I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.

3AM Friday morning: MJ and I sat in the living room of our Morningside apartment listening to the the drummer of one of our favorite bands talk about his Christian upbringing while eating a bowl of Raisin Bran...

There is an inverse proportion of how awesome the Felice Brothers concert experience was to the shittyness of New Jersey Transit. The system (which has been forsaken by God) was a labyrinthine mess of pottage that forced us to constantly ask people for directions and reassurance that yes we were on the right bus, no I don't know what 'zone' I am in, yes we have never been to New Jersey in this method before, no, actually we don't plan on going back.



A kind man, (an Oceansider! Close to Long Beach!) helped us out and gave us his bus schedule. In the novel/TV reality series that is our lives, this would be the carefully penned moment of foreshadowing or the tilted camera zoom on the schedule that immediately cuts to a diary interview in a curtained room where I say to America, "I trusted that schedule. (Dramatic pause). We...we both did."

The venue, Mexicali, was a nice joint for music, absolutely. I would go there every weekend if giant tractors would unearth the place, crane it onto a flatbed, and haul it through the Lincoln Tunnel, up Broadway, all the way to a nice spot in Morningside Heights, preferably across the street from my apartment. Drinks at the bar, Mexican food, and a strange Jersey-esque scene. MJ put it bluntly when he turned to me and whispered, "What's with all the cougars?" Brilliant, but not his best line of the evening, which I will reveal soon.

Dancing, music, a talented, but extremely inebriated band that look way too young, and bashed the Avett Brothers like they were old crew rivals or something. Lots of country flannel, in a cool Brooklyn way, bereft of authenticity. They were too drunk to finish their hit song. Great show.



Then we waited in the cold for an hour for any kind of bus to take us home. None came. I resigned after 5 minutes while Michael simmered his anger which he unsuccessfullly tried to channel into calling NJ transit, then said his best line of the evening, "This is the part of me I don't like about myself." He was so serious we ended up laughing it off (with some hot chocolate from D&D, only the best) and then going back to the bar to try to drink it off. They were shutting down the bar, but we finagled two Tecates for 5 bucks and told the bartenders our sob story. The cab company MJ called told them it would be at least 100 bucks to get home. We started to consider seedy highway hotels, where there was sure to be a dead body in the empty pool- Jersey style. But I was determined.

The drummer looked nice, so I said thank you for the show and quickly added that we came all the way from New York and were stranded. He actually looked concerned. Good sign. This groupie/friend, Hilari (with an 'i') started talking to us and I in her drunken half-closed eyes, I saw a potential ride home. She was from a ranch in Texas and was wearing cowboy ankle boots with sparkly tights, high-waisted jeans, a denim jacket and a keffiyeh scarf. Texas meets Williamsburg. Austin, Texas saves the day. We started talking about Torchy's Tacos and before I knew it she was hugging me in the backseat of a 1990 BMW, where I was sitting on MJ's lap, with my chin grazing Hilari's very sparkly knee, and my forehead almost touching the bassist, named Christmas. The teetotaler drummer and a not-teetotaler journalist from Kew Gardens named Vladic were in the front. I remember the music was great, and we hit every borough but Staten Island, (but we had come from Jersey so I count that as the same.) In Brooklyn, MJ peed on the sidewalk next to Vladic and the band members, and we ended up in a loft where I met a kid from Binghamton (never fails in NYC). We dropped off Hilari and Christmas. They might not have known each other, but they had not stopped kissing in the car except for when Hilari, A. talked about her holiday tradition of tripping on psychedelic substances, or B. Gave us directions that invariably got us lost. (She ended up disappearing that night, leaving Christmas confused and alone in the Williamsburg loft.)

The drummer, David, looked around and I could tell he just felt uncomfortable. I can only describe him as the kid in the middle of a photograph from Christian Camp, where everyone is blond, tan, smiling, and hugging each other on a sunny lawn outside a contemporary Church building. He had this expression of discomfort, like someone just ripped him out of that picture and threw him into the bluish-gray fluorescent lighting of the loft, which at some point was definitely a sweatshop. We took him home, like somebody would a Golden Retriever and he slept on our couch after we shared some intense stories of our lives and religion.

At one point he paused and said, "You guys are so cool." Yes! America! Give me your poor, hungry, cold, lost youth that ends up through the clothes wringer that is this dirty beautiful city. I am the mother of New York. My apartment is warm, open, with an abundance of Raisin bran, good literature and hope. I feel better about Haiti. Kind of. My bosom is small, but I embrace you, Vagrants!