The rain was pounding down this morning as I turned in bed for a few last winks at Sekhnet’s.  I was off the leash today, a friend from far away coming by to play some music as we do now for a few hours every two or three years.  He came in, bent, and whispered Polish to the cat.  The cat regarded him intelligently.  I had no idea the cat understands Polish.

The rain that had pounded down indicated the kind of barometric upheaval that sometimes left the inside of my face swollen, achy and the rest of me slightly nauseated.  I didn’t notice, while playing the host, the exact location of my general sense of unease.

As my friend made the best of my plastic piano, the guitar went in and out of tune.  I had to keep hopping up to stir the sauce I was making, make sure the pasta didn’t boil over.  Soon it was time for lunch, and a toast.  The scotch went down easily, even into my empty stomach.  Didn’t notice how much I was sweating when we went back to play.

The feeling of time slipping away.  Trying to think of songs we’d meant to play together.  A few nice moments, amid the grasping, then it was time to say goodbye.  After he left I realized how much my sinuses were bothering me.  At least then I knew why I’d felt so crappy all day.

Here’s your slice of NYC life:  

Coming back to my third floor walk-up there was a pile of black plastic contractor bags on the curb, wood sticking out of some of them.  Something about this odd collection of misshapen bags caused me to linger, look them over.  Sticking out of the bag furthest from me was a piano keyboard, mostly intact, but looking like it could use some dental work.  The several other bags held the rest of the piano, an actual piano of wood, strings, hammers.

“Damn,” I thought, and trudged up the two flights to my airless apartment.