Understanding Hippies

I knew, last Monday afternoon, that Franco bought a few hits of acid. In a city where sidewalks seem expensive to walk on, however, a thirteen-dollar tab is a costly purchase, even for the financially sound or well-managed. I’m of neither sort. Rather, I’m the kind who will (err...has) spend an hour washing dirty college boy dishes in exchange for a piece of paper with Lincoln’s face on it,* because I'm always in need of cash. I was under the impression that Nigel and Franco's collective purchase was intended for later use, as Monday night isn’t the best time of week for an acid trip. I’d been told that their plans for the evening were subtle, including homework and a potential beer, but that I could come over if I wanted. When I got to their apartment, Franco was reading a book on his living room couch. Nigel was taping posters to the walls. Things seemed normal until they told me their hits had if fact been eaten, thereby naming me their trip-sitter given I chose to stay.

Within the hour, Nigel’s mattress was on the living room floor, Santana was blaring, and both boys were enjoying closed-eye visuals, blankets covering their faces. I didn’t mind the deli trips my sobriety entailed (Franco really, really wanted Babybells), because watching people in a state of self-inflicted insanity is, generally, quite interesting. Naturally I wrote down some of the things they said. The brilliance of their dialogue began with a revelation on Nigel’s part: “Have you ever realized that...everything is just a vibration, man?”

The following happened after Nigel started to eat an apple:

F: Oh man, is that apple good?”

N: Ahh, man, it’s so good…

F: Could I have a bite…?

Nigel thinks.

N: I Dunno man…

F: It looks so TAASTY! Ah, man...I could write books about what I’m feeling right now.

N: There ARE books about what you’re feeling right now...

Pause.

N: Excuse me….I just gotta rub my face with this apple.

F: DUDE I NEED a bite of that apple man…I feel like I’m gonna eat my BLANKET right now…

Nigel, smiling, offers the red delicious in a meekly outstretched hand.

N: “Come get it man…”

F: “It’s…it’s too far…it’s too far…”

...After Franco claimed to understand the hippies:

F: This is what it was like to live in the sixties man…haha...except we’re in the NINETIES.

Nigel bursts out laughing.

N: No we’re not man!!! We’re in the o’eys…

...And:

N: I’m sorry man, but my penis feels amazing right now.

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*I’ll wash your dishes for five bucks! I’m great at it.

Budding Business, Familystyle

Two Tuesdays ago, like many other Tuesday afternoons before it, I was at the Palladium dorm hall, smoking a bowl with Carl. I'd wanted to go to Salvation Army afterwards, as my apartment was in need of second-hand re-furnishment, but soon enough, mobilization seemed impossible, and Carl was much more interested, remarkably, in doing homework. I was reading through one of the most boring books ever published (Consequentialism and it's Critics), when he got a phone call. It’s important I mention that he sells weed, and charges standard fare for standard product (predominantly), otherwise the following dialogue wouldn’t make sense to you. I didn’t hear the entirety of the conversation, but some of it went like this:

“Wait...two for what? Two for thirty?”

“A deal??! He’s whacked, I never told him that. I don’t make ‘deals’ like that.”

It wasn’t until after he got off the phone that I found out that the person on the other end was his mother. Apparently, the two of them run a family business together.

Do they learn to hail taxis in daycare?

I was on St. Marks and Second Ave
when I saw this kid
standing around three feet tall
with a backpack and huge eyes
frantically trying to wave down a cab,
catching the attention of no one around him.
I stopped for a second,
and wondered what the hell he was doing
alone in the street,
about to get into a creepy cab by himself,
and I took a few steps forward,
thinking I’d help him out.
but I paused when the light turned red,
because if I wanted to hail this boy a taxi,
i mean,
“I’d have to wait for it to turn green again
which would take forever
and I really wanna get home
because it’s cold outside
and I’m tired
and I’m sure the kid’ll get a cab eventually,
and you know,
if he's a real city kid
he might not even want my help anyway...”
So I went on walking,
like many New Yorkers would,
but even days later,
I kind of wish I helped him.

