Dark theater. Crowds. Lights go down.
Where are we? MSG? Meadowlands?
CIRCUS PROGRAMS CIRCUS LIGHTS…
…I remember the yelling. I remember my sisters giggling.
SUUUUUUUUUUURKIS PROGRAAAAMS!
SUUUUUUUUUUURKIS LIGHTS!

It had a melody.

Or maybe it was my first concert.
Kiss. Albany. 1990. Dad in shooting muffs.
Lonely kid with his dad seeing his favorite band.
Rock and roll all night.

Or a World Wrestling Federation card at the Westchester County Center.
I think Greg the Hammer Valentine rassled Dusty Rhodes.
Maybe not against each other. But they were both there. The floor shook.

“Always look for your exits.”
…
“If anything goes wrong, people will panic. Know your exits.”
Something bad is gonna happen?
“Probably not. But it’s good to know.”

Dad would rather drive to Shea Stadium, cross the East River on the Whitestone or Throggs Neck than drive to the closer Yankee Stadium.
I thought it was because he was a National League guy.
And while he was a fan of the NL, he respected the Yankees too.
Shea Stadium had a big parking lot around its perimeter.

Why are we parking so far away?
“Look at that exit. When everyone’s stuck, we’re on the highway.”

Game six. 1986.
Mets losing. Red Sox getting ready to pop the champagne.
“Tommy, go to bed. You don’t wanna see this.”
I took the exit.
(A few hours later Mom in starched nurse whites, Shalimar perfume in the air just home from a 4 to 12 wakes me to tell me they won. Mookie, Buckner, et al. HERE COMES KNIGHT AND THE METS WIN IT!)

Today. Civilization. Cold. Laissez fairly oppressive.
Invisible hands pulling at every loose thread, and I’m a tapestry unraveling.
Wired differently, a motherboard soldered in a basement illuminated by reflective dust motes who consciously internalized Nikola’s premise that energy is for the giving and the taking.
Being me is a rebellious act.
I need an exit. An off-ramp.

I’ve been a square egg on a brown knoll my whole life.
I’ve never fit, and it’s never fit me.
But oh, how I sanded edges here, sharpened curves there.
Sawdust and metal shavings, blood and picked scabs, and a z-shaped scar…

A highway in pre-dawn obsidian, an aisle in a dark theater, absence of light that challenges my previous definition of blind.
Eyes wide open and not a glimmer.

Exit 52, Exit 7A, AND YOU MUST YIELD _{TO THE VINCE LOMBARDI SERVICE AREA ON THE NEW JERSEY TURNPIKE} …
(this one might need some explanation, you see, we were on our way to church one Sunday morning at the ungodly hour of 0700 and dad was flipping through the preset radio stations and the preacher’s orders notwithstanding, he took the off-ramp from SABBATH GOSPEL HOUR to a NJ Turnkpike advertisement.)

Mom insisted we wait for the priest to pass us before we leave. After the whole, “Now go in peace to love and server The Lord.” Thanks be to God.

Dad would let us egress after communion. He knew my limits.

When the electrochemical buzz of a twisted tubed sign pierces an abysmal empty…
I don’t have to leave. But if something bad happens, or if I just need air…
I see the light.
Exit