The Film

I decided to change coffee shops this morning. ‘Cause I wanted to check out one on the North Side I hadn’t in a while, and I needed a breath of fresh air.

Sitting here now.

My character in my film is from here. I wanted to absorb what I could. It was everything I wanted it to be and more. The coffee is good.


I let my mind wander. My brain was in its perfect creative state which includes altering from several outside means including a lack of sleep. I couldn’t stay in bed today even though I went to bed this morning I was too excited about my film.

And then it happened. Cars were passing uneventfully, which is the best kind of event for me; under a dim sky and wet street, which are the best sentimentally for a writer- when I saw a man, my age, baggy jeans and long red hoodie that somehow fit him perfectly around his starved face. He was walking slow, as I imagine is the only way one can walk when wearing pants like that. He was missing teeth which I could see ‘cause he was smiling. I saw a woman, overweight kind of all around, and following her, not holding anyone’s hands-which he was too young to not be doing- was a kid. Kid was wearing a hoodie like dad’s but pajama pants, like they were pickin’ him up from a babysitter somewhere in the neighborhood. That neighborhood. He couldn’t have been more than 2 or 3, 3 malnourished I was thinkin.’ But that was just me thinkin.’ He coulda been younger; his walk was still a little shaky. He hadn’t seen a bathtub in a hot minute.

His father had a clear bag fulla toys- bright primary colors, like they had picked those up when they had picked him up. And my mind went to all the places they coulda been while he was there. All those places.

They were lookin’ at him, smiling, sayin’ stuff I couldn’t hear, to get his attention, which they didn’t have.

The boy stopped by my window to bend down and pick up a stick- not more than a twig; and he held it up fascinated by it, like it was his new toy-of-the-moment, and like he was already used to entertaining himself all by himself.

My eyes were wide open. The glare on the glass probably made it so he didn’t even see me, and in a moment they were gone, though the scene left me shuddering from the chills that ran racecars through my veins for a long time after.

Some smooth classy jazz was playing in the background, as if that wasn’t already enough to do it me. The waitress brought me a refill without me even asking.

That’s the thing about being a writer, and especially a screenwriter, and a filmmaker at that- you watch great movies every goddamn day.

Ceiling

I had my ex-stepkids over tonight because I love them and I miss them a lot, and we don’t get time together on the reg. School is out this week anyway. Sleeping quarters become creative in these times: my daughter on the pull-out couch, her brother in my son’s bed, my 6 year-old in mine. I was forced to retire early due to circumstances, while I normally write my film or watch one til I nearly fall asleep right where I am.

I laid in bed for some time, my son breathing heavily beside me, something I honestly missed from when he was younger, and I stared at the blank ceiling; until suddenly I recalled something similar to this from long ago.

I remembered when I was a boy, not much older than my son, when I couldn’t sleep. We didn’t have mobile phones or even television in every room. We had a small black & white in the family room my grandfather gave to us. There were 4 or 5 channels. We didn’t have VHS yet either. When I couldn’t sleep I’d stay up looking at the ceiling playing out the stories of Robin Hood or the heroes of old whose tales I knew somewhat from those who’d told me. And I’d insert myself in them, dreaming of the day when I’d grow from being just a boy to be a real hero like them.

And suddenly I felt a great shiver travel through me, as if I could feel the younger version of myself look at me through time, and all those decades were divided only by the ceiling, and the boy I was was looking at me from then. And all the stories of the heroes faded back into the corners of his room til all he saw was me. And I wondered how I measured up.

Rises

I passed a couple bar-hopping, unintentionally making them hop to one side. The Under Armor fit better now, having lost so much weight for my film. I ran the usual route: passed Clinton Square where I had saved that woman being attacked by a gang; up Adams Street, where I had rescued that family stalled in the middle of the intersection. I ran by Golisano and pointed to the children’s windows as I always had, in case one of those poor kids couldn’t sleep from the chemo and happened to glance outside to see me. A couple leaving Crouse let me pass first. I didn’t argue with them, seeing that that would scare them further. I was wearing the mask I wear in winter, because in many ways in Syracuse it still was; although the emblem on my chest was something that should only scare bad people. Maybe they just had guilty consciences. It seemed that they had forgotten me: a symbol of hope. A college student held out a twenty dollar bill to me as I ran by. “Did you drop this?” he asked, frantically. I motioned to him- “no.” The road sweeper stopped to watch me sprint the “Rocky stairs” behind Newhouse that led to the Dome; he circled back to see me looking out over the city. I had missed this. All those nights driving through the outskirts had kept me away - until now - I was back in Gotham.