Charles
Journal
Charles
 Sunflowers blooming on Ringold Street in Peekskill, NY. Some people live in sitcom reruns. Laugh tracks. Group texts. Always surrounded. They’re never alone long enough to wonder if they should be. I don’t live there. I can count my loyal friends on one hand—and that’s me being generous to a pinky who’s been iffy lately. It’s not bitterness. It’s just…I’ve seen how fast affection can turn into ammunition. You know the ones. Smile like a summer Friday. Sting like rent due Monday. There was a time I let someone crash in my home and vice versa. A temporary storm shelter, I thought. But instead of the storm passing, it moved in. With luggage. And emotional mildew. My peaceful place became a bootcamp for whispering and tiptoeing. When does kindness start costing more than cruelty? That’s not me saying “no one can be trusted.” It’s me saying: some coins spin longer than you think before you find out which face they show. Maybe what I’m trying to say is this—trust is not a party trick. It’s earned in silence. In who shows up when it’s inconvenient. In who doesn’t make you pay in doubt. And when your own heart doesn’t know what it’s looking for, maybe that’s the sign to stop searching and start listening. Not to them. To something higher. 
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 At Whiskey River on North Division Street, there's always something simmering beneath the surface, and today, it wasn't just the heat. When Independence Day lands on a Friday, something shifts. The weekend stretches out like a cat in the sun—hot, a little lazy, and full of mischief. A whisper of rain had knocked the humidity down just enough to pretend it wasn’t unbearable, but the 80s came roaring back, and with them the uniform of the day: short sleeves, tank tops, and sweat-dampened resolve marching up and down the streets of Peekskill. Montreal had been the better plan. The smarter escape. But life, in its usual unscripted fashion, didn’t have room for it this year. Instead, I wandered into Whiskey River, where something always simmers beneath the surface. And today, it wasn’t just the heat. Our bartender-hero—let’s call him Ronan—was in his usual chipper form, body agile behind the bar, voice peppered with the familiar fuck-laced slang that somehow managed to sound affectionate. But mentally, you could feel he was running on fumes. And fate, cruelly amused, had decided to test him. Because I was parched, I ordered a craft beer. Hydration, right? But a beer's no match for a summer funk. I wanted to feel my drink. I wanted smoke, drama—the kind of flavor that curled around the tongue with purpose. So, I asked for my usual: a Smoked Old Fashioned. Cue crisis. The torch was missing. What unfolded was less drink order, more Greek comedy. Ronan zipped behind the bar like a caffeinated lab rat, rummaging nooks and crannies, cursing the gods and the understaff. His backup torch—his secret torch—was gone too. “What the fuck?” he muttered (and muttered again). I offered to drink it unsmoked, but that offended him more than the missing butane. The man had standards. Eventually, he found the backup torch, lit the drink just the way I liked it, but remained unsatisfied. He began texting the other bartenders. Torchgate had to be resolved. Enter David. Bearded, boyish, stylish even in this sweaty cityscape. He came in with the missing torch tucked in his pocket, sheepish but still composed. He’d taken it out for a post-shift smoke and forgotten to return it. Me and a fellow regular urged him to drop the torch and run. Before he could make his exit, Ronan returned, eyes narrowing. A big torch in a small pocket. Straight boys don’t like to think too hard about those things. I, blessedly, am not straight. I had my second Smoked Old Fashioned and thought about it just the same. Torch returned. Hierarchy restored. The backup returned to backup duties. The bar—Whiskey River, where something always hits the fan eventually—hummed to life. Customers poured in. Ronan found his rhythm again. Just one of those days. But damn, aren't those the ones worth writing down?   The sun rises over San Francisco Bay, casting a glowing path of light across the water. 2/25/2016 — Revisited in the morning light (7/6/25) There’s a kind of freedom in being wide awake at 3:30 a.m. Not the kind that roars and rebels, but the quieter cousin: restless, insomniac, aching for motion. When 400 channels of late-night reruns can’t bore you into unconsciousness, and even the commercials have grown tired of themselves, there’s only one thing to do: run. So I lace up. At the top of Nob Hill, Grace Cathedral stands there like it always has—grand, immovable. But for the first time in a hundred passings, I stop. Study the ornate doors. Something about the hour makes you finally see what’s been waiting to be noticed. Down into the Western Addition valley, I become a loop—a human track rat jogging Jefferson Square’s quiet rectangle. Eddy to Octavia, up to Ellis, down to Franklin, back around. Arctic Monkeys’ 505 plays in my headphones again. And again. That guitar swell at 3:26? It’s practically oxygen. After a few hard laps, sweat finds its way down my ribs. I settle on a green park bench, damp with fog and dew, tucked beneath a streetlamp’s glow. I lay out my little possessions on the grass—wallet, keys, phone, headphones—like talismans. Cobra stretch. Hamstring pull. Anything to make sure I don’t seize up at the desk job that pays just enough to make