Ten o'clock last night, the men's locker room at the gym is quieter than usual. Outside, snow falls at a steady clip and keeps patrons at bay. A shrill ring sounds.

"Yo. The fuck's up, dawg?" Heads turn to the source of the irritation. A young man, owner of the loud voice, is pressing a cell phone tightly into his ear with one hand and fingering a combination lock with the other. "Yo, yo, yo. 'Sup with my son today?" Greasy dark blond curls frame a cratered face the pallor of three-day-broken eggshells and fall to shoulder length, just barely touching the baby-blue and white-trimmed sleeveless shirt that hangs from his neck. He slouches with an exaggeration that makes his lanky frame appear that of a contortionist's, all misshapen and at an off-kilter angle. "Yo. You my son. You know me and your momma go way back." He laughs. "You my son, boy." He laughs again, pleased with his little joke and with his well-timed delivery.

The rest of the locker room have recovered from the sudden interruption and have all returned to tend their affairs, but I continue watching the young man out of the corner of my eye. Three gold chains thick as mooring rope around his neck bear impressively heavy pendants: I see the requisite large cross, but the other medallions are obscured and I cannot make out their shapes.

"Yo, yo, yo, listen," he continues. "Yo, I got good news. I got my drug tests back today and it's all good. It's all good, you know?" He grins broadly. "That means I can go look for a new job now, yo. So I quit today. Yeah, I quit that shit today. Got up and told them to go fuck themselves, yo."

The room has lost none of its movement, but silence is abundant, ears attentive and the heads of the impaired cocked ever so slightly to harvest the stray noises of the half-conversation.

"Yeah, son, they can't find drugs in me. I told them to go fuck themselves. Now all I gotta do is go find me a good job." He pauses a moment and looks around the room, searching for faces as though trying to find a potential suitor. No one dares meet his gaze, afraid as it were that a demand for employment were imminent, afraid as it were to be propositioned.

The young man looks around one more time and grits his teeth in dogged determination. He repeats himself one last time before ending the conversation. "All I gotta do now," he says, slowly and deliberately into the phone, "is to go find a fucking job."

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I watched them as I rode the subway into work this morning. He sat propped up between two sleeping women, poring over the gentle cursive Arabic of a dual-language Koran and clutching the weathered leather-bound book in both hands. She sat leaning forward and directly across from him, sandwiched between two equally unresponsive passengers and studying feverishly from a lime green copy of The New Testament.

They were around the same age, he perhaps a couple years older than she, but both in their upper twenties to early thirties. Her wavy dark brown hair reached mid-chest, as did his scraggly beard, and both travelers at times touched their hands to their chests as though making sure that their precious hair hadn't at some point during the past few minutes left them.

It was somewhere before the Roosevelt Avenue station, right as the train began slowing down that I saw them both look up and catch each other's glances. They simultaneously dropped their gazes to inspect what the other was reading, and then, as though acknowledging incompatible religions, they smiled a quick half-smile and retreated to their respective books.

I watched them do this again and again over the next few minutes, each of them reading for a bit and then looking up to search for the other's eyes, smiling their little smiles before going back to their reading. I watched them and their little ritualized dance for about ten minutes before I realized they were flirting with each other! They were flirting!

But between each furtive glance, between each half-smile, between each coy look they offered each other, they would glance at each other's books and their eyes would say, This wouldn't work, you and me. No, it wouldn't. We're from different backgrounds. We're just too different.

I watched them the entire twenty five-minute ride daring each other to say hello, daring each other to make an introduction, offer a phone number or allow a gaze to linger just a bit longer than a wistful glance. But their eyes would ultimately be led back to the words of their respective gods. If only our hands weren't so bound, they seemed to say to each other. If only we were in a different lifetime.

The train rocked gently and somberly in the darkened tunnel, back and forth, back and forth as we headed into a cold and unforgiving midtown.

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We meander south on Route 103, our bodies exhausted from a day of hard skiing, our brains weary from the cold and too tired to make conversation. As we near North Chester, I lean forward and look to the right, searching for the hand painted sign that I always see when we pass here. "Sleigh rides at Kendalls Farm," it says in neat block lettering.

