12/07/24

    I finished cleaning the apartment, lit an incense, and sat to drink my coffee. The aroma was strong, something with tonka bean. Sitting and drinking in the quiet. I watched as the smoke rose up and spread throughout the room.

    Growing up, I had always thought that my house had a neutral smell, like it didn’t really smell like anything. My dad couldn’t handle strong scents and my skin was sensitive so we always used fragrance free detergents and never sprayed perfume or lit candles. My best friend's house smelled heavily of incense. Sort of like those stores in the mall that sell tapestries and crystals. Her house had a darkness to it—dark shag carpet, dark painted wood molding, and a wall color I can’t recall now but vaguely remember as being brown. They always had sheer curtains drawn over the windows. And from the incense a smokiness swirled through the air. I spent a lot of time at her house. I hated the smell of incense.

I leisurely made my way down Central Park West to the Natural History Museum. It was a perfect day—one where you walked slow and the sun hung low and dim. M and I met in front of the new, contemporary-style wing of the museum on Columbus Avenue and entered quickly. I had passed by the main entrance on my way to the other side and saw that it was jam-packed with tourists waiting in a line that wrapped the side of the building. The dinosaur skeletons in the lobby were to blame, I supposed.

    After a short look at the bugs on display we walked through a bland corridor to the main attraction. Shadowy figures of patrons were standing before the glowing dioramas. The Hall of North American Mammals moved my heart. Majestic herds of Bison set in the 1800’s, a lonesome Lynx atop a snowy vista. It was calming to be in the darkened rooms looking into worlds unknown to me. The hand painted backgrounds of each tableau caught my interest even more so than the animals. I could see for miles in the recreations of the Canadian Rockies and Wyoming prairies.

    In the wing of taxidermied birds I found them to be beautiful and sad. I looked up where I could purchase one online. In another wing, I pointed out a small South African antelope species and said "that’s you" to M.

    Our excitement had waned, so we left. Passing by the skeletons and the line as we crossed into the park.

    It was almost 4 pm as we walked up to a bustling J.G. Melon. Wait time: approximately 1 hour. We tried our hand at the bar and stood behind two ‘most likely to get up soon’ candidates. We both ordered a beer.

    The thing about J.G. Melon is that I could never be mad at the wait and, in fact, found that waiting for a seat just allowed me to spend more time taking in the room. Even the constant need to move out of the way for servers squeezing by didn't bother me. The room was vibrant–packed to the brim. Christmas lights were strung across the top of the bar.

    Over the jukebox, someone had played Third Eye Blind’s Jumper which I found wrong and didn’t suit the vibe. I went to put my money in (two dollars for five songs) and saw that some generous being had already inserted enough for 34 plays. I humbly selected ten songs, ranging from The Rolling Stones to Roy Orbison and Bob Dylan. Turning back to the bar, I picked up my beer and the first song I chose began to play: Let’s Dance by Bowie. We exchanged toasts.

    Finally we sat. I ordered the usual: cup of chili and a grilled cheese. For M, a hamburger, and to share, a side of cottage fries. I remembered the outrage that had occurred a few years ago when the manufacturer for the ever famous cottage fries had stopped producing this specific cut of potato, thus making the Melon switch for what was essentially a folded version of that same fry. Luckily for them they could find some other producer for the fry but not before a petition had been made and a year had come and gone.

    Before we left the bartender topped off our drinks for free. We chalked it up to how I must have tipped generously. I never know what I’m doing when I’m paying in cash but there’s nothing wrong with a good tip.

M and I walked across the park together under the waxing crescent moon. At the 86th street station, we said our goodbyes.

    I walked the rest of the way home holding my bag tightly in my arms, trying to fit the strap over my large coat had begun to annoy me. When I opened the door to my apartment the tonka bean scent still lingered. I left the room dark. 

    Uncharacteristically, I opened the window to sit in the sill and partake in a cigarette. Before bed I lit another incense and sat watching the smoke swirl around the room.

Playlist

Back to the Old House - The Smiths

I’m Like A Lawyer With The Way I’m Always Trying To Get You Off - Fall Out Boy

Dream - Roy Orbison

Sweetness - Jimmy Eat World

Like a Rolling Stone - Bob Dylan

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