thoughts on shots

I had been to Miami exactly one time before I moved here, unwillingly, if also gratefully, as a recession refugee. Departing on March 1, 2010, in what my East Village landlord’s lawyer later referred to as “the dead of night” (it was actually midmorning), I left behind some furniture, a low six figures of debt and most everyone I’d ever met. I carted the books I didn’t think were worth taking across the street to the bookstore, and the booksellers in turn quietly carted the books they thought not worth taking to the trash cans on the northeast corner of St. Mark’s and First Avenue, and so I drove off for the last time amid a mess of flying pages.