on a thursday
To his credit, he didn't even hesitate in response to my idea. "I know a few places that are great for that," he said. "Rocky can get us there, easily." It sounded perfect to me, so a little after 1 am, he arrived at my door with a spare helmet and soon we were speeding down empty roads to the bridge. The only place still open at that hour was the strip club, illuminating the filth and back alleys of Long Island City, red lights on steal beams, the awning lit like a hotel. We parked on a side street nearby and went the rest of the way on foot: up the stairs, halfway across the bridge, to the spot where the moon challenged the largest billboard, stuck between both islands. The bridge supports crisscrossed forever above us, the towers on either side of the water distant and dark. I climbed over the railing and threaded my fingers through the fence. "You ready?" "I don't have anything to scream about," he said, suddenly shy. "Just screa