Every time we pass here on the way to Ludlow, and every time we pass here on the way back south, I look for the sign and the farm that owns it. It's a tiny farm, an old, nondescript building with an open field to the back that in winter is blanketed in layers and layers of white.

I've always romanticized sleigh rides. Childhood books and movies with winter sequences invariably included a sleigh ride or two, replete with horses whinnying with impatience, steam billowing from their giant nostrils and into the open air. Let's go already, they always seemed to say. Here in Vermont, my mind insists that winter sleigh rides be as ordinary and everyday as the maple farms and covered bridges that lie scattered throughout the countryside. It's all part of the Vermont allure for me.

But every time we passed Kendalls Farm, the field was always untouched. Every time we'd drive north or south, morning or evening, raring to go or exhausted at day's end, the snow from the open field at Kendalls Farm was always pristine, always undisturbed. There was never a sleigh I'd seen, never a horse to pull it along, never a customer to sing songs and laugh under the warmth of a heavy blanket.

Maybe the sign was outdated, I thought. Maybe the attraction no longer existed. Maybe the farm no longer cared to or was able to give rides and had left the sign as a memento of sorts. Or maybe, as I sadly admitted to myself, maybe it was simply that no one cared for sleigh rides anymore.

I began to believe myself more and more every time we drove by, and it saddened me to see the lonely sign and the quiet field without a hint of anyone around. Today, however, would be different.

As we drive towards North Chester, I look towards the spot where the sign would hang, just off the road, on the right hand side of Route 103 southbound. My heart skips a beat when I don't see the sign when I expect to, but I am comforted when it appears; my tired mind is playing tricks on me today. We approach it slowly and I feel a strange sense of relief as I read as I always do the tiny red letters painted so purposefully on the white wooden board. "Sleigh rides at Kendalls Farm," it says.

Beyond the sign, I expect to see the same quiet house, the same quiet field, the same quiet stillness that snowfall brings in Vermont. But instead of quietness, there is a small commotion. Instead of untrodden snow, there is a sleigh! There is a red sleigh and a horse, and how majestic a horse, how beautiful a horse, with a rich, golden brown mane that shimmers like a lion's in the late afternoon sun. There is an old man, an old man I believe in my heart to be Mr. Kendalls, an old man I so wish in my heart to be Mr. Kendalls. And there is a small family, perhaps three or so, I don't count, all clambering into the red sleigh. The red sleigh with the golden horse, and the old man I wish I wish I wish were Mr. Kendalls.

I cannot help myself and I break into a huge grin. It's better than bursting into tears, and I'm silly that way that I would. And besides, I don't want to have to explain myself to Greg and his brother when they send me questioning looks. I keep my thoughts unspoken and continue smiling silently as we drive along.

It all happens so quickly, this fleeting emotion. I almost cry, the feeling is so intense. I don't understand it, I really don't, but it's powerful. And as we pass them by, the old man and the horse turn their heads in unison to look at us. In my mind's eye, they both wink at me. In my mind's eye, they wave and grin and laugh as heartily as they should, and I smile in return, trying so hard to suppress the tears of unexpected joy.

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Oh it's cold. Greg and I are in Vermont now, having taken off from work tomorrow to enjoy the long weekend. We're supposed to be doing a bit of skiing over the next few days, but with record low temperatures across New England and warnings of five-minute frostbite, we think we're going to pass on any outdoor sports tomorrow.

We left New York before six this evening, having thrown everything into the car in a rush to try to beat the exodus of traffic heading out of the city. Lucky for us, it wasn't too bad as we snaked up the icy Merritt, gusts of wind buffeting the car as we drove the two hundred miles north.

It was a bit after 7:30 or so, somewhere after we had passed through New Haven and before we hit Hartford, where the thermometer in the car read zero. It actually read zero zero, the two zeroes strange like ghostly eyes, empty and unblinking on the darkened dashboard. We kept watch over the display over the next hour and a half, exclaiming in awe every time it dropped. Oooh, negative one, ooh, negative two. It was shortly after we crossed the Vermont border when the thermometer dropped to eight degrees below zero. We knew we were in for some cold.

