I’m in Brooklyn today, on the third floor of an apartment on Lorimer Street. I just bought a Death Cab album for my CD player and walked home through McCarren Park, past the automotive high school and dozing Polish men.
The album was so lowly in the production department. But the bones were there.
It is 2002. I’m 25 years old. And it’s October. All the raves, they will come along during the next summer. The one at the corner of Broadway and First Ave, near the bridge, that one had an absinthe bar and a big fake tree with red insides where people sat and talked. The marching band rolled through inside. A full brass band, at 4 AM. There were heart swings dangling from the crumbling ceiling. You could swing if you wanted. If you were brave enough.
We took a car home. Nobody hung out that far south on Broadway way back then.
I winded up and I was ready. It was quite a good fit.
