Seconds

New York is not measured in minutes. Seconds, too, are too large an increment to mark the time space continuum here. Nay, it is the nanosecond, the inch, that marks the difference between life, death, joy, and pain.

This occurred to me as I stepped across 51st and Ninth tonight, just one footfall away from being left for roadkill by one of New York’s Yellow Cabs. And it was me that was gambling with that minor space.

Don’t we all? I mean, don’t you?

Every nanosecond of mu Wednesday was full. I woke from dreams in which high school and college were cooler than reality. In the early seconds of this particular Wednesday, I wanted to believe that the loft space, the neighborhood, and the cast of my dream was real life. As I slowly emerged from the dream space, though, I realized my unconscious folly.

Into The MTV, nary a second was wasted. My favorite instant? The moment when a co-worker said in earnest, “I may be stupid, but I’m not desperate.”

After work, I put on my country. The Smith Family gathered in advance of tomorrow night’s Yabby show. Yes, we’re ready. Yes, it’s fun. And yes, every second, every beat, matters.

And then I met the team at St. James on Eighth. They were all there: Rod, Rahman, Jonathan, Joe, Andrew, Langhan, Dee, Akshai, and a full cast of interns. Every second of tomfoolery mattered. It meant something.

Walking home, iPod on shuffle, I couldn’t wait to get home to you. Better, I couldn’t wait to get home to bed. And so I gambled with the small spaces between me and cabs, between me and pedestrians, between me and solid objects. I gambled, and won. Here I am.

And Tomorrow will be another 20-hour day, from Hell’s Kitchen, to Park Slope, and back again. 86,400 seconds with which to gamble: win, lose, or draw.