over. I had to do laundry— a girl vomited on my leg last night."
"Gross." I look at his washer, the clothes spinning around in bright colors.
Rob scrunches up his nose. "You have no idea." He crumples the bag of chips into a ball and shoots it into a garbage bin loaded with used fabric-softener sheets. "I'm doing Dave's towels too. I really live in the East Village." He sucks in air. "What do you do?"
I sip coffee. "Columnist." I pause, deciding to try something out. Why shouldn't I? He's wearing orange pants, for God's sake. "I'm a writer for a hip paper with mass circulation."
His jaw drops open. "You write for the Village Voice?"
I can't hide the frustration. "No." I shake my head violently. "New York Shock. I write for New York Shock "
"Oh." He smiles. "I like New York Shock." He's possibly lying. "Who are you?"
" 'Abscess.' "
Glittery eyes. "I love 'Abscess.' " He leans forward, looking like Rodin's The Thinker, but with clothes on. "I don't even know your name, 'Abscess' writer."
" Sybil Weatherfield." My name embarrasses me. Too pretty. I secretly like it.
Rob Shachtley extends his hand. "Nice to meet you, Sybil Weatherfield. Wow. 'Abscess.' " We shake. "You're like a celebrity."
Abscess— an open wound. Sounds a lot like obsess. "It's a neurotic little feature," I tell him. The racing of the mind, the bouncing off walls, the manifestations of cerebral overload . . .
Rob Shachtley stares at me the way people stare at newscasters at the mall, weathermen on the street.
" 'Abscess' sold. There was practically a bidding war for it." I look him in the eye to see if he's buying this. I can't tell. "Not only did New York Shock want it, but so did a small college paper in Wyoming. The paper was called Bitch and Moan, Stick and Stone. Lots to grumble about in the boonies."
Rob, still leaning over like The Thinker, straightens, crosses one leg over the other, and looks at me strangely. No longer like I'm a lesser celebrity. For a second, he just stares. Under his gaze, I become self-conscious, aware of my physical appearance. I remember the recent trip to the gym, where they squeezed way more than an inch and gave me a percentage to keep with me, in my heart, perhaps to wear in writing on fine parchment inside a locket around my neck. I feel my medium height, my medium weight, the overall average quality of my presentation. I move a strand of brown hair behind an ear. It's brown hair I've described as chestnut on better days. I turn my hazel eyes to the ground— eyes I've called gray on my driver's license since gray suggests something stormy, smoky, enigmatic. Under Rob's scrutiny, I remember my fair but dry complexion, my pretty but unmemorable face, the scar on my forehead— the one I got when I ran into the dining room table at three. I raise my hazel eyes to his and see him hold me in his gaze. A baggy t-shirt covers a lot, but it doesn't mask certain aspects of the body. Mostly, when men look at me, I know what they see: a pretty girl they won't remember later. Rob's eyes hit the indentation on my forehead. They travel the length of my low-maintenance long hair. They pass over cheekbones, throat, clavicle. They pause over breasts, invisible but medium-sized. His eyes go down my legs, past the sharp angles of knees, and up again, pausing briefly once more— this time on lips. I blush but know he can't actually measure body fat; he can't detect the realities of skin and bone. I watch his face and see him assess the beauty. I see it. I've seen it before; I've seen men take in my appearance. I know it's an unspectacular beauty— it isn't breathtaking or earth-shattering. I look at Rob and wonder how long he'll hold on to his admiration. He speaks. "You know, you're divine too." And then he smiles, turning his eyes to the ground.
I blush.
He squints, looking at me through a line of eyelashes.
A few copies of New York Shock are scattered in the corner of a table people use to hold their coffees and put down their bleach. After a long moment, Rob Shachtley stands and walks over to the disarrayed pile.
He picks up New York Shock, which is like— I have to admit— picking up a little piece of me, even if it's a silly, sanctimonious, possibly offensive suggestion of who I am as a woman: effete, alone, brainy, bitter. He thumbs through last week's issue, arriving at my column. For a second, I think of snatching it away. I'm self-conscious about him seeing it, about him being made privy to my meditations. He spreads it open on his lap, lifts his index finger into the air, and says, "Two minutes."
And while he reads, I work on my low-fat berry muffin.
Two -Send in the Freaks
Sybil Weatherfield for New York Shock
From Friday, January 6, 1995
Random Manhattan freaks are
my consolation, my comfort.
Their presence gnaws at me like
existentialist angst. Just when
you think it's safe to go back
in the water, there's a freak.
Just when you're getting used
to the conspicuous spending
lifestyle, there's a freak. Freaks
are reminders, cannonballs
burning fire over our summers
of love. When there's a freak
on the street, it's always the
winter of our discontent. Try
being complacent about
children fighting wars and the
homeless living in paper bags
when you run into a freak. Just
try it.
A few unfair generalizations:
freaks are people with
"alternative" housing situations
or toilet habits, a continuum
of bad-hair days, a firsthand
knowledge of what's open
twenty-four hours and what's
not, radical ideas about
culture and religion and
sexuality. Sometimes they're
demarcated by body piercings,
tattoos, combat boots, exposed
undergarments, primary-color
hair shades, or clothes that
wouldn't work at a sales
meeting for
