Cold

Sunday morning. The outskirts of Chicago. 5 a.m. I don't want to open my eyes. There are so many reasons why.

Perhaps it's the lightning. Perhaps it's the hail pelting the building. Perhaps it's the rain raking the windows, beating the suburbs to a pulpy mass. It sounds like the walls are coming down, like god's fists slapping the door and telling me to wake up and live my life before he yanks it out from beneath me. It's unnatural, this storm. I pull the covers over my head and wait for it to pass. Nothing can harm me here, beneath a thin layer of stained cotton. Hours pass. The sun will make an appearace, I surmise.

After breakfast at the coffee shop, which is much busier than usual -- Father's Day, I remember suddenly -- it's time to start the day. The zoo, I figure: Brookfield, down 22nd Street somewhere. All the traffic lights are dead. Trees are bent in half. One hell of a storm. Why do people live here? Why don't I live here?

I haven't been to a zoo in at least five years, mostly because I just haven't taken the time. But my heart is changing when it comes to keeping wild animals in captivity. I have the proverbial blood of tens of snakes, lizards, turtles, newts, salamanders and at least one slug on my hands from my childhood, when I played warden to too many reptiles and amphibians unlucky enough to cross my path during walks in the woods. But like I said, I'm changing.

I understand the role that zoos play: educating the public to care about animals before it's too late. I probably wouldn't care as much about animals today if my parents hadn't taken the time to make me care by introducing me to nature, which included going to zoos and aquariums. I also understand that while relatively few may suffer behind bars, in captivity, halfway to insanity, they have the potential to help so many others. I guess the hangup there comes with the word "potential." No one really knows where the money goes, from the parking and the souvenir shops and the concession stands and the passes to assorted dolphin and stingray shows. No one knows. So are they suffering for a reason, these captives?

It's brisk for an afternoon in early summer. I spend the next three hours wandering the zoo, alone with the "slightly crushing pain" (great band name) of depression and confusion that's been weighing me down. I'm just watching. None of it affects me. I stand a foot from a bear -- behind glass, of course -- that outweighs me by three-hundred pounds. And I have to keep from yawning. Even the "Feathers & Scales" exhibit, where all things cold-blooded congregate, doesn't excite me. (OK, I'd be lying if I said I didn't crack a smile at the sight of the alligator snapping turtle in the Swamp exhibit. That's him, also known in some circles as Macroclemys temminckii, pictured.) So I leave in search of something that might arouse some kind of feeling in me.

In my pocket I find a solution: car keys that can take me away from here, and the promise of solitude and comfort in the form of pizza and a good book.

The Interview

I'm lucky. I have a good job that, on most days, I like a lot. I get to be creative. I have a lot of freedom. And I get to "meet" new people every day. They tell me their stories. They tell me how they feel. And the ones that you can get to trust you, they'll tell you anything. People love to talk about themselves. I know I do, but I'll spill my guts only to the people I know I can trust, to those I know won't hurt me. Everyone else ... they're at arm's length. Call it a defense mechanism.

I was in New York City a couple of weeks ago. It was a Saturday night, and a few friends -- not really friends, per se, just fellow lost souls -- and I drove up to watch a band I remember from my youth: Warrior Soul. If you don't remember them, that's no surprise. They didn't do much in terms of penetrating the pop-culture membrane. But they made some memorable, politically charged music that was somewhere between punk and cock rock.

The show starts at 11:30. I stand through some boring opening bands while downing a couple of Red Bulls and a Sierra Nevada. I'd been hiking earlier in the day at a place called the Pinnacle, so I was spent. It was an experience being in the middle of nowhere, on the top of a mountain, at midday, then being in the center of the universe just seven hours later. But I needed the company. I'm lonely, you see ... just like everybody else.

This girl keeps bumping into me. She's young. Compared to me, at an ancient 35, everyone is young, I figure. I'm not sure if she's flirting or if it's just a coincidence, like when you lock eyes with someone in a restaurant and every time you look their way, their eyes meet yours. It's awkward. It's funny. And it's deliciously tense. I move away from her, just to be safe. Unless I'm being paid to do it, I'm not much for small talk.

Warrior Soul takes the stage some time around 1 a.m., and they play till close to 2:30 a.m. Decent set. It makes me think of the first time I saw them live, at the Airport Music Hall in Allentown, Pa., 18 years earlier. (I still can't believe that was 18 years ago.) The more things change ... well, you know the rest. The only remnant from the original Warrior Soul: Kory Clarke, the lead singer. (That's him in the photo.) He still sounds good, puts on an energetic show. Good ol' boy from Detroit. He's got some new guys playing with him, from Iceland or Sweden or Greenland or someplace in the middle of the world I'll probably never get to see.

The show ends, and we take the time to thank the band, to say hi to Kory. I thank him for a great show, and he hugs me. That's cool of him. I figure we'll be heading back to Philly soon. But this is the first time I've spent "quality time" with my companions. New York is to be enjoyed in large doses, by their estimation. We meet a friend of a friend and head to a dive bar 10 blocks away. I don't feel much like drinking, but I do because it's offered: a Blue Moon. I hate beer. It makes me angry. Fortuitously, we head to a falafel shop around the corner. It's the highlight of the night. We spend the next hour talking with Mohammed, the guy who runs the place and makes one hell of a falafel. He tells us about Madonna's multimillion-dollar condo around the corner one minute, and the homeless plague the next.

