Dog Shit Cigars
Stay Wild
A Romantic Trip to New York
Photos and Words by Justin “Scrappers” Morrison
I hear a sparrow singing a tune we all know.
It’s a depressing complainer’s song about winter and hoping spring will show it’s happy face and make everyone be nice to each other again. I’m trying to let that sparrow bum me out. I’m ready to slouch into winter’s slimy bath of depression, but I can’t because I’m actively in love.
She points to some dark brown dog shit on the sidewalk and in her best Groucho Marx voice offers me a cigar. “Wanna Sea-Gar?” Later that night, I will wake her up chuckling in my sleep as we smoke dog shit cigars in my dreams.
New York is not a big apple, it’s a dog shit cigar store. The opportunities here are not for a nature lover like myself, but for the culture lover. Lovers of fine cigars, fashion, theater, and start ups. I hate all that shit. I’m only here to be with her.
NYC squeezes me. The streets are so tight, the subway is tighter, and the buildings are so tall, the only way out seems to be up. So we find a way to get on the roof of the Ace Hotel. Stepping foot on the tar paper roof the first thing we see is a baby in a window and a grandma both waving to us. We wave back and smile sincerely relieved to be up here with them.
We’re glowing and happy. An empty can of nuts is up here with us too. A clue that someone else found this escape. I see “Alex” lovingly tagged on the wall. Surely this must be the same Alex who started the Ace hotels. The dreamer who made home wherever he went, so the rest of us could find inspired sanctuary on our travels. I’m sure he had nuts on this roof.
From up here we can see up the Empire state building’s nose as its raised head gets crowded out by taller buildings being built up against it. I wonder about Old York. Are we seeing the last of it get covered up by Newer York? What about the Old Yorkers? There are residents on the 12th floor who didn't move out of the building when the Ace turned it into a hotel. They’re still here behind closed doors making love in all the ways that are not for sale.
The lobby of the Ace is a jacuzzi party of business with bubbles popping to the beat of heated emails shouting “I need it yesterday.” All the seats are taken, but we find one small stool in the old film photo booth. We know the routine; leave our bags outside, close the curtain, make out for a while, pay the machine, smile, and walk away giggling while the photo dries in hand.
Her finger tips fondle flower petals in a cart on the way to the Breslin. She has no idea how flirty she is with the world. I show the flowers the ring she gave me, so they don’t fall too far in love with her. The Breslin is the restaurant built into the Ace Hotel. It’s got a menu that would make Ernest Hemingway happy. It’s hardy, handsome, and heroically salty.
The pickled cucumber is treated like a ham here. Served simply and sliced. The lamb burger, fermented vegetables, Scotch egg, and fudge brownie all make their way into me like waves into an old pier. The only flavor I remember though is that pickle. It shivered my timber.
She orders the Breslin Julep made of bourbon, rye, mint leaves, ginger, English tea syrup, lime, and fancy ice cubes. She enjoyed it so much she invited a second one to dance with the first in her belly. We camped out in the booth for easily 2 hours. Our spying phones recorded us laughing loudly, whispering heavy emotional math equations, crying over family tensions, bitterly fighting, giving up hope, re-earning trust again, and hugging out all the pain of being alive together. In that booth we realized no matter how crazy and fucked up we are, if we hold on tight enough to each other,
the storm
will pass,
and everything
will be ok.
I doodle a cartoon penis with grape leaf pubic hair while listening to some of the vintage records in the room. She changes into a nice flower dress for going out and does her makeup. I used to hate it when she put on makeup because she is so naturally beautiful. I’m ok with makeup now though. It’s like clothing. More special when it comes off.
We see a musical called Hadestown. It’s another one of those sparrow songs about winter. It says to me, “Spring is coming, but we’ve got to remember why we love it first.” The performers crack their hearts open on stage and sing songs about spring only coming if we trust it will. Doubt and despair only make the winter longer. So that night in bed we make love so deeply we wake spring. We grab spring by the foot and tickle it till it’s giggling, kicking, and begging “Fuck! Yes! Stop! I’M COMING!”
The next morning, down in the lobby at the Stumptown coffee, she buys a new tote bag and a locally brewed kombucha. The bottle bursts and squirts all over her new tote. Like champagne on a new ship, this bag is ready for a new adventure. How fitting, she’s on her way this morning to Morocco, and I’m heading back to Oregon. We won’t see each other for a month.
I squeeze her hand till it's sweaty the whole ride to the airport. Even though we’re going to different parts of the planet from this huge NYC airport, our gates end up right next to each other. We have no doubt that the Universe wants us together.