As we neared our destination, we stared excitedly at the thermometer display as the temperature dropped steadily to negative twelve. It's now two degrees lower than that, and with the relentless wind howling outside, I shudder to think of the wind chill factor.

Oh, it's cold up here all right.

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The air was bitter and cold yesterday, the skies a clear, icy blue. Greg and I were on our way into midtown to meet up with Jess and Marc for a matinee performance of Wicked, and we were bundled up in layers upon layers of promised warmth. As we walked towards the trains, each breath drew colder and progressively colder air into our lungs, and the wind blew like a thousand razor-sharp daggers cutting into any bit of skin that had so foolishly remained exposed. We hugged our coats tight around us and kept walking.

As a child, I fantasized about the cold. The only thing that would bring respite from the ruthless Caribbean heat was an occasional spell of rain, and it was always best when it rained at night. Because when it rained at night, I would bundle myself up in the ragged red blanket I loved so much, turn out the lights and lie awake in the darkness listening to the drone of the raindrops drum-drum-drumming on the metal roof above.

Sometimes I would sleep with the windows cracked open ever so slightly, just enough that the wetness would stay outside where it belonged, but enough that the winds of the rainstorm could peep into my bedroom as it wished. I would bury myself under that ragged red blanket of mine, head and all, and feel the warmth begin to spread. When it got too warm, I would stick my head out and marvel at how cool the room had gotten. I marveled at the cool air brushing against my nose and ears, and how warm my arms and legs had become under that blanket. I would get goosebumps from the night winds and hurry back under the thin cotton red covers where it was warm and toasty and where I knew it would never be cold.

Sometimes it would get so warm under the blanket that I would try to imagine what cold weather was like. I would imagine that I were suddenly transported to a frozen winterland forest, a place silent and cold and unforgiving, a place white with freshly fallen snow just like I had seen in the movies and read about in books. I would imagine that my bed were transported suddenly to the Siberian wilderness, just for ten seconds perhaps, and I would dare myself to survive. Of course I would be warm; I had my red blanket after all. I closed my eyes tight and swore to myself that I would survive. Yes, I would survive. Me and my favourite red blanket.

I thought about my childhood fantasies yesterday as we walked after the show around a darkened SoHo. We had met up with Marc's friend, Jeff, and we were in search of comfort food. Something appropriate for the weather. Something like mashed potatoes and gravies and onion rings and hot apple cider and coffee. It was no warmer than earlier, and the five of us walked as briskly as we could, everyone cursing the wind as it cut through our scarves and gloves and coats.

I thought of my childhood blanket as we walked. I thought about the rains and the cool night air and the warm arms and toes. I thought about my dreams to be transported to a frozen arctic land with the warmth I had generated. I thought about the dares to myself that I would survive the cold.

I thought about my favourite red blanket and the warmth it gave me on those chilly Caribbean nights, and I smiled to myself as I walked on and on into the cold, cold night. Just a few more steps to the restaurant, I thought to myself. Yes, I knew I would survive.

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I am just eight days into the new year and I find myself already breaking a resolution: I made a half promise to myself that I wouldn't stay back at work late enough to order dinner, yet here I am, sitting at my desk and munching on lukewarm food on paper plates and plastic containers.

Ah, half promises. I must make full promises next year. That, or threats to myself. Threats seem to work just as ineffectively as half promises, but they are more colourful and showy. They sing and dance like carnival folk, and dress up in glittery costumes. Threats offer more entertainment value.

Having dinner at work wouldn't be all that bad if I weren't pumped full of alcohol from a night out yesterday with Matt and Byrne. I said to Byrne that I wouldn't blog about last night, and I planned to not mention anything, the lazy blogger that I am. But since I'm already breaking one New Year's promise, I'm going to share this: tattoos and hairy chests. Mmm...

Broken promises seem better somehow when they are paired.

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I am on my way tonight after work towards the subway that will take me home when I see them walking towards me: two young men, perhaps in their early twenties, their baggy denim trousers bunched up and loose around the waist, their caps perched sideways atop their heads like a pair of unfortunate accidents. "That be phat, yo," I hear one say as they reach within earshot.

