Goodness, it's late. I am walking down Spruce Street, home. It is three a.m. The wind is blowing from the west, as usual, cold and sharp.
This same wind that blew against my parents' window panes some time ago has swept across the land, snaked through the streets, pushed for miles, just to slice into my neck at three a.m. in West Philadelphia. I could walk to that house in about three hours, I think, if I just continued down Spruce.ÿThe wind probably made the trek in 20 minutes.
Some fraternity brothers whip a few water balloons out of their window at some younger-looking kids on the porch. A cop notices, moves for the building, and the window slams shut -- WHAP! -- and the kids scuttle inside.ÿNothing here, officer.
Down the street, drunken males on another porch beat upon a door, screaming. I gather that they are cold and have to urinate. One proceeds to urinate. One continues to scream.
When I was a kid I used to think that one could witness secrets of sex and drugs after midnight. Late night cable. Parties in the early morning. Three a.m. passed each night without me, and my imagination filled in the illicit details. I envisioned the middle of the night as a playground for the senses, a time when the normal rules of interaction and behavior didn't apply. It seemed you could do or say anything at three a.m. Who would stop you?
It has been a while since I cared to stay out late. I am just too tired for harmless, drunken sparring in the waning hours of a Friday night, for the solemn pleasure of a late night wad of chewing tobacco with a friend or for a final can of Pabst's when everyone else is comatose. My friends joke that I retire at eleven and rise at five each day. It's not that far from the truth.
I am walking, still. Do I feel older now? A little. Am I getting tired earlier, trying to drink less and stay at home more? Yes. Am I often walking home alone, thinking of someone to the north? I try to be.
I step over a gnarled root. I decide that I am comfortable with my nightly patterns. I decide that I am not missing anything, that most people I know are relaxing, wishing for more peace and quiet in their lives. Most of us are no longer pushing ourselves to be the wild kids we dreamt of being when we still slept in our parents' homes and came home early every night.
If I just continued down Spruce, straight against this wind, I could walk home, now older, now knowing the secrets of the late night are not as tantalizing as I once imagined. But tonight, the wind will cut me down and force me into my bed in West Philadelphia, listening, eyes half closed, to 20-year-old boys screaming in the night.
