4:30 AM.
The Majestic. My last night in America.
We order hash browns, coffee, some biscuits and apple pie. The party hadn’t been boring; we had just left before the others started to split. The four boys with me and Shy can be summed up perfectly by their names: Carlos, Eliot, Ryan, and Ben. They really embodied those names.
We had only just met them at the small, packed apartment and became fast friends with the help of a few cocktails and a joint. The Majestic is packed. Labor Day weekend. The tiles on the wall are white and yellow, or at least they are supposed to be. The waitress is too polite to be working the graveyard shift and I can tell the boys aren’t going to tip her enough already. Someone pushes someone near the cash register and all the testosterone in the room jump out of their seats. About 10 minutes later I see blue and red lights flashing in the parking lot.
The hash browns swim in their grease and ketchup and salt. Perfect for my coming down. The boys were thinking about getting laid. Shy just wants her pie, and I am thinking that this is a perfect night to be in America.
***
Having a sandwich in midtown, Shy and the afternoon. Back in the country again. July.
“Hey look, it’s that guy” she says. It’s Carlos. “Hey!” she calls out.
He comes over and looks a little confused, then says “hey” and sits at the table with us.
“We’ve met before, right?” I say. “The Majestic? Last year?”
“Yeah,” he says. “The Majestic. That magical night at the Majestic.”
That magical night at the Majestic.
