New York Chronicles: Daedelus

     On the first day of New York my true love gave to me hot rain so people couldn't tell I was sweating. Laurence, Dave's old boss in a way, arrived in New York city about the same time we did. We walked with bikes and backpacks, shook Laurence's hand, and synced strides to his fifth story apartment. I never saw her with my own eyes but I was asked to dampen my sense of sound around Laurence's landlord's rooms. Much like a limited god, she occupied the first two floors and was always present, never seen. I prayed to never meet her. It came true.
     Television and other reputable sources told me New York was a safe haven for Italian chefs to hole up and devote their lives to the perfection of pizza. After the usual host-traveler initiation we acquired a half and half pizza. The pie, although not exactly the Brooklyn style, was a taste celebration. Again I exceeded my preconceived limit of two slices. I wouldn't have survived Prohibition.
     After over-eating Dave and I took to the streets we so recently came from. Our feet glowed with new movie-star-chomper-white shoes. Dancing shoes. New York City is go big or go home and home is very far away. I would have liked for my honeymoon with my Reebox to not be on a rainy night but this is how life enduring memories are created.
     New York subways are the 21st century version of the river Phlegethon. There are rats. Many of them. Exiting the subway I am baptized in cool air. The marquee on the club would have read 'Daedelus' if it had been a classy joint. Classy places don't have five dollar beer and well shot specials. For this I am glad Santo's Party House was not a high end club.
     Dave and I throw as many drinks back as our feet would allow before stomping off to the dance floor. No one dances for at least the first hour or two at dance shows unless, of course, Dave and I show up, a little bit late and a little too excited to be in New York at an underground break-through show. We invent the party. Like a shallow idea that squirms around and eats until it grows into an action, we affect people with the notion to dance. Dave talks to a girl, they are fond of him. I don't let love get in the way of my work. My business is gettin' down with myself.
     The black light loves my shoes. If moths had been admitted there would have been two more parties at my feet. My legs had elongated brains of their own and I could do nothing but lean back with arms crossed and marvel at their Burlesque performance.
     The late 19th century follows Daedelus around like pox. He is dressed for the Victorian age, sweating with dedication. He looks like a wealthy man on his death bed. Before him sits some kind of religious antique filled with square lights like an apartment building full of insomniacs. He puts them to bed and ushers them awake. The misery induced moans ring out in a speaker pounding chorus. "I've developed a sweet tooth for tempo" is all he says before the musical onslaught is unleashed. We scramble to keep up with this cherished maniac. He plays decapitated pieces of his well known songs. No time for full-lengths.
     I lost track of time. My world was reduced to sound and movement. If Daedelus hadn't walked away from his Pandora's box I may have been enslaved in that world for eternity. With this kind of afterlife I could have a religion up and converting in no time. Daedelus returned for an encore. I had appointed myself the first prophet of musique concrete. Daedelus asked with his hands to go faster or slower and, leading my people, I pointed toward the sky. My offering was received.
     Trains in New York City run all night. I have too much power. To conserve energy we ride that dirty combustion chamber to Laurence's fifth story apartment and sleep in his massive bed.