the next run possible. I’m not alone out here. There are others—some asleep in makeshift corners of the park despite closure code 3021, some awake and drifting, some on substances I don’t try to name. There’s a choreography to keeping my distance while never turning my back. Not out of fear of them. Just the echo of something knotted deeper. As if the only threat to my freedom is the weight I bring with me. And always, always, 505 loops in my head. Then comes the couple. They descend like a clattering gust—talking loud, animated, familiar with these streets. He’s got the bulk and beige of a retired Muni driver, complete with pizza box and post-shift energy. She’s in denim and floral, voice pitched high like a late-night radio jingle. Her hair’s freshly done, curls crisp, proud. They argue. Loudly. Over what she won’t do. Over what he expects. Over Round Table pizza (which, let’s be honest, was never worth the hype). I try to stay small, stretching on my bench, breathing deep, hoping they pick any of the dozen other benches nearby. But no. They circle. He makes a comment about “having it next,” as if the bench were a barstool in a dive. She flops down beside my legs like she paid rent. He steps a few feet away and relieves himself in the grass. I offer a good morning. They don’t really respond. Her eyes stay on me—hawk-like, unreadable. I gather my things and let grace win the moment. I don’t run. I don’t rant. I just move. Some sun is peeking up now. The sky beginning to warm. The city, always itself, doesn’t blink.  The steps of Grace Cathedral on Nob Hill are beautifully draped in Pride colors.  □ Liberty’s Louder Cousin: While fireworks will light up the July 4th sky, the streets roared with pride just days before in New York—millions marching for love, identity, and joy. Independence Day may boast the Declaration, but Pride plants its flag in the heart of our nation's biggest city. The cost of eggs still feels slightly outrageous in New York. But occasionally, if you pass by C-Town on Park Street on a blessed Tuesday, you might catch medium-sized dozens for $3.99—an almost miraculous sight when New York City prices average $6.72, occasionally dipping to $5 or even $3, though rarely at the same time your fridge is empty.
The pricing logic? Mysterious. Tuesdays are the deal days, but then, like some grocery mood swing, C-Town gets expensive again as the weekend approaches. The pattern repeats without warning, like weather or Wi-Fi in town—unreliable but not worth complaining about anymore. You stop thinking about it. Eggs are eggs. You buy them when the stars align and forget when they don’t. I tried the substitutes—flaxseed slurry, chia gel, tofu optimism—but nothing quite replaces an egg at breakfast. You can skip the bacon, laugh off the hash browns, but a lonely plate without that sunny round feels incomplete. Like saying good morning without meaning it. Now, about C-Town. Folks grumble, sure. It’s got its quirks and imperfect charm, but it’s in walking distance, and downtown Peekskill doesn’t exactly overflow with grocery options. I&J Fresh over on Washington Street offers a backup plan—smaller selection, tighter aisles. But I’ll admit the butchers there are better-looking and suspiciously charming. They flirt as if they’re auditioning for a meat-counter rom-com. So, when I need fish or chicken, I let their cheeky hospitality guide my protein choices. It’s the 4th of July today. A big day for the country. Fireworks, cookouts, flags flapping on porches—everyone finds their own way to mark it. However, and wherever you spend it, here’s wishing you a warm, egg-filled celebration.  The face that launched a thousand customers—Whiskey River’s smoked old fashioned savant and honorary Peekskill citizen. As I turn a little over three years old in Peekskill, NY, I’ve noticed something odd: the town has grown on me like a second skin—or maybe more accurately, like a pair of slightly too-tight jeans that eventually learn your shape. No, Peekskill isn’t love at first sight. It’s not Manhattan, which practically flirts with you from the moment you step off the train. Nor is it Madison, Wisconsin, with its lakes and liberal charm, or Sausalito, that jewel box of a town that glows like it knows it’s beautiful. Even Charleston wasn’t instant love. Back when I was in college, it wore a kind of sagging grace—tall houses listing slightly like they'd had one too many hurricanes, a downtown that looked permanently shuttered. These days, Charleston’s polished up. Sausalito chic. It could walk arm-in-arm down Fifth Avenue and not miss a beat. Peekskill, on the other hand, hasn’t reached Rodeo Drive status. But it’s coming alive in its own way—like a teenager discovering vintage jeans and realizing she can start trends, not follow them. There's a hot foodie scene bubbling up. Taco District’s rooftop bar is a local star. Whiskey River serves burgers that could knock your cocks off (if you’ll pardon the anatomical drama). Even the appetizers change often, keeping diners on their toes like a good jazz solo. But none of that would mean squat without the people. Always the people. San Francisco pulled me in for 40 years not because of the hills or the bay or that famous bridge—but because of the friendships, the laughter in living rooms, the phone calls at midnight, the sense that I belonged. Peekskill’s starting to do that. Not by billboard or brochure, but through the quiet accumulation of connection. To be perfectly honest, today’s journal isn’t going anywhere fast. My thoughts are scattered, and I’ve got an appointment looming that’s stealing away good writing time (nothing halts poetic flow quite like a calendar alert). Still, something sticks: there’s a kind of paradise quietly blooming here in Peekskill, made not from landscape or architecture, but from faces and voices I’ve come to know well. And, by the way—it’s Thursday, though it really feels like Friday. I’m looking forward to the weekend, to slipping back into Manhattan’s embrace for a little while. Because even though I love Peekskill, New York is still New York. It doesn’t need people to sell its energy. It is the energy. That’s the magic of smaller towns, though. They don’t flash—they whisper. And if you stay long enough, you learn to listen.  