Once A Baby: Part 1

I made Penn Station for the two hour train ride to my home in Central New Jersey, later than usual. There was no need (there hardly ever is a need) to stay at the bar as long as I did this night, but I ended up with the phone number of this amazing Brazilian bartender with big shoulders and an even bigger smile. All the while, talking to my good friend/mentor/brother James. I thought about the late hour as I left, but realized how great it had been talking to James. So, even though it was late and I'd be a zombie the next day at work, I felt that staying was worth it. The Brazilian bartender's phone number in my pocket made the thought stick: Definitely worth it. I bargained with the Deity as I walked down the stairs and into the creepy flourescence of the station. I closed my eyes before daring to peer at the arrival/departure board and prayed: "Please let there be a Coast Line transfer in Newark so I can lay down me weary bones to rest a spell, and I promise, I'll leave rehARsal at 10:00 on the nooze for the rest of the season." And all of the spelling in that last sentence was intentional. You see, when I really want to communicate with the Deity, I use an accent of some kind. This night I was going for Maureen O'Hara in The Quiet Man. But it ended up sounding like Keanu Reeves in Bram Stoker's Dracula. Its not a conscious thing. I don't know, praying sounds more...pious with an accent. In retrospect, the prayer wasn't even necessary since NJ Transit rarely runs late. Rest assured: the whole world could be "going to hell on a greased pole" (one of my grandmother's conversation crushers), but there's ALWAYS a train to New Jersey. Anyway, I reached a hand into my back pocket, checking for my ticket, and feeling it there, slipped into one of the blue plastic bucket seats of the NJ Transit/Amtrack waiting area. Before I discovered the 1:41 North East Corridor train with its Coast Line transfer in Newark, I had, on occasion, slept sitting on the floor while waiting for the 5:41 which is the latest (or earliest, depending on the kind of day you're having) train home. This is also before I discovered that you could get into the waiting area, to sit...on a chair...as long as you purchase your ticket ahead of time. Note that there is always a couch for me in my, now sublet, apartment on 96th street, so the floor in Penn Station is not my only option. But, at that hour, I'd rather grab a cozy corner on the floor or, in these enlightened days, a chair in the waiting area, to relax, maybe read before catching two hours sleep on the ride home. It does occurr to me that most people who live this far from Manhattan, and who have to work at 9 am, would probably leave wherever they were earlier and that way, they would drink less, get more sleep and generally feel better about themselves. Ah the price I pay for my need to be spontaneous. And my need for Kettle and club soda. Besides, if I left earlier, I wouldn't have enough time to enjoy whatever cruisy antics might develop at the bar. I mean you can't spontaneously start digging the triceps and/or shoulders of the amazingly-handsome-Brazilian-bartender if you're constantly running off to catch trains, right? Face it: spontaneity sometimes requires a little forethought. A little planning. Did I mention he's got a killer smile? So the occasional Tuesday night is spent occasionally sit-sleeping in Penn Station in alternating states of buzzed/bored, buzzed/thinking about the CD I'm working on, drunk/content, or drunk/verge of tears because New York is so grimy beautiful (which is REALLY drunk). Add "tired" to any of the above and that pretty much covers it. This particular night, the night I had the woman-baby encounter, I was buzzed/tired and just as I was changing over from from anxious-for-no-reason, to begrudgingly-content, I saw her. The woman-baby.