How many times did I vanish? Well, of course, you wouldn’t
know. Even I can’t recall each time. But in the past decade, I
disappeared at least 3 times. And I wonder-did anyone notice
my absence? I wonder.

For almost a year, I hung out at the Willburg Café on Grand
Street in Williamsburg. I ate grilled chicken and wrote, tried
to keep my arteries unclogged and my brain overflowing
with ideas. Didn’t say much, I just watched my
unconscious let loose and guide me.

It’s August with its dog day afternoons. The sprawling sun’s
oppressive and sweat cascades down my forehead and cheeks.
One sultry afternoon last week, I said goodbye to the café.
Didn’t tell anyone. I ate my healthy meal and scribbled
a few lines. Then I sauntered off.

Now, you can find me some days at Joe Junior’s on 3rd Ave,
Manhattan. I’m the fellow with the long gray beard, gray
hair, and hazel eyes. Just look for me, if you wish,
before I vanish again. But you know, the modern
philosopher-the man in the street, often cites an
old cliché:

Life goes on. Yeah. That’s true, especially after I’m dead.
A new crop of young folks will appear. And other
baby boomers will pass away. Yeah. But you
know that’s a bitch. I mean, the earth will
keep spinning and the youth of tomorrow
will make love and children will be born.

But will anyone remember I once existed?
Will you?