and then she blew my mind...")

Front Street. I used to take walks down Front Street in the early mornings of 1997. In the summer. None of the shops downtown were open, and sitting in one place wasn't exciting enough. I'd walk all the way down Front Street, past the Roberson Museum (which at the time had some bizarre dinosaur exhibit going on...), not thinking about anything at all, except that it was morning and the sky was blue, and I wanted coffee.

I crossed Front Street and walked down Gerard Ave. Some of the signs in town say "Gerard Ave," and others say "Gerard St." Doesn't matter much to me. I don't even know who Gerard is. Matter of fact, I've never known a Gerard in my life, unless that's Jerry-the-Barber's real name, but I think he might be a Gerald.

Oak Street. My new soon-to-be street of residence. Oak Street. Near Evan's apartment building. I saw Evan a day or so ago. Of course, he was walking down the street with some impossibly young boy, looking rather gleeful. I couldn't stand to look. David used to live on Oak Street. He had little blue-foil-covered chocolates in his cupboard, napkins taped to the wall with phone numbers on them, and a piano that couldn't sound like a piano no matter how hard it tried.

Murray Street. On the corner of Gerard and Murray stands a triumphantly old white house with green trim. The Murray Street Crackhouse, formerly inhabited by Neil and some of his friends. Once, Rachel went to the Murray Street Crackhouse to visit Neil, and I went to the Murray Street Crackhouse to visit Neil, and Neil didn't show, so Rachel and I made out on his bed. I cannot, for the life of me, remember what that was all about, although I do remember playing the "Twin Peaks" soundtrack in my walkman on my way out of there.

Chapin Street. Andrew lived on Chapin Street. I can't remember which house. I have walked up and down that street 20 times trying to remember which house it was, but to no avail. My first one-night-stand, and I can't even remember which house it was in, can't even remember what color it was or what the door looked like. Somewhere on the other side of Chapin is where Norman lives. I know exactly where THAT house is. I spent last night there, watching videos and dozing off while Norman played his guitar.

("Gimme, gimme, gimme the honky tonk blues...")

Walnut Street. Where I used to go to the dentist as a kid. Where somebody got shot last year and I heard the gunshot and decided that indeed, I lived in Da Ghetto. (The kid who got shot lived, as far as I know, but he might be pretty close to resembling a bell pepper, mentally... I don't know...)

Mather Street. Where Peter and I lived. Where Jeff and I lived. Where Jeff and I and Jeff's boyfriend lived. Where Jo and I lived. At the end of Mather Street is a long red wall, and walking beside it, I always thought of Erin. I don't know why.

This is my town. Where I have learned the majority of the things I know. Where a zillion things have happened before I was born, and a zillion things will happen after I'm dead. The River will keep flowing no matter who fucks on top of the Derby Fashion Outlet building, and the Murray Street Crackhouse will stand no matter which weird little goth kids make out in it. The Greyhound bus terminal will stand, mostly unnoticed, until such time as it becomes a symbol again -- a symbol that I'm home again. Lost Dog will continue to serve shitty coffee, Evan will continue to search the streets for little boys, and David's Oak Street piano will probably continue to rot. Jerry-the-barber continues to cut hair, and I'm sure that Gus-the-bartender is mixing himself a nice ginger ale in some nice retirement home somewhere.

This is my town, and I absolutely love it. Nobody else -- or very few people, anyway -- really seems to understand that. At some point, I suppose I'll move away, because people do that sort of thing, and I haven't experienced as much of the world as I want to experience. Maybe twenty years from now, I'll be living hours and hours away from here, and maybe I'll come back and look around. I doubt much will change. And as absurd as it is, that's kind of the way I like it.

~Helena*

"I'm a whole damn town!" --Deputy Andy Brennan, Twin Peaks.