Brianna Zani

I got word of Zani’s dissapearance through a facebook message. Yunique, a mutual friend, was wondering if I’d heard from her. Her roommates hadn’t heard from her since she called to disclose her plans of suicide. Her wallet, keys, and all of her belongings had been left behind. The next day, her father came to the city to organize a search effort, featuring stacks of homemade flyers, shuffled “repeat tweets” on twitter, and a “Where’s Brianna?” site on blogspot.

I’m not going to say that Zani and I were incredibly close at the time she disappeared. She was, however, one of the people I’d call from my back porch last winter when I needed a friend to talk to. This time a year ago, the two of us had been evacuated from the city, so we’d stay up at night, chainsmoking, bitching about our comparable Suburban towns and how much we missed New York. She was there whenever I needed her to be. On the train home from Harlem that Thursday, all I could think about was her lonely blonde hair in the bottom of a trashcan, and how she must’ve felt at that moment, and how no one was there to hear about it. I cried.

I found out later that Zani had been picked up by the NYPD- they found her sleeping in a Brooklyn alleyway. She was checked into a Bushwick hospital, but walked out three hours post check-in. She was seen in the Williamsburg area a few times during the days thereafter, but the search didn’t end until she decided to walk home and make herself guacamole.

I’m hoping that the ending of the story is a happy one, that Zani gets proper treatment or consideration from here on out, and that maybe soon I can re-thank her, in person, for those late-night phone calls, for giving me her fake ID on her 21st birthday, and for the Blue Moons she bought me when I had no funds for drinking.

I hope I never forget what I learned. When Zani was on the streets in Brooklyn, described as “possibly disoriented” on her Missing Person’s flyers, my relationship with homeless people and those who could pass for “possibly disoriented” changed. On Sunday, a shoeless man with dreads and bloodshot eyes was mumbling undeciferably in the middle of a subway traincar. Surely, it was late, and no one wanted to recognize how painful it must be to walk on pavement barefoot, while its raining, when you’re possibly hungry and/or disoriented. Their indifference didn’t bother me. What did, however, was how surprised the two passengers across from me seemed that I’d give him a five dollar bill. Charity is incredibly rare in New York City.

I can only hope that passers-by made Zani’s stay on the streets a little more comfortable by offering her money or food. It’s easy for New Yorkers to pay no mind to those who beg, but it’s important they remember that the homeless have (or have had) a home somewhere. That they aren't nameless.

There are people in the world who care about the barefooted man on the subway train, much like there are people in the world who care about Brianna Zani.

Sex and Xanax

A few Wednesdays ago, when I was sitting on his living room couch, Nigel asked me if I’d heard what happened the night before. I said no. My friend Franco is a great kid, but he’s gotten into this habit of blowing lines of Xanax while drinking...so, he’s made a number of logistical errors over the past few weeks. One of them, I was told, was when Franco tried using men’s shaving gel for lubricant (he couldn’t find lube or lotion anywhere, and figured it was the next best thing). Around four a.m., the girl he brought home with him started screaming (apparently...it burns...), waking Nigel (and Franco, to an extent) from his slumber. I laughed really hard. Definitely a good story.

Faggotry from Early January

it was snowing at eight-fifty this morning,

when you kissed a boy on the cheek

“it was lovely to meet you,”

you knew you were never going to see him again.

His name was Lucian,

an underage kid you met the night before

at a music venue in Williamsburg.

really, you weren’t into the idea of going out that night

because it was cold

and a train ride seemed like too much effort

for overpriced drinks and a hipster crowd,

but you just had to get laid...

so to Bedford you went

in a short dress and tights-

your legs were numb and windburnt by the time you got there.

You were having a cigarette with your flirtacious crew of lesbians

when he stopped to ask what your name was.

He didn’t seem to mind that you stumbled around on the dance floor

or that you lit a cigarette indoors

or that you had to beg the bouncer to let you back in

and at the end of the night, when he asked for your number,

you suggested you spend the night with him instead.

He hailed a cab for the financial district

The backseat might has well’ve been a mattress.

You woke on the top of a dormroom bunkbed.

