Blissed Out in Da 'Burgh

        I didn't go to work today, and I'm not at liberty to say why not either. This is what I will say: when I got up this morning I had all intentions of going. I showered, put my work approved, non-denim pants on, and frowned at the circa 90's pleating that mysteriously adds 10 lbs of pure frump. They were a hasty Goodwill purchase out of necessity, and in retrospect, I would think twice about clothing a scarecrow with them. I vaguely smiled at the greasy dark spots on my thigh. Tahini stains. Today wouldn't be so bad, I thought. Soon I'd be lost in the howling of the food processor as it churned chickpeas, tahini, extra virgin olive oil, lemon juice, garlic, and an assortment of exotic spices into something magical-- a creamy concoction called hummus. Legend has it that directly after the angel Gabriel gave the Koran to Mohammed, he gave him the recipe to make hummus. Actually I just made that up. But if it were true, the recipe I use at work would be the divinely inspired one (ask me in the future for recipes).
        So this morning was routine. I ate a bowl of Shur-Save super-value shredded wheat biscuits and put water on for tea. While the water was boiling I sat down and started peeling an orange. I like to eat oranges with tea-- it makes me feel like I'm living in a Leonard Cohen song. In the middle of peeling my orange-- I've been able to get them in one long peel these days-- I got a phone call. It was my boss, the owner of the place I work-- let's call him Andrew for now. So Andrew called me during breakfast. He was following up on the voicemail I left last night in reply to the voicemail he had left me yesterday. I knew something was up if he was calling me an hour before I was scheduled to be in. And something was up. He had news. News that is confidential, that I would never ever post on my blog to spice things up a little bit. But without spilling the garbanzo beans, I will say this much: the feeling I got, I imagine, is like a kid all ready to get on the school bus who suddenly learns that the teachers have decided to strike. Ambivalence at first, followed by wild, yippee-yahooied visions of unstructured free-time.
        The plan was, I told myself, to get chores done around the apartment, run a few errands maybe, and then "get my shit together." Whatever that exactly meant. But, the problem with undefined goals is that they lead to distraction, day dreaming, and "my, what a beautiful blue sky that is, and what a perfect day for a walk, no a hike-- that long hike I've been meaning to do long the river trails, or maybe I'll hike to the Strip District and get some groceries, or...I know I'll do both!"
        I began debating with myself the particulars of my plan there at the kitchen table. Which route should I take? Should I drive part of the way? What about parking then? You could park in the Right by Nature lot because it's free to paying customers. But what if they have a time limit? You moron, what kind of hike would it be if you drove part of the way? Should I listen to music while I walk-- that might be nice, or is that dangerous because I won't be able to hear traffic? What's the temperature like for the day? But what if I get there, wherever there is, and only make it halfway back because I'm too exhausted?...etc. It was if all of these versions of myself joined me at my little round table and wanted to make a congressional bill out of it. It was getting crowded in there, so I exited with the one that said "Just decide on the way." Left behind in my messy little apartment was my quarreling neuroticism and all ambition of productivity.        

                ***
        The air that kisses my cheeks is cold, but the sun is warm and I know that once I get moving I'll be fine. A birdsong is adrift, and if not for the dusting of snow I would swear I woke up on the other side of March. I walk right past my S-10 pickup truck without second guessing myself and in an instant I round the corner and head up Butler St. towards the steel and gem skyline. My empty backpack clings to me tightly and I wear the hiking boots I bought in Montana. I look down-- I am still wearing my absurd work pants. Oh well.
        First stop PNC bank. In Larryville you gotta remember to take your hood off before you enter the bank. Otherwise that big cop at the door with the bald head and the mustache is liable to introduce the butt-end of his pistol to your skull. Luckily I remembered. What I didn't remember was to sign the back of my paycheck-- my mind was already strolling alongside the Allegheny River. Every time I walk out of that bank, that cop (I'm pretty sure he's more than a security guard) suddenly turns into a friendly customer service rep. "Thank you for banking at PNC, have a nice day" he says loudly and with a big grin under his Dr. Phil mustache. It catches me off guard every time. But perhaps the weirdest thing is that the guy looks just like the most hated cop from the little town I grew up in-- lets just call him Westerman for now. So Westerman 2.0 is like this super nice guy it seems, the antithesis of Westerman 1.0 who was just a dick. (If feels really good to say that in a semi-public way, so let me just repeat it once more: Westerman was a dick.)
        After passing all of the cool little boutiques, art galleries, and cafes, I arrive at the intersection where Butler St. becomes Penn Ave, and finally decide on my route. I'll cross the 31st street bridge and access the Riverfront trail, and from there I'll hike as far as I feel like it. The 31st street bridge is in a modest way beautiful-- like Mary Ann from Gilligan's Island. I think most of the bridges that cross the Allegheny are beautiful and I plan on writing a poem about them someday. They are a dozen sisters, perpetually gazing at themselves in a rippling mirror. The 31st is painted a blue that I'll call periwinkle. Today the sky is more of a pale blue, more like my 40th st. bridge. It's windy walking across. At times I get vertigo when I see the river over the edge to my left and the oncoming traffic to my right. I stop a third of the way across the bridge and look down at her reflection and mine. I'm a lone pedestrian, everybody else is riding around in their little wheeled-boxes, heaters blowing stale air.