On North Division Street I met Suang and her dog Tish outside Whiskey River as they were studying the menu.  Coming up North Division, I saw him in the distance—long and lean in shorts and a black shirt, topped with that signature crown of glowing white hair. You don’t miss a guy like that. His legs looked skinnier than last summer, which I quietly noted in the back of my mind under “Things That Probably Don’t Matter.” Just then, I caught sight of someone else—a younger guy I’d seen earlier in a different part of town. That one had the energy of a comet on casual loop. Had he circled the block just to reappear at the exact moment I’d be here? Serendipity or cardio? Hard to say. Anyway. As always, I paused outside Whiskey River. There’s no other place like it—not in Peekskill, not anywhere. That place remembers you before you remember yourself. The welcome is always warm, the kind of quiet, steady care that doesn’t ask for anything in return. I glanced up at the sign. Something about a stolen limbo stick—“How low can you go?” I laughed out loud. Not performative, not ironic. Just… involuntary glee. He noticed. Paused his cigarette. Mid-chat with a man whose story would soon unfurl into something heavy—one of those tales that latches onto your coat and travels home with you, uninvited. But right then: “I am the author,” he said. “That I know,” I replied, lifting my phone for one last imperfect photo. His arm made the edge. The sign stole the show. But that’s very Charles. Nothing staged, nothing precise. Just life, caught mid-limbo. And that’s the point, really. You live. You let the chaos roll. You stop collecting other people’s catastrophes like souvenirs. You forget the neuroses they try to lend you. And you just keep walking. I was happy to see him—more than I expected. That grounded kind of happy you feel when someone’s still there, still them. “Don’t be such a stranger,” he said. And I knew what he meant. I hadn’t been by in a while. Not since I probably overshared, tried to fix too much. Not since he’d done the thing some men do—tried to take charge, tried to protect. The paternal reflex, hardwired and well-meaning. Because some daddy types do care. Even when they’re mostly cigarette and gravel and half a punchline. And that’s OK.    Just Another Day in Peekskill (as told by two cats who've seen it all—and still demand breakfast)7/1/2025  As lights danced across the sky over Peekskill, Peshwari and Daisy felt unmoored—no longer in Peekskill, no longer anywhere at all, except adrift in the land of light. “Just another day in Peekskill, New York,” said Peshwari, the brown cat with eyes so red and weary they looked halfway to blindness. She was watching Daisy—the black-and-white one with lungs like a church bell—especially when the tall Black guy stepped outside with that look again. The one that said: "What are you cats doing, lounging around? Why aren’t you chasing mice off this lousy property?" But he knew—deep down like regret on a Tuesday—that we couldn’t stand the sight of mice. Let alone chase the disgusting things through the grass and poison ivy where nothing’s visible and everything itches. “What does that even mean?” asked Daisy, already sighing as the sentence deflated. Peekskill again. It always circled back to weather. It was the only thing bored cats and bored humans ever really talked about—humidity, heat indexes, and sudden gusts of what was that? She didn’t care. She just wanted shade and snacks. “Well, we’ve got nearly everything,” said Peshwari, her tail flicking like a bored metronome. “Right here in this overgrown backyard. No one bothers us. The birds are heartbreakingly slow. And that boy—he feeds us. Morning. Afternoon. Sometimes mid-day if we do that thing where we sit like stone Buddhas by the door. No meowing. Just... presence. He thinks we’re mysterious. I think his heart’s too soft.” “Of course not,” said Daisy. “He’s human. But not the other one.” “Oh, that one. The short guy. Eyes like they’re always thinking sideways.” “He’s what they call Puerto Rican.” “Do you mind him?” Daisy gave a shrug you could hear in the grass. “He’s not what any of us are really looking for.” “What are we looking for?” Peshwari asked, eyes drifting shut, ears half-folded in the heat. “A beach,” Daisy said, matter-of-factly. “That’s what Peekskill’s missing. We’ve got hills. Mountains. That dramatic river. But no beach. When it gets this hot, you need sand. You need breeze. You need a dead fish you didn’t ask for.” Peshwari nodded, dreaming sideways. “A dead fish and someone to blame it on.”
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AuthorCHARLES PEARSON
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