goods.
You don't only come to New
York for the bright lights, do
you? You want the graphic
apparition, the wake-up call, the
embodiment of harsh reality in
individuals at odds with the
world. Isn't it nice to know
someone's taking a stand
against the status quo? I came
to New York— in part— to
witness that.
I look pretty normal. Average
height, average weight. I had
braces. I've been on Accutane.
Diets have ravaged my insides.
I don't wear two-piece
swimsuits in public. I have
pretty good cheekbones.
Occasionally, I'll catch a man
checking me out. I'm all for
liposuction if one has the
funds. I've flirted with getting a
tattoo. I'd secretly like to wear a
ring in my eyebrow. Maybe I'll
get colored contact lenses
someday.
I guess I just don't look like a
freak. This has been a tough
realization for me. I mean, I feel
for freaks; I empathize with
them. But I need to financially
support myself too.
Actually, I'm jealous. There's
something brave about
nonconformity. Sure, you've got
that whole contingent of spooky
freaks out for attention. But
there are others, others bent on
creative eccentricity— those who
dream of revolution, social
upheaval. The heart of a freak
may be a pure heart. This makes
me believe grandeur is really
possible.
Didn't you come to New York to
find a pure heart?
When I first moved to
Manhattan, a pigeon crapped on
my head. Settling into the
Village, everything made me
very, very nervous. All those
people, many of them hip. Fear
of economic opportunity,
ideological redundancy,
philosophical paralysis, a
multitude of fashion no-nos.
What next? I knew I didn't
belong. I had no AC and it was
August. Because my linens were
still packed, I slept flat on my
back on a bare mattress— no
doubt fraught with invisible
bedbugs and body lice. It was so
noisy you'd think the St.
Patrick's Day Parade was taking
place on a summer night on
the street below. I missed every
ex-boyfriend who'd ever cheated
on me, and I desperately wanted
my mommy.
When the sun finally rose on
that fateful first Manhattan day,
I went for a walk, determined to
find the Strand Book Store and a
good cup of coffee.
I sat on a bench near the dog
run in Washington Square Park
with an okay cup of decaf. While
I watched the city dogs frolic
like they were free in the
Catskills, a pigeon took a dump
on my head.
Befuddled and frightened, I
headed home. I was on the verge
of tears. New York hated me.
The dogs were indifferent to my
suffering. Even the birds
despised my very presence. I
trudged off, knowing the crap
was hardening on my hair,
knowing a shampoo polemic
awaited me at home, if home it
were. I tried to saunter; I
waddled: crap on the brain.
Then, the freaks!
A guy with a stack of pancakes
tattooed on the top of his bald
head. Another dude with safety-
pinned features and a t-shirt
declaring,