        On the other side, I find the trail a soggy, muddy mess. I start to tip toe around like a cat in search of firm ground. I stop and consider going back to pavement. Then all at once I feel ridiculous. After all I grew up practically wading through mud in the swamps behind my parents house. What do I have to worry about-- getting my lovely work pants muddy? Phsh. And besides that, I have my trusty hiking boots on.
        Somewhere near the swank Heinz Loft Apartments I stop by and look at one of my favorite little secrets of Pittsburgh-- "The Rust Belt Maritime Museum" (never will I surrender its coordinates). As I continue walking, I think of this rust belt city, and how much of it lies dormant, skeletal. Mills, factories, and warehouses along the banks of the Allegheny are like empty snail shells. I wonder what it would be like if cities had been built by artists, poets, musicians, and environmentalists instead of business tycoons. My vision resembles something out of Tolkien's Lord of the Rings novels. Yet there is something beautiful about the rust, the rivets, the sheer power of it all. One of the bridges I walk under, a massive rusted iron structure that trains still thunder across to get downtown, has literally swathed everything beneath it in oxidation, creating big, round river stones that resemble balls of iron.
        Eventually I come to a series of three identical bridges, the triplet sisters-- 9th St., 7th St., and 6th St. They are all sunshine, painted in cheery school bus yellow. They are suspension bridges that resemble giant bicycle chains, each with a pair of arches through which a modest trickle of traffic flows. Downstream is the heavily trafficked, double layer Fort Duquesne Bridge. It looks intimidating so I decide to cross the 6th St. I'm headed to Point State Park, I finally have decided. I'm going to sit down at the confluence of the Allegheny and Monongahela, where their long arms join at their hands and create the Ohio. And suddenly, this jaunt has turned into a spiritual journey of sorts.
        
        I haven't been to the Point in years. The last time was probably in my early twenties when a group of my friends watched the fireworks during the fourth of July, and we all chipped in for a total of 30 bucks to see my one friend-- we'll call him Hogie for now-- do a cannonball into the Allegheny River immediately after the grand finale. (Hogie is pronounced like the submarine sandwich.) It feels totally different now, deserted. It looks different too. The carefully laid brick path is covered with slick patches of river mud and the edge of the wharf is strewn with thick chunks of smooth, rounded river ice-- some opaque white, and some crystalline and able to manipulate the sunlight. It is as if I am walking around Pittsburgh's neckline, and for the occasion she wears her finest diamonds. I pick some of the smaller ones up and throw them down into the river. They make a deep, satisfying plunk and splash like Hogie's cannonball, before eventually floating to the top and wobbling like ice cubes in scotch.
        I approach the enormous, circular stone fountain with a certain amount of reverence. This place was sacred for many people at one time, and for some it still is. Underneath me somewhere is a fourth river, flowing unseen in unknown directions perhaps to an underground sea. Oh, the things I long to know, the things I'll never know.
        The fountain has ceased flowing. Around it the water is frozen. I want to walk to the very center and see if there is some sort of mystic energy flowing from its source, but the ice is too thin. Instead I try to take everything in. It's similar to standing at the top of the Empire state building in the sense that everything is moving slower and is somehow far off in the distance. Yet perspective wise, it's different because you look up at everything rather than down. I stretch out on my back and look up into the blue sky, seeing the skyline upside down. There are helicopters, planes, trains, buses, and cars. Somewhere, suits and skirts shuffle about getting ready to leave work at 4 or 5 and be swallowed up in the belly of the rush hour snake. It exists, all of it, regardless of me sitting there in the middle of it. And I exist, all of me, regardless of it surrounding me. And there, all alone, I find for a few moments I am desirous of nothing. And so for those few moments I'm allowed to possess everything.