I love hearing this guy's story. I find, rather quickly, that I'm interviewing him, as if I'm working. I ask about his wife and kids -- he lives in Brooklyn because Manhattan is "no place to raise a family" -- and if the economy is having any effect on business. "No," he tells me. His falafel is too damn good for people to not buy it, he says. (He won't get any argument from me.) He leans against someone else's car and smokes a cigarette. I tend to have an immediate dislike for most smokers. This guy ... I don't care if he smokes or not. I just care that he's happy. Eventually, we part ways. He shakes my hand and thanks me for giving him money.

We -- the two guys I came up with and me -- head back to the crummy bar. Where there are trees, there are birds singing. It's practically dawn. We're back in the bar for 10 minutes and -- thank you, god -- it's closing time. Finally, somewhere around 4:30 a.m., we decide to head for home. Home. Someone flags down a cab and five people cram in. I feel like a kid again.

The night is over, I realize, as the cabbie drops us off somewhere familiar. We're back at the car. We pull out of the parking garage and head south, toward Philly, as the sun starts to silhouette the skyscrapers behind us. I'm in a different world, and I'm leaving it in my wake. Somewhere in the middle of having a horrible night with people I barely know, I was able to carve out a hell of a great night. I smile and take notice of it. This is new, I think.

The driver -- he and I have known each other for 20 years -- puts in a punk CD I've never before heard. And I don't ever need to hear it again. Most punk never appealed to me. He blasts it, probably to keep himself awake. And that's cool. I stuff gobs of neon pink into my ears and close my eyes. I wake up two hours later, back in Pennsylvania, on a beautiful Sunday morning.

It's 6:30 a.m., and it's time for bed. I walk to my car, put the key into the ignition and drive off. Back to the real world.

Ghost in Gotham

New York. Again. Sigh. I think: I'd rather be someplace else. No fewer than six someplace-else destinations pop into my head. But it could be much, much worse. I have no real problems, I remind myself. I have work to do here, and that's a good thing. I'm still needed. I'm still, for the moment, valuable.

It's dreary, overcast and muggy. A heat wave is imminent. I'm actually excited as I watch the buildings pass by. Falafel shops. Porn dens. Dunkin' Donuts everywhere. Then there are the trash piles. I remind myself that I'm reading too many travel books lately. The current: "Do Travel Writers Go to Hell?" by Thomas Kohnstamm. It's a decent read, about a lost soul trying to find his way in Brazil, home of the FARC (actually, I guess they're in neighboring Colombia), green anacondas and a few decent death-metal bands.

It's 9:30 a.m. on a Thursday in early June, and I'm stepping out of a cab. The driver leaves me at the mouth of the Paramount Hotel on 46th Street, a stone skip from Times Square. It's under construction. There's nothing but an exoskeleton of scaffolding. A small sign tells me I'm at the right place. The light fades as I leave the street.

Inside it's a much different place. I step through the door and forget where I am. Am I still in the United States, I wonder. The lobby is dimly lit, but the decor shines through the darkness: cut glass, wood, stone. It's elemental, atmospheric. An undercurrent of house music never stops, not even for a beat. It's much different than the Residence Inns and La Quintas I'm used to overnighting in for work. But I suppose it fits for New York City.

The people around me are strange, aliens. Wannabe rock stars cradling their guitar coffins. Businessmen, international, by the looks of them. Gorgeous women of every race and age. Impossibly gorgeous -- plastic, fake, laughable. But I must look the same way to them, I figure: from another planet. Saturn or Neptune, I hope. Those are the best two. Actually, I probably don't even register as a blip on their collective radar. To them I'm wallpaper. Suddenly I feel underdressed. But I'm on assignment. I have to be "on." Otherwise I'd head out the door and get lost somewhere, just to be lost, just to be alone with my thoughts. I do that too much, I remind myself. Forks clank against porcelain, somewhere. Elevators ding. Mouths speak. They don't form words, just noise.

I meet a business acquaintance: a guy I've known for three years but have seen only twice since we first met in Salt Lake City. He's happy to see me. A third joins us and we head to an upstairs cafe for breakfast: yogurt, fruit, coffee. We talk business, spend some time watching videos, scroll through a PowerPoint presentation. It's nice to be speaking with real, live humans for a change. A fourth joins us. He's older but friendly. He's easy to talk to. He makes jokes, provides a few quotes for the story I'll be writing at a later date. I think: I'm glad I'm here.

An hour later, we part ways. I'm on foot, shooting down Broadway. Along the way I notice people gathered on a corner, staring upward. Nobody in New York stops for anything. Immediately I think it, and my lips follow: "King Kong. Please let it be King Kong." Life's more interesting when things such as King Kong, Godzilla, werewolves and other assorted monsters really exist. It turns out some daredevil is scaling the New York Times building. Good for him. I respect him already. But I keep moving.

I'm in the flow, cutting through the crowd and making my own path. I get lost in the sea of people. I'm at elbows with thousands, but I'm alone. I'm unnoticed, a ghost. Then the smell hits me. I must be in New York.