I try desperately to ignore them as we walk past each other, but the second one brushes rather aggressively against me and I turn around. "Sorry," I say, as I walk away.

I cross Lexington when I feel a tap on my right shoulder.

"Yo, you don't say no 'Scuse me?"

I turn around. "Sorry?"

"Yo, you bump into me across the street and you broke my glasses, yo."

I look my accuser in the eye. He seems a bit nervous and shifts uncomfortably from side to side. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bump into you," I say.

"I just got these new glasses six months ago, brand new yo, and I have to take the test tomorrow. Now I can't take the test tomorrow. Yo."

"Which test?" I ask, gingerly. I am trying to get him to open up as gently as I can, and it seems to unnerve him.

"The test. The test tomorrow. I can't take the test tomorrow, yo."

"I'm really sorry about your new glasses, but I didn't mean to bump into you." I am staring him in the eye, but he refuses to meet my gaze and his eyes dart about to the skyscrapers above us. He's not a very good liar.

"You think you can give me money so I can get these fixed? Maybe sixty-seven dollars?"

I look at him and I look at my watch. It is after eight o'clock, and there is no way he can get his glasses fixed tonight. "I'm sorry, but I don't have any cash on me now." I shrug.

"Okay, I can meet you halfway, say forty dollars. Maybe you can go to an ATM and give me money from there?"

I almost laugh at the absurdity of the idea. "Won't work," I say. "I don't have any money in my account until I get my pay next week."

He shifts again, his eyes darting around. "Man, I'm just tryin' you know, to get to fix my glasses so I can take the test tomorrow, and now I can't take the test."

"Tell you what," I say. "Give me your name and address and I'll mail you a cheque. I can't get you any money right now, but I can mail something to you."

"You want to mail me a cheque? You want my name?" He looks to his friend across the street. "Uhm, well, but I need to fix my new glasses tonight. You know, before the test tomorrow."

"Can I take a look at your glasses?" I extend my hand slowly to the pair of glasses he is waving about, and he reluctantly releases it. The gold frame looks to be many years old, and there is a half-inch crack on the left lens along with a host of scratches. Even in the dim light of night, I can see that the crack is not new. We both know it. He looks down at his shoes as he takes them back. "Well, you could give me your name and address," I repeat.

He scratches his cheek absentmindedly with the long fingernail of his pinkie finger. "Uhm," he says.

"I'm really sorry that I bumped into you, but we both know I didn't mean it."

"Well, uhm, you know, don't worry about it, man. I know it was an honest mistake, and I know you didn't mean to bump into me." He pockets the glasses and extends his hand. "Don't worry about it, man."

I shake his hand and give him as coy a look as I can muster. "Sorry again," I say. He finally looks me in the eye, and smiles. He knows he is defeated.

"No worries, man," he says. "No worries." And with that, he strides off across the street towards his friend and into the cold, cold darkness.

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It's a perfectly dreary Sunday morning here in New York. I'm sitting on the sofa out in the living room, the blinds halfway drawn to let in a little of whatever light there is outside into the apartment. From here, I can see the tips of trees leafless from winter and the quiet red roofs of houses outside, everything hushed in the pale, pale light.

Greg has just walked out of the bedroom, yawning and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "I'm still tired," he says. I smile in return; I know what he means.

We left Vermont yesterday, driving through the fog and mist and drizzle to get back after nine days away from the city. Conditions weren't all that perfect, but we skied four days this trip. This is my second season of skiing, and I'm beginning to get the hang of it, whizzing down in wild abandon the blue squares and black diamonds of Killington and Okemo. It's tiring, this skiing business.

We're not likely to see the sun here in the city today, what with the gray skies outside. Today will be a quiet day, I think. A day for resting. A day for recovery. A day that's altogether quiet and slow and full of nothingness.

Perhaps I'll crawl back into bed. Perhaps I'll crawl back under the covers. Perhaps I'll invite sleep again, a warm, delicious sleep that will take me gently by the hand and keep me company for another few hours. It's how I feel right now. It's what I want to do right now.

It's just one of those days.

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Happy New Year, you.

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