The other evening I showed up to the Hotel McCarron for a vodka tasting. I had consumed a half a marijuana edible before getting to the rooftop event. My hostess greeted me. She had work to do and I sidled up to the bar for a few vodka-cocktails. The edible kicked in hard and quick. The young PR flack came over and whispered in my ear, “Are you drunk?”

“No, just fucked up.” I didn’t say on what. Kala was a reformed sinner and I preferred to keep her wondering, but this was her job and I exited from the fete onto North 12th Street.

I thought about taking the subway, then slid into a wall. A long walk would wear off the effects of the edible and I set off down Bedford toward Fort Greene. A group of men dressed as cows were posing for cameras. A girl ran across the street. Billy’burg was coming to life for the night.

Afros were very in.

Hydrants too.

And hats also stores, but I only had $10 in my wallet.

I kept on walking.

Williamsburg had been colonized by the hipsters and upper-class bankers, however graffiti marked the borders of the latino barrio bear the bridge. Economic cleansing was never 100%.

Wires ran across the sky.

The street got empty again.

Runaway puppets watched the sidewalk. They had scary eyes and I walked faster past the abandoned dolls.

The summer sun was setting in the west. The streets were in line with the solar system. Tonight Saturn would dance over the moon. I slowed my pace and took a couple of breaths. The edible was wearing off blood vessel by blood vessel. Fort Greene was farther away than my first estimate and I passed several bars without any temptation. I wanted to get home.

A woman’s high heels hung over the wire mocking the nearby sneakers.

They had all seen better days.

Vacant lots were few.

Property was hot in Brooklyn.

The realtors promised condo buyers a piece of paradise.

Grass grew from the cracks.

The hydrants were strictly for show.

But everyone young wanted to live here.

They would live anywhere.

With anyone.

New York was a hard place to make it alone in 2015.

Less people lived south of the Williamsburg Bridge.

Mostly Hassidim.

They liked to keep to themselves.

No one was on the sidewalks.

Just some dead bikes.

An empty baseball field.

Even the big Hassidic shetl was silent and I wandered down to Kent Street.

The sun was setting past the east River and beyond the Hudson. I watched the sky change color. The breeze carried the scent of the sea on the night tide. I took a deep breath and got a rush from the edible. It was really strong, but Fort Greene was only fifteen minutes from here.

The flowers showed life.

The crashed car had no blood on the seat.

The parking under the BQE was a desert and I hurried up to DeKalb and over to Fulton where I ran into a friendly face.

Mike of Brooklyn Moon.

It was good to be back home, especially when you’re high instead of drunk.