Lucian found your clothes when you told him to,

and upon getting into a cab,

you realized that 2010 was going to be a good year,

because you went out to get what you were looking for,

even if it was a substitute for something better,

and you found this morning

that Chico’s murals on Loisada,

the ones that always looked like propaganda to you,

were beautiful

because they reminded you that you were home.

and for a second you forgot how much you hated winter

because snow makes everything look beautiful.

The evening left your tights shredded,

your wallet cashless,

and even though the sex was good,

you can’t stop thinking about that something better.

Which is remarkable,

considering he’s twelve years your senior

and he’s been a junkie for almost as long as you’ve been alive,

and he can’t afford his rent,

and you’re sure the only thing he really likes about you

is that you’re a body capable of keeping the other side of his bed warm...

it’s amazing the way your brain works sometimes.

If only my parents knew.

They were right in not wanting me to come here.

They told me there’d be too many distractions

that it’d be too easy to get lost

And that it gets really cold in New York City,

But that’s okay today

Because I’m still young

And snow makes everything beautiful.

Shoplifting

It was a month before my eighteenth birthday. I’d been staring at the same walls for hours, my thighs were sticking to the metal of my designated chair, and crotch rot was festering at my lady parts. I was ready to piss myself, in part because nature decreed that humans will urinate after drinking too many diet cokes, but more so because I was scared shitless of what the next few hours entailed. Relieving myself was an option, but that day I became a juvenile delinquent, and a trip to the loo required the supervision of a police officer. I don’t really like handcuffs (at least not at the hands of law-enforcement), or being publically humiliated, so I chose to stay stuck to the taupe fold-out that was my seating assignment. My bladder could wait.

Along with a sadistic cop who enjoyed watching teenage girls cry, an old-looking chick was in the room wearing cut-off denim shorts and an orange tank top. She was the shift leader. I was the epitome of apologetic to both of them, and even though I confessed my wrongdoing the second I was approached by a sales clerk, they treated me like something innately despicable. Maybe it was because I told them I was going to NYU in the fall. They probably thought I was a spoiled NYU girl who really could afford the gray-sweater dress she tried hiding under her clothes, but did so anyway because she got a kick out of stealing. Granted, my parents have the money to send me to one of the most expensive universities in America, but that doesn’t mean I have an unlimited fashion fund to drain at my choosing. An over-priced piece-of-shit sweater dress from Urban Outfitters is what they’d consider a frivolous purchase, and they've never supported frivolity. They’re of the wealthy frugal brand. The money I could muster out of them was as precious as it was scarce, and I saved everything I had for beer and weed. Regardless, being presumptuous has its perks. I entertained the thought that the cop was an incriminating asshole who took his job too seriously due to a lackluster marriage, and wasn’t getting enough (if any) pussy. On the other hand, the shift leader had a chronically sandy vagina because she was working a dead-end job, chewing out teenage shoplifters in the D.C. suburbs. I didn’t rule out jealously. I was hotter than she was, and despite her working for a trendy apparel conglomerate, she couldn’t pull off denim cut-off shorts. The presumption helped a lot. I didn’t lose my temper when the cop implied I was something along the lines of a stupid fuck-up.

In all honesty, I do have days when I am incredibly stupid.

I like to think that I hang out with predominately good people, but when you’re a broke seventeen-year-old, morality is open to interpretation. Congruently, shopping had a mildly different meaning in my social circles, as money didn’t have to be involved. Rather, brashness and craft are what my friends depended on for merchandise. As I didn’t and never have possessed either of those traits, I tried to keep my hands clean when my crew was cruising stores, stealing pube trimmers or beer or cheap jewelry. Once in a while I’d jack a bottle of nail polish from CVS, or a cheap pair of tennis shoes from a bargain store, but that was a seldom occurrence reserved for an occasion when I was feeling ballsy.
That afternoon, upon entry into Zoe’s station wagon, I demanded a drugstore visit. I explained that at a party a few nights ago, Phil Snell’s fingers must’ve been dirty, because I developed a nasty yeast infection and would do anything for Monistat. I was prepared for a proper transaction at the CVS register, but John, a beautiful gay boy with altruistic inclinations, was too practical for that kind of speak.

