Dear Diary:
The wheels of this bus are made out of molasses and the ground is molten tar.
No, it’s like that science experiment where the same drip of pitch has been waiting mid-drip for the last 80 years. That’s it. Pitch on a cold day during a blizzard on top of a glacier in the most deserted section of Antarctica. And I guess there are penguins there.
It’s 1:14 a.m. on a Sunday in Harlem and all I can think about is the viscosity of liquids in comparison with the amount of frustration I’m going through. I think we’re in the Upper West Side, actually: 86th and Columbus. At least we’re close to our destination, relatively speaking. I’m mean, we’re not in Connecticut anymore. That seemed like days ago.
I look out the window and see this little diner on the corner. I take out my notebook and write down the address, making a note that I’ll take myself out on a date in the near future. I want to get off that bus right there and order myself a plate of waffles and a coffee. Or maybe a double cheeseburger and a coffee.
I can never order the right meal. I keep thinking about that time I bought a hot dog from that Halal cart on Third Avenue and regretted it all night. It’s too late for a burger and too early for waffles. I’m in a decisional purgatory on a bus that’s melting into the earth’s crust.
I got it. Waffles and strawberries and whipped cream, with a side of a sausage, all doused in maple syrup.
My waffle-laden fantasy is interrupted when the traffic jam breaks and we swiftly descend downtown.
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