Tonight’s weather has been predicted to be the rainy, which will certainly be better that New Year’s Eve 2018, the coldest end of the year in the history of New York.
I’ve been in other cold nights in this city.
Most memorial.
1971.
Doctor Nick, Wayne Shephard, Eddie Mickie, and Wayne’s sister drove up to Central Park for concert.
In Nick’s Mini-Cooper.
Eddie weighed 450.
He sat in the front.
The biggest man this side of Andre the Giant.
We parked by the Plaza Hotel. The cold wind was sharp as an ice razor. Every exhalation hung as frost before our faces. It was deep winter.
Eddie walked about two-hundred paces and then sat on a bench.
“I can’t make it any farther.”
“To the concert,” asked Wayne.
“Either way.” He was hyperventilating hard.
“You cold?”
“No, I just can’t walk no more.”
“Not in this weather.”
We retreated from the park and returned to Eddie house.
It was nice and warm.
Tonight it’s raining and I’m thinking of staying in, but there’s always a chance I might gone out.
I do like the nightlife.
