In My Own Words - Ron Centeno

( Continuation of "What A Friday Night - Part II" )

Off from the Chevy’s Bar and Resto, Ces and I hit the road towards Bryant Park in Midtown Manhattan. Needless to say, the park was once a potter’s field (a graveyard for the poor) from 1823 to 1840, when thousands of bodies were moved to Ward’s Island. Moreover, the park had been taken over by drug dealers, prostitutes, and the homeless during the 1970’s. Hence, nicknamed “Needle Park”. But those were the things of the past.

The Bryant Park Ces and I spent an evening with was in complete contrast to its previous reputation. Its sprawling grassy landscape was now home to music aficionados eager to watch the summer events. The lawn of Bryant Park, surrounded by cafes, could easily hold several hundred people on a given day.

And on that torrid and lovely evening, the New York Symphony Orchestra was scheduled to perform. Ces and I couldn’t get any better than that. And because it was free, the excitement was twofold. After we struggled our way in, Ces and I settled ourselves onto the folding chairs next to each other. Beethoven’s and Mozart’s were played. Each number was followed by the bellowing of ‘bravos’ from the crowd. My attention, however, was far-removed from those eternal classic tunes. It was the conductor who caught my attention. I was struck by the swinging of his baton and the gyration of his hips. He was Charlie Chaplin without the hat.

Not too long, the day turned into the night. Spotlights illuminated the stage, casting back somber rays toward the audience. An hour later, the orchestra took its break. Ces and I stood, strolled, and then walked aimlessly into the crowd. The lawn was now packed. Soon, we vanished into the applauding spectators. When the orchestra reemerged onto the stage, I was blown away by its next piece. It was “Hey Jude”, done originally by the Beatles. And then there were more Beatles’. The crowd was now on its feet and so did we.

Standing next to each other, I threw my hands around her shoulders. Hers run to my waist. Oblivious to those around us, I dipped a quick kiss on her cheek. She didn’t seem to mind it. I waited another minute and launched another one. This time it lingered quite a bit almost reaching her lips. “Not too fast, brother”, she said. Embarrassed, I put my assault on hold. The crowd were now excited as “Charlie Chaplin” oscillates his stick to the tune of “Come Together”.

Her hand grounded steadily on my waist. Mine, too, was on her waist now but not steadily. Her low-waist pants were so low I could feel the warmth of her skin. It was smooth as silk. I applied a little pressure as I ran my fingers around it. Then she looked me in the eye and asked, “Are you alright?” “Yes”, I said with muted desire.

Long after the orchestra was gone and a handful of people left, Ces and I opted to stay. Behind the wall and underneath those trees, we stood and talked. Then we talked some more. Slowly, I lifted my hands, grasped her face, and drew her close to me. She was motionless. Her eyes were now close. With all my might, I locked my lips into hers. She returned the favor with equal potency. I could feel her hands wandering through my back. And so did I. “We need a room”, I whispered. Before she could utter a word, I have already summoned a cab. “73rd and Roosevelt”, I said to the man behind the wheel. “Yes. Suhventy thurd and Rushvelt, Sir”, came the reply from our Pakistani driver. WANT TO READ THE PART IV?