Phoenix walked out of the New York Public Library on 5th Avenue and into the frosty December night. For hours he had been staring at and reading about Michelangelo’s Last Judgment; it was so immense and powerful. Michelangelo was such an artistic genius. He should have been studying for his western philosophy final, which was the next day; maybe he should have taken art history instead. He should have brushed his hair that morning.
He buttoned his faded gray, wool jacket and shoved his gloveless hands into the pockets. As his thick-rimmed glasses quickly fogged up, and the cold breeze blew his hair, he habitually reached down to the pocket on the left leg of his khakis to get his blue, snowflake-covered toboggan; it wasn’t there. He grudgingly realized that he was wearing the new Christmas pants that his grandmother had sent him in the mail, as always...never a card or a simple phone call. In order to keep from lying to her when she asked how they fit, he always wore them once, and only once. His closet was full of Christmas and birthday pants from grandma. He missed his four-year-old khakis with safety pins where rips had formed.
As soon as he looked up from the cold, crackled pavement he saw two people walking past. Each had an arm around the other, and they were laughing. They had probably just come from a play, he thought. The Miser was playing on the other side of Rockefeller Center at the Doris C. Freedman Plaza...funny play. When Phoenix looked again they were gone so he began the eight-block walk back to his apartment.
A while later he passed by a well-known nightclub called The Studio. A white stretch limo was dropping off a group of people, five guys and their dates, he supposed. He laughed. Those guys were so phony. Renting a limo to impress their dates, bringing them to some fancy club that they pretended to attend quite often but had probably never been to. Their dates were giggling, more than likely at some lame joke one of the guys had just heard that morning on the Howard Stern Show. Soon they were in the club and out of sight...they had to bribe the bouncers to even get in, he imagined. Phoenix looked away and stared at the sidewalk in front of him again.
Walking on, he shook his head and thought of the empty apartment that awaited him. Luke was supposed to have called him earlier about studying...maybe he called too late or found a date at the last minute so he could avoid studying. Suddenly Phoenix felt a jolt and fell to the ground. A guy in a business suit looked back at him and yelled, "Watch where you're goin', ya jerk!" He just stayed on the ground for a while. That guy was apparently late for something, a dinner date at Carmine’s or maybe a secret rendezvous at the Marriott Marquis with some CEO’s wife. He was probably one of those phony politicians or something. Phoenix finally got up feeling a little sore from hitting the pavement but was all right nonetheless.
After walking five blocks more, Phoenix came to a five-story, dark brick building. He went in and climbed four flights of stairs to his apartment. Taking his hands from his pockets, he blew on them and rubbed them together to relieve the numbness. He fumbled for his key, dropped it two times, and finally unlocked the door to his flat. Even when he flipped the lights on out of habit it was dark and cold; he didn't pay the bill this month. Stumbling over a pair of old, paint-stained sandals, he found his way to the table made from some wooden crates.
He checked his answering machine...no messages.
