I love Sundays. Sundays are my favorite. If one excludes the fact that Sundays precede Mondays, that is. M almost always has to go into the office on Mondays. Throw a crisp, fall morning into the Sunday mix and I’m in Heaven.

Why?

There’s something about me I haven’t told you, yet, in all of my ramblings about slavery. I’m sure you can guess it. The fact that I’m a masochist sort of gives it away. But I’ll tell you anyway.

I crave danger. Risk. Consequences. I am the cat curiosity killed. The big bully tom that crept into the alleyway to find out what that shiny thing was, only to be slit from stem to stern by some sadistic teenager in jeans and a black leather coat. Biker style with one demon or another on the back in red paint.

It has gotten me into quite a few sticky situations, as I’m sure you can imagine. But the more I come out the other side unscathed (mostly), the bigger the risk I take the next time. I am, without a doubt, a self-destructive adrenaline junkie.

Well, I guess self-destructive isn’t the right word. I don’t want to die, or anything like that, and I’m not trying to destroy myself. I just enjoy being in the midst of danger. I want to still be standing when the dust clears. And so far, I always have been.

I know that won’t always be the case. That some day, I’m going to be smacked down. Hard. It’s bound to happen. It always happens to thrill seekers. And some day, it’ll probably happen to me if I don’t rein it in. But in the meantime…

In the meantime, I live in “the hood”. On the lesser of the two “hills” in our city (And isn’t it funny funny how all the bad neighborhoods around here are called “hills” even when they’re not really on a hill?). But only by a slim margin. We, maybe, have one or two less shootings than the other dangerous hill in our city. This city is, without a doubt, a shit hole. And I love it just as much as I hate it.

M wouldn’t go for living on the larger hill. Refused to even consider it, regardless of the fact that we could save even more money than we’re saving where we are now. Not to mention the thrill I’d feel every time we left the house.

But I see his point. The drama on my street can’t even begin to compare to the drama on the other side of town, which, at one point, was said to have a worse crime rate than New York City. Doesn’t surprise me. The vast majority of the people I know here are from New York City. They moved to “Electric City” to get away from the drama. Unfortunately, when you are the drama, moving doesn’t change a thing.

Besides living in “the hood”, we live on a major bus route and there are three stops within a hundred steps from our house. Next door is the third crack house that has been set up in that building in the year we’ve lived here. Every time the landlord gets rid of them, someone else sets up shop. The current tenant is selling from his third story window and still hasn’t managed to get caught.

About half a city block away is a firehouse and less than a mile down the road you’ll find the projects. On the corner is the kids’ bus stop, even though only one of the kids who gets on there lives on this block. The rest live at least a block or two away. Across the street are a little bar patronized by 40-60 years old drunken smokers (It’s illegal to smoke inside a bar in New York State.) and a Mom and Pop store whose only patrons are its employees’ friends. One corner’s occupied by a liquor store and the other by a gas station. And we’ve got a college, complete with sorority and frat parties and outdoor concerts, less than a block away.

It’s loud every day of the week.

Except Sunday.

On Sunday, it’s quiet. Peaceful, even.

No one’s standing outside on their front porch screaming at the top of their lungs at the person standing less than a foot away from them about who’s turn it is to take the kids for the weekend. There are no fist fights or knife fights or gun fights. The cops aren’t chasing some thief who stole a candy bar because she’s homeless, broke and hungry. No bad guitar riffs, or screaming college guys, or overinflated egos.

The first responders zip by less often and the kids mysteriously disappear to that magical place called “Somewhere Else” (As in: “Where are your kids?” “I dunno. Somewhere else.”). Traffic slows down to a dull roar and the bar sits empty. If the liquor store gets patrons at all, they’re usually between thirty and forty-five. And they’re looking for that perfect wine they’ve somehow convinced themselves is hidden in our ghetto stores to have with dinner, or champagne to bring to a friend’s house.

The only sounds are the leaves dancing gently on the breeze, tripping and tumbling over the asphalt, bumping into the windows, and the birds twittering softly. The air is clean, except for the occasional whiff of fabric softener, wood-burning stoves and cooking food. And, of course, the undertone of old, musty houses in disrepair that is Electric City’s scent.

Homey. Soft. Comfortable.

Old. Much older than its years.

Its people are old, too. If not in age, then in soul. You can see it in their eyes.

Everyone you pass is carrying a steaming paper cup full of black gold and blowing through the tiny hole in the white plastic lid. Their lazy gait is slow enough for you to croak out a “Good morning.” and they smile and croak back. It’s thirty degrees out and we’re all running around in threadbare flannel lounge pants and “wife beaters” with slip-on sandals over socks on our feet.

We’re all bleary-eyed and look a little bit lost. But we’re happy and relaxed. And peaceful.

Yeah. I love Sundays. Sundays are my favorite.