Walking through Times Square has become an art. Keep your eyes forward, smile at no one, AND RESIST THE TEMPTATION TO RESPOND TO WHAT WOULD BE A COMMONPLACE GREETING ANYWHERE ELSE. (You Yankees can snicker all you want, but even after two years this is all so very difficult for a girl from Alabama/North Carolina.) Everyone wants money from you. Everyone. They're either going to beg you for money...or they're going to beg you for money through the guise of crummy comedy club tickets.
Tonight, while avoiding the gazes and pleas, I was initially addresses as "sweetie." My fixed stare did not falter and within two seconds, this became "Fine, you fat bitch." Now, typically the beggars (I'm sorry - salesmen?) ignore you if you ignore them. This was a new experience for me.
Let's not even touch the fact that the man who called me a fat bitch was easily twice my size. Easily.
Um, whoops. Guess I just did.
Whatever. Blip on the radar. Scene change: a wine bar on 9th Avenue, 30 minutes later. Sidewalk seating, perfect views of foot traffic and Hell's Kitchen at night. Halfway into my half liter of house red, a homeless man wordlessly approaches my table, picks up my glass of wine, and throws it down his own throat. A "whoa" is all that manages to escape my lips, followed by a brief moment of silence and finally laughter from all those bearing witness. (And a free replacement glass of wine, thank goodness.)
What in the world?
This town is insane.
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