Echoing across the rooftops....

The tar paper crunched under my feet as I made my way across the roof, one slow, tired step at a time.

It had been a long day -- hot and oppressive, like so many days were in the city. Too much concrete, too many cars, the swimming sea of faces and bodies attached to people you cannot and will not ever know as anything more than another obstacle between you and wherever you need to be next. Too much noise, blaring and echoing, until it became less of a sound than a texture -- an underlying susurrus of non-meaning serving to keep your brain on edge and your thoughts jumbled, too much so to focus on the what and the why of the drudgery and instead simply... going. Moving not so much forward as onward -- one more stop on the track, one more day at the job, one more hour lost in traffic.

And what awaits at the end of it all, but yet another four-walled prison we optimistically call "home." A prison made of sweat and loneliness, one we strive to maintain as an escape from everything outside, ignoring that the very maintaining of it keeps us trapped in our struggle against the constant erosion of our sense of security and self.

Hence, the roof. Not inside, where my unpaid bills waited for me on the counter, my unanswered calls blinked at me from the phone, and my unfulfilled dreams lay scattered about like so much detritus among the unwashed clothes and empty food containers. Instead, I was above the noise of the streets, away from the crowds, and in the marginally cleaner air away from the exhaust of the cars. A small island of relative isolation in a sea of commotion.

The apartment's roof had never been intended for residents to visit. The air conditioning units that took up much of the space were loud when they worked, though they lay quiet now, the super waiting as usual to repair them until a formal complaint from the city forced it. The short barrier walls along the edges of the building were crumbling in places and gone in others, metal flashing long lost to winds, thieves, and corrosion. What had once been some hopeful resident's pigeon coop was little more than a pile of scraps now.

Yet, despite all of that, the roof did hold one well-maintained luxury.

I dropped my tired bones on the wrought iron bench and let out a weary sigh, wincing as I bent over to place my bottle of cheap beer on the pitch-blackened floor. Leaning back, I turned my face up to the evening sun and closed my eyes.

Here, stories high, I could feel the on-shore breeze from the ocean waters that were still invisible beyond the skyline around me. I could hear the sound of birds nesting in the eaves of the buildings. Somewhere, perhaps from my own building or a neighboring one, I could even hear the soft notes of a jazz record playing -- mellow saxophone and brushed drums over a few blue chords of guitar. From some other window somewhere, the aroma of an evening's meal drifted my way: spicy, dark, welcoming.

Comfortable.

The sun would be setting soon, disappearing between the silhouettes of other, grander buildings that lay between my humble apartment and the ocean. As it did, those buildings would light up with life as all those people I would never know returned to their own homes, rested their own feet, and took care of whatever it was that made braving the streets worthwhile.

I groaned again, though with less emphasis this time, as I leaned forward and fumbled around for the neck of my beer bottle, grasping it firmly as I sat back up, never opening my eyes. The bottle was cold, damp and slick with perspiration, an extreme contrast with the roughness of the tar paper underfoot, the pitted wrought iron of the bench, and the dry, dusty/salty texture of the air around me. Bringing it to my lips, the heady punch of the hops and alcohol blended with the lingering dinner smells to make me think, not of the streets below, but of nights spent in cool, dingy bars, laughing with friends.

I took a sip... and smiled.

It had been a long day. And there would be plenty more like it. Too many.

But, perhaps, at the end of every long day, there was something worth looking forward to.

End notes:
Hope people enjoy this little slice of life moment. I am still writing, with a few projects -- both TG and otherwise -- under way. I've just been struggling with focus and energy. Hopefully some of that will change going forward.

*hugs*