" '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 sporting 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