Eric Milford :: Web Developer & Food Advocate

I sat under a street light along 8th Avenue at 14th Street reading A Confederacy of Dunces. It was nearly 3AM on a near-perfect night. These are my favorite hours of the day; peaceful, reflective. The small, normally unnoticed details suddenly standout. The building across the street, with its broad front and many columns of windows, reminds me of Bonn. In the upper corner read Steak House. The horns of impatient cab drivers are more frustrating at this hour and a man near me plays thumb drums on the table. His rhythm is horribly off.

An older man pulled from his cigarette and asked how I read here at this hour. I could have done without the small talk, but still politely entertained his question. His finger pointed out to a bar on the street corner as he let me in on a little secret. He stared at me as if to suggest I head there now. I had on gym shorts and sneakers, not to mention no desire for the sort. A group of women walked out. The man obnoxiously let out a cat call from across the street. I wondered if such tactics had ever worked. For any man, anywhere. I think I know the answer. He said in parting that he preferred reading to jazz. At that moment I, quite frankly, could care less. I continued reading.

I passed a homeless man on my walk home. He was hunched over asleep. His cart of belongings was covered in American flags. I could feel his pride. I wanted to ask his story, but continued walking. I enjoy talking to people; our lives, I find, are often so interesting. Perhaps another time.