Last Call Musings
by Odin Roark

A 60’s Manhattan sunrise comes early on the 4th floor.
Attic exposure, arresting deathly slumber,
aroused like the turret of an empty Sherman Tank,
whirling awake heavy eyelids, ammo-less, defenseless,
a casualty of last night's "last call."

My "Oh, God," goes unheard by celestial relay to the big guy,
even as hands clasp both sides of my head,
a mere mortal's plea for relief. Any relief.
"God, you there?"

Outside, answers vibrate.

Cooing.

Scratching.

Oh that sound so annoying most mornings,
Ravel inspired Boleros,
out-of-tune Pollock-scrambled Greek choruses,
angelic voices of another kind,
lonely’s feathered friends.

A windowsill of three grays and a white this morning.
Prancing, gliding, pecking any and all the “float-about” they can
from this boiling top-floor window-fanned escape I call home,
Well, temporary home for an in-between-relationship and wannabe-artist like me.

Respite. Need some respite. Hands! Gimme a cigarette.
Lighting up the first Gauloises of the day is a Mr. Gleason moment,
How right you were. "How sweet it is."

Below me, 3rd floor dance and body movement classes
gearing up to start in an hour.

Below that, 2nd floor circular stage
Albee's Zoo Story rehearsals already in motion.

Even further, 1st floor entrance
flanked by The White Horse Bar and Jenny's Coffee House.
Ah, the decisions on Sunday mornings.

Step to the right—syrupy stack of dollar pancakes, ninety-cents.
To the left—condiments fresh at 10 AM every day, a starving artist banquet.
Free mustard pickle, little pearl onions, carrots, celery, olives,
plain pickles for the plebs. Nurse a fifty-cent beer, eat all you want.

But…

I've got to get there first. Navigating three flights of stairs
while kettle drums continue tuning up in my head
makes for a Blitzkrieg redux.

Swinging legs off the bed begins this formidable mission.
Where're my socks, my shoes, my jeans, my one t-shirt
(working on the rips. No actor worth his salt wears a tear-free t-shirt.)
Step at a time. Both hands steady to the temples.

Third flight of stairs, the narrow ones,
using the walls to keep me from falling.
Damn...that was some "last call."
"Hi Sara," I mumble passing the mirrored third floor dance studio. A nod.
All I ever get from her. Damn, such a waste. All she does is dance and teach,
dance and murder her feet.

Second floor stairs wider.
Wobbly still, hands unsteady, bracing against linoleum faced walls.
Stage work-lights illuminate Zoo Story, mid-act scene.
Park bench with Jerry and Peter, iconic figures of Manhattan conflicts.
Nine a.m. and already immersed in the hell of Albee's classic tragedy.
Weekend morning. Tragedy. Hell, what else is there to focus on
for twenty-something-aspirants in the ‘60s.

Concentrate.

Make it to the entrance.

Decide.

My head. Oh, my head. Okay. What would Marlon do?
Shove hands in pockets. No. Light another cigarette first.
Yeah. Cool.

Pancakes, here I come.

Ah yes, Sunday's communion-wafers-from-a-batter
await consumption by the confessed.
All the sunrise remnants of last night’s disappointment ready to cope,
sometimes weary, sometimes not. A thespian's ritual.
Interaction of the other kind.

Refuel.

Bide time.

Patience.

Read.

Grab a Sabrett hotdog for lunch.

Recite.

Project.

Dream.

Walk the streets.

Wander the park.

Later there's always another "Last call,"
ready to anesthetize reality’s struggle.