“Vicki…how bout I steal you something for your crusty vadge…and you can save the money for a bag of weed instead?”

John's a great friend. Hands down, he's also the best shoplifter I’ve ever met. Though he was arrested at Marshalls a year later, he was an ingenious klepto, and could walk out of any store with something up his sleeves, down his pants, or on his back. His venture down the feminine hygiene isle initiated a trip to Urban Outfitters, in which everything my friends gathered was pulled off the rack via five-finger discount. I made it clear that I didn’t want to steal anything that day, but after spotting for Zoe as she loaded clothes into her Spiderman backpack, I felt the urge to make an addition to my wardrobe. When I came across a gray-sweater dress I thought would be perfect for a nippy New York morning, I had two options. I could pine over how cute it would’ve been with booties or over leggings, or I could steal it. Choosing the latter, I hid the cashmere-y number under a bunch of t-shirts, and landed myself a fitting room. I nipped and tucked it to fit under my clothes, managed to tear off its ink tag, but (of course) left the price tag on the floor. When a sweet-looking sales clerk asked me if she could reattach the tag I left on the blue carpeting of the fitting room, my heart started racing. I told her it wasn’t mine. She told me it was. I’d been caught red handed and I didn’t know what to say. I confessed that there was a 50 dollar dress under my clothes…that I was sorry and stupid…that I’d take it off immediately and give it back to her if she’d let me. When you’re a dumb girl hanging with a flock of tattooed teens in tight pants, diplomacy doesn’t really work for you.
Before I got hold of my mother, I appreciated the safety of the loss-prevention office. Granted, I was uncomfortable, scared, and surrounded by a bunch of assholes, but I was safe. I was a minor, and petty larceny isn’t a big deal if your record will be wiped clean in a few weeks. No one in that room had the power to destroy my life. My mom’s reaction to the fresh marks on my formerly unscathed record terrified me, however, and I knew that home would be anything but a haven from this point on. Behind closed doors I was subject to my parents’ mercy, and being merciful surely wasn’t on their agenda that evening.

During some bitter interaction with the shift leader, my mom made clear to both of us that I was a spoiled brat deserving of jail time. I walked with her out of the store, and when I tried apologizing, she hissed at me:

“Don’t speak. Give me your phone. Stay ten paces behind me. Don’t sit in the passenger’s seat. Get in the back.”

Each order was short and profound. All over again, I started crying profusely..

The first thing I saw when I walked up the stairs was a heaping pile of black contractor bags in the hallway. My Dad and my brother were cleaning out my room, throwing everything I owned into garbage bags, coming across things they knew I had and others they didn’t. Packs of cigarettes. Pregnancy tests. An empty forty. An hour ago I thought my dad was merely going to box my ears in the kitchen, with the sole purpose of explaining that I was a selfish freak with an authority problem. Instead, my shit, as well as my person, was about to be shipped somewhere and no one was telling me where I was going. I reacted the way any selfish freak with an authority problem would.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH MY STUFF?!”
I can’t remember what happened next, all I know is that there was a point when I tried stopping them from piling the bags into the car, and my Dad and I stopped using indecipherable barks and shrieks to communicate with each other. He pushed me down, but I got back up. He grabbed my arm, forcing me down to the ground again, and I used every bit of strength I had to push him away from me. I struggled. Immune to the unworthy escalation that ensued, my mother and brother watched him squeeze his hands around my neck. I couldn't breathe.

After he let go, I stayed on the hardwood floor. They kept loading my things into the car as if nothing had happened. I was crying too hard to see. Jumping in my brain like reels on a slot machine, panic replaced any feasible thoughts in my head. There was nothing I could do but watch them relocate my life from my bedroom to the trunk of a minivan.

I spent the last few weeks of my summer in Stevensville, Maryland, with my family, the bay, and not much else. Convinced my friends were the problem, my parents transported the entirety of our unit to the middle of nowhere, where they owned a beach house.

I haven’t shoplifted since.