The Chrome Phase

Amir was holding my shoe in one hand, my bare foot in the other. Surreal, it was, as we sat by ourselves in the cafeteria on the ground floor of Harborside eating pre-packaged sushi.  Twin towers leered at us through the window from across the river. We tried to talk about the corporate merger, but Amir just wanted to talk about my new heels. “How much?” he asked. What he really wanted to know was if I’d bought them on sale. I told him I paid full price. “Garden State Plaza?” he asked next. What he really wanted to know was if I got them in the city. I told him I did. For reasons unknown, Amir was always tapping my fashion sense. I was a broke, small-town hippie turned big-city yuppie, and I couldn't see why rich, Manhattan-bred Amir would want to talk to me about clothes. The Versace clique would have been much more helpful. “Want to go to Short Hills after work?” he offered. I couldn't resist his soulful brown eyes. I nodded my answer. He was still ...

My pen scribbled frantically through the pages of my composition book. Normally I would have been typing, but my computer was off and I couldn't wait for it to boot up. The idea had come to me only moments before, and it was spilling out of my head and expanding faster than I could put it on paper. I was on my third or fourth glass of wine, I wasn't sure anymore, and I was at that familiar place, the perfect buzz point where my creativity was rich and my internal editor was on leave. Twelve pages, uninterrupted. I still felt inspired, so I picked up my guitar and started strumming chords to some of my favorite songs, inserting my own versions of lyrics. I’m sure my adjoining neighbors wanted to kill me, but I played until the bottle was empty. The next morning, I made some coffee and opened up my composition book to last night's starting point. I read what I wrote, expecting an illiterate, confused, drunken mess of silliness while I rubbed my aching head. The result...