Bagel

I no longer feel like myself. But I'm fine with that.

Once, I was a formless mound of dough. In my formative years, I was kneaded gently, and later on beaten, often cruelly. It wasn't an easy life, for the most part, but no life worthy of note ever is. Those days seem like an eon ago now; and while I'm pretty sure they were hell at the time, I still look back on them fondly.

This isn't a metaphor.

Eventually I was molded. Crudely by some standards, handsomely by others. The end result was probably a mixture of both, like a pretty girl with a snaggletooth. The ingredients were there, but all it takes is a snowflake to start an avalanche, and in my case a strand of hair, black, spoiled me. Nobody wanted me.

I was tossed aside. I became bitter and lonely. What was I? I was made for something, I thought, believed, but what?

I wanted to play the piano in front of a sell-out audience at Rockefeller Plaza, to make the game-winning basket in the NCAA Final. Yet there I was, growing stale in a bin of day-olds while ladies with eyes as big as Death Stars looked down upon me and evaluated me pitiful.

I was nothing. My shelf life was over, or so I thought.

As unbelievable as it sounds, a German woman took me home with her. I don't know what she saw in me, but I'm grateful. To this day, the memory of her smile makes me happy. She drove a blue Volkswagen. I rode shotgun, in a brown paper bag.

Have you ever been cut in half, friends? The very idea used to terrify me immeasurably, but it's not so bad. It hurts a little at first, but after you've come to terms with your current state, you actually feel more whole than you did before.

This life has been an abundant one. As I sit shrouded in cling wrap in Mrs. Zurbrück's refrigerator -- top crisper, next to a desirable head of lettuce who must by now detest my yarns yet still nods approvingly at every pause -- I am calm. I'm separated from my lower half by a slice of tomato, a slice of processed cheese, and what smells like horseradish.

And I'm happy. Because tomorrow I will be eaten. Kindly.

Time Left

It feels really good to have nothing in my pockets. I’ve gained a little bit of weight over the holidays, so it’s somewhat comforting that the absence of a cell phone, wallet, pack of cigarettes and a lighter in my pants pockets isn’t providing me extra padding. It’s pretty cold, though. I could use a coat right now. Stupid me, I forgot to take one with me when I left. Doubt I’ll make the same mistake twice. Wouldn’t that be funny?

And I have no shoes. I’m shivering, and my hair is wet, but my legs are fine. The snow crunches under my bare feet and wets the legs of my jeans. I start out running then ease up into a light jog. Each breath is illustrated before me briefly as a cloud of white mist. This is beautiful.

It doesn’t take long to warm up. My ears are a little numb, especially my left, and the cold is keeping my legs from performing at their best, but all things considered I’m in pretty good shape. If I don’t get frost bitten and lose my feet, that is. Ha.

Look here, there’s a woman pushing a stroller. She’s wearing a cotton mask to protect against the flu. Her baby is pushed before her in a vinyl chariot replete with nylon mesh and zippers. Royalty. I jog past the basketball court. No one is there, given the season. I’ve long held the belief that living in a country with hot summers and cold winters builds the best of characters, but what cruel god would deny outdoor basketball for three to four months every year? It just seems vindictive, like Zeus gave us winter as punishment for being good looking.

I almost slipped on a patch of ice. These soles provide no traction. Ha. Strangely, as I whip past – an exaggeration of the highest degree – a group of middle-age ladies doing calisthenics, I’m reminded of a girl I once knew. Her name was Charlotte. She wore a wig on our first date, for reasons I initially never bothered asking and forgot to inquire about before our relationship burned out. It was probably nothing, but questions like that will make a man lose his mind sometimes.

I’m almost out of breath by the time I approach three middle school kids ahead. The tallest of the trio, a boy with brush-bristle hair, kicks a ginko tree as soon as his mates are directly under it, showering them with snow. Their curses of indignation and surprise contain a note of endearment particular to adolescents’ dual frustration and love for their peers. I still remember that sound.

I might head on home, or maybe not. It depends on the weather. The sun is setting and the temperature is dropping. To be sure, it’s a long walk back. But what other option do I have? I might check into a hotel if I hadn’t left my wallet, and the credit card contained within, back at my apartment. But I didn’t so I can’t. All I have is what I took with me, which isn’t a lot.

Blue and red lights flicker by as I try not to notice them, instead looking up at the fat snowflakes blowing up, down, and around on this fiercely assertive winter’s day. A fireman walks up to me and says, “We’re going to lift you up now,” but I am elsewhere.