As far as I can remember I have always slept by a window or a door or both. Now too I sleep by a wall that holds two windows. One close to my bed streams the street light right onto my face every night. If I stand up I can see the traffic light, through the same window, dangling so close by I feel I can touch it. But I cant because the window is jammed tight. Also some highly capable individual has managed to throw his skateboard so high , that it now rests permanently wedged between the arches of the Traffic light. If the wind is strong I see the Street signs saying " Somerset St" and "Easton Ave" swing dangerously.
The other window is where I sit by, as my desk and chair are parallel to it. If I look down , I can see the beginning of Easton Ave and where it cuts across Somerset St. Everyday the crosswalks bear the treads of a thousand students and residents and unknown to all of them , like an owl in the night, like a satellite above, I watch. The parents who drop off kids after weekends, stuffed with home cooked meals , and holding onto numerous bags of groceries, while managing to appease them that, yes, they can safely walk the 20 m to the Dorm Entrance. The Sat night revellers who have taken an equal fancy to thursday , friday and sunday. The Drunken girls in their skimpy attires, who will bear the frigid cold and winds for that extra itty bitty skirt. The fat boys in dress shirts who longingly look at these drunk girls but dont dare talk to them. The Homeless regulars, amongst them the Dude with the Da Vinci beard who wont ask you for a penny but will sit in his fav spot (he has three fav spots actually ) and stroke his beard. The Black guy with the hunch who wears a coat no matter what time of the year it is and whom I recently spotted after a gap of 10 days holding a briefcase. Did he just return from somewhere? A homeless person convention, a family matter, an opening in some street , somewhere in Boston for a homeless person , we can only speculate. And far off on the train station bridge, the NJT train stops, late in the night, ferrying those partyheads for whom nothing less than NY lights would do. And the Cab drivers who justle among each other for customers. Easy , My friend, Plenty of fish. And when the night has fizzled out the odd person walking around returing home from some far off party, or that couple who got so drunk that they have to sing about it. And all through this ,solitary in the distance stands , One Spring St, The tallest building in whole of New Brunswick. Home to my Friend Prem Singhs, special friend, Cash Delorry. Where the rich of this tiny college town live. Where you can see the NY Skyline and every curve of the Raritan from. Where some lights stay on longer than the night.
This post is dedicated to all of you. I will miss you all . I will miss you, New Brunswick. For a year I watched over you. While losers gloat over Hamilton St in crime ridden Somerset county, we knew. Aah, the convenience of running down and grabbing a root beer and a Buffalo Chicken Slice from Giovenellis. I will miss it all. And while I return to the suburbs that is Highland Park. Remember one thing. You are not forgotten, and the story, its far from over.
The other window is where I sit by, as my desk and chair are parallel to it. If I look down , I can see the beginning of Easton Ave and where it cuts across Somerset St. Everyday the crosswalks bear the treads of a thousand students and residents and unknown to all of them , like an owl in the night, like a satellite above, I watch. The parents who drop off kids after weekends, stuffed with home cooked meals , and holding onto numerous bags of groceries, while managing to appease them that, yes, they can safely walk the 20 m to the Dorm Entrance. The Sat night revellers who have taken an equal fancy to thursday , friday and sunday. The Drunken girls in their skimpy attires, who will bear the frigid cold and winds for that extra itty bitty skirt. The fat boys in dress shirts who longingly look at these drunk girls but dont dare talk to them. The Homeless regulars, amongst them the Dude with the Da Vinci beard who wont ask you for a penny but will sit in his fav spot (he has three fav spots actually ) and stroke his beard. The Black guy with the hunch who wears a coat no matter what time of the year it is and whom I recently spotted after a gap of 10 days holding a briefcase. Did he just return from somewhere? A homeless person convention, a family matter, an opening in some street , somewhere in Boston for a homeless person , we can only speculate. And far off on the train station bridge, the NJT train stops, late in the night, ferrying those partyheads for whom nothing less than NY lights would do. And the Cab drivers who justle among each other for customers. Easy , My friend, Plenty of fish. And when the night has fizzled out the odd person walking around returing home from some far off party, or that couple who got so drunk that they have to sing about it. And all through this ,solitary in the distance stands , One Spring St, The tallest building in whole of New Brunswick. Home to my Friend Prem Singhs, special friend, Cash Delorry. Where the rich of this tiny college town live. Where you can see the NY Skyline and every curve of the Raritan from. Where some lights stay on longer than the night.
This post is dedicated to all of you. I will miss you all . I will miss you, New Brunswick. For a year I watched over you. While losers gloat over Hamilton St in crime ridden Somerset county, we knew. Aah, the convenience of running down and grabbing a root beer and a Buffalo Chicken Slice from Giovenellis. I will miss it all. And while I return to the suburbs that is Highland Park. Remember one thing. You are not forgotten, and the story, its far from over.
