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, "I lie to women." A
girl in a fuchsia wedding dress,
carrying a boa constrictor.
After the deviants, I felt okay
about the pigeon shitting on me. Suddenly, with all the subtlety
of a dog with gas, I knew the
world and all it contains is
absolutely, unreservedly, and
utterly about things other than
me— which made my bout of
self-absorption seem
insignificant.
Freaks say, "You are not the
center of the world." A good
freak points a finger at what's
wrong with society. Freaks
refuse to participate. Freaks are
necessarily nonmyopic. Their
deviation points to that from
which they deviate.
If I love freaks so much, why do
I still go to the Gap? Why do I
shop at Banana Republic? Why
haven't I even gotten a tattoo?
I'll tell you why. I'm a voyeur.
New York isn't my porn
flick; it's more like PBS. Like the
glory days when I lived for
Sesame Street, I'm learning to
read. I want to get the
subversion, the nihilism, the
rejection. I just want to get it. I
want to understand the
landscape and, possibly, stand in
the space between complacency
and nihilism. Maybe cowardice
prevents me from getting a
tattoo of a stack of pancakes
on the top of my shaved scalp.
But the voyeur in me takes
comfort in knowing someone,
somewhere, is saying
something about this old
planet.
Send in the freaks. There ought
to be freaks.
Oh.
Don't bother.
They're here.
Three -New York Shock
Still Saturday, January 7, 1995
Carefully, ever so slowly, the paper falls slack in Rob's lap. It curves over his knee. With grave seriousness, he reaches for my eyes with his. "Freaks keep you here?"
I look out the window. Greenwich Village looks cold, blustery. The brownstones across the way are beautiful, idyllic, atmospheric. Sometimes I imagine hardwood floors, stair banisters, dried flowers in vases, wood-block cutting boards in kitchens. A wine rack with reds and whites, a big dog, a four-poster bed, an excellent collection of jazz CDs. Sometimes I imagine myself walking down West Fourth pushing a baby buggy. A woolly scarf covers my mouth. The baby wears footed pajamas.
A man in pink barrettes and a fur coat enters to do his laundry. Kim says hi while Rob and I have this quiet question between us. In the background, Anne Murray sings, You needed me, you needed me.
"This is my last year in New York," I say. "I'm thirty. I don't want to be thirty-one here." Already, four wiry gray hairs refuse to play the game, refuse to take part in style.
"I'm thirty-one," he says. "It's fine." He uncrosses his legs. New York Shock settles into its new position.
"I can't do it; I can't grow old here." I watch the man in barrettes empty a duffel bag.
"Then why don't you leave tomorrow?" Rob's voice is sardonic and sharp. "Or today?"
I'm taken aback by the tone of his voice. I've got my reasons. I'm here to be alone, to accept my liabilities,