Her small head of frazzled hair popped over the seat behind us. The kind of hair attached the head of an old hag, the kind of hag whose storage area could be mistaken for a compost pile, and whose dead cats are found wedged behind her holy shrines. “Shhh!” the gopher lady hissed, insinuating our gabber was just too disruptive for her two o’clock ride on the train, as if public transportation ever provides a peaceful medium for travel.
We were Brooklyn bound. Three dumb white kinds alone on the streets of Brooklyn, just looking for the ethnic experience. My best friend and I had dragged along our sassy gay companion, the perfect accessory for the city. While he was off gallivanting around Grand Central attempting to procure subway tickets, we decided to begin eating our way through New York, the only activity ever completed with success.
We had just settled on cheesecake and coffee when he returned. With eyes wide and a look of sheer horror, like he’d just seen Joan Rivers without make up, he let out an exasperated, “What the hell are you two doing! I cannot leave you alone for a second.” Looking around confused, we continued to stuff our faces with cake. It then became apparent that in our perfect cheesecake acquiring delirium we may have not chosen the best place to sit.
To our right was a man feverishly scrawling on his crossword puzzle as if he was decoding some sort of alien telecommunication, while fashionably pulling off a newspaper hat and trash bag cloak that fell charmingly over his hunched back. To our left was a limping, stout, frog-like woman. At first glance this poor woman did solicit sad eyes and a lengthy “awww,” but that was quickly replaced by a “bagh” as we jumped up and scurried off. Her legs, those legs, they moved like molten lava. Something was there. Something was moving, I believe we were watching infectious bacteria devour her calves, an image forever burned into my mind. The homeless of New York; they are a special breed.
Anyways, we marched on to the subway, we rode the subway, we got off the subway and we hailed a cab and were only slightly delayed by the Brooklyn bike map we were using to navigate.
“Excuse me, do you know where the flea market on one Hanson is?” We asked the cabdriver, who only stopped because he was practically running us over.
“Lady! I’m from Queens,” the taxi driver screeched.
Jesus, I guess that was his way of saying no. He could have just said no, but instead he simply punctuated his outburst by throwing us the GPS. Glancing out the window as we zipped along, there was not a white person in sight. But, when we pulled around the corner to 1 Hanson, per the automated voice’s instructions, it was as if the gates to white hipster heaven were thrown open. Of course, amidst the sea of Brooklyn, there would be a clusterfuck of squatting hipsters wearing bird things, sipping “fair trade coffee,” chatting about indie music so obscure the band member’s own mothers don’t know of its existence, oh and yes, name dropping every book they have ever read in their entire lifetime. We had arrived.
Emerging hours later, our arms were filled with gaudy oversized sweaters, gilded earrings dangling minstrel character charms, and a Howard Stern button from the late ’90s that would fit in perfectly with my other stolen Republican propaganda. I reeked of American Spirits and feathers floated from my tussled bangs. Oh, the idyllic photos that could be created and Photoshop antiqued with this garb. Success!
As we continued our jaunt through the streets passing the Yummy Taco, then the Happy Taco, then the Excited Taco and then Brooklyn Gastrointestinal Center (Coincidence? I think not) the dental hygiene of our fellow passer-byers began to deteriorate. We knew we were no longer in our tax bracket and as it was getting dark, our iridescent skin would radiate like glow sticks in the moonlight. It was time to make our way home.