I blew smoke out. I let the spreading cloud guide my gaze through Tompkin Square Park: The flowering Magnolia tree with pink flowers. This squirrel was launching daring advances towards the nuts the pigeons were pecking at. The pale-faced punks tuning their electric guitars for a street quintet. The purples were unusually sparkly today. Vic must have mixed some powder into the weed. It was kind of beautiful to see the normal world and then sprinkles of sparks like the fabric of reality was ripping open to reveal another world, a dark world, a wild world, a world that provided relief from this world.
Then I saw him, an old man with a silver mane of long hair that lit up in the sunlight. He proudly had both hands planted on the walking cane in front of him. There was an enthusiasm in his eyes like being out in the park would make it a good day. In the back of my mind, I had always wondered about those human relics. There are people like you and me, young people, fresh out of school. Then there are grown-ups. And finally, there are oldies. They seem so foreign. They barely move. They barely talk. They barely do anything with their lives. They more seem like tortoises than humans - slowly moving, munching salad with a glacial speed, and mostly only tanking up sunshine without moving.
They might as well be an entirely different species. They are so foreign and inexplicable. It probably was the weed, but how do they fuck? They still got dicks. They are probably still horny as fuck. How do these tortoises who slowly crawl along with their walkers fuck? Do they suddenly turn into bunnies? I've seen so much porn in my life, but none has given me a glimpse on how the old fuck on the bench fucks? It was probably the weed that made me ask those questions, but I was going to find out for science!
My lunch break was over. I got up to walk back to my job. The East Village was a beautiful walk with sunlight filtering in rays through the canopy of trees and the bright, young leaves soaking the ambiance into youthful green. I was wearing knee-high white socks of a thick, fuzzy winter fabric that made my dark, caramel, thin thighs stand out even more. My skin was baby smooth and oozed youthfulness. My bum was covered by a skin-tight bootie short that was made from pajama fabric. Hugged tight but with a loose fabric, there was a kind of oh- la-la-feel to it. In contrast, yoga pants are tight but also feel like a closed uniform. The pajama fabric felt easy like it could come off. It gave plenty idea of what my naked bum underneath was like. And my bum was perfectly round. The munches filled out the shape. The youth kept it perfectly round. That extra fill gave it ripples and swings with my walk that were ever-entrancing. Yet the cut was snug enough to let my butt cheeks leak out, expose the shape of my butt crack, and trace the camel shape of my mound. The outfit was finished with a bra top and my short and clean dreads.
In my head, I had an upbeat soundtrack of a hip-hop song about "Walking! Walking in my big, black boots!" The guys kept checking me out. The sound of their footsteps silenced after they passed me to look up my backside. A young white college boy checked my boobs. I own you! A middle-aged guy in a business-smart blue shirt with his arms across a MILF in Prada got his eyes stuck on my chocolate brown navel button. His girl tensed up. He couldn't pull his eyes off of me. I own you! The two Mexican delivery workers resting on their e-bikes in front of Two Brother Pizzas stopped talking mid-conversation to watch my hips swing. I own you! That crazy old bitch who walks her tiny terrier all the time got mad at me: "Cover up, young lady!" I own you, too!
I slung through the open door of "Holisticaly Medically." There is a small room with giant foam pillows on the floor and merchandise in glass jars along the walls arranged on shelves. I hopped behind the counter onto the barstool. This place was going to be under my dominion for the next four hours. The job was a perfect fit. I ripped open a mail package and then the inner packaging. I smoked some of the weed from a pipe. Yep, my job includes merchandise quality control. All I have to do is wear cute shit, get high, and collect money.
A dude with a covid mask walked in. He seemed tense and agitated. "Give me all the money in the register," he ordered. There was a strange sound in his voice. He tried to be quiet, but the adrenaline was pushing him to be loud and fast.
All the bad feelings that I had kept trying to keep at bay came rushing back to me. I felt fat. I felt ugly. I was broke. I had no future. People thought that I was fun to be around but stupid. They always only invited me to parties because I'm so fun high but not because of me. My head hurt from drinking last night. My belly felt like vomiting. I reached for one of the rolled-up blunts in the drawer under the counter. I lit it up. I took a deep inhale. I could feel myself calming down.
"Now! The money now!" the guy yelled at me. He was really getting into my face.
"Don't fucking rush me!" I yelled at him, exploding in anger and frustration. I hate it when people rush me. Chill out, dude! I hated the job. I wanted to quit on the spot. I had quit this job already a dozen times, but Charlie had shown up at my place each time and begged me to come back. The people needed me and loved me. Okay, I wasn't going to quit. I was going to take another hit from the blunt instead.
"You got this!" I mumbled to myself audibly. The dude shifted uncomfortably to the other foot as he waited for me. Ding, the cash tray slid open. I looked over the dirty, crumbled bills. Fuck, I hate counting money with a hangover. I gave him the only crisp one hundred dollar bill and closed the register.
"Everything!" he yelled.
"Fuck off!" I told him back. Who does he think he is?
His bravado to do a hold-up seems to have run out. He quickly turned to run out of the store. Charlie, a big, black man, who looked like he was running a bar in Jamaica after twenty years of no exercise, waited outside the store. He grabbed the dude by the nape of the neck and threw him into the van. We didn't have a license. So we couldn't call the cops. Charlie had said that he took the dudes to Jersey for a serious talk and a long walk home. The hundred-dollar bill would be back in three hours or so.
On my home, I liked passing behind Stuyvesant Square Park. There is a little charm about that little neighborhood park that most people don't know about. That it's not a destination park makes it feel intimate to sit there. And the brownstones behind the park are in a pocket between two busy hospitals that keep the streets empty. The atmosphere feels like the place has been untouched for decades. The trees are the lushest and largest like they haven't been molested just as long. Walking there feels like being in a magical world of NYC in the seventies. The real world, with all those things like student loans, fuck boys, and Instagram, seems so far away.
There was one building in particular that caught my eye that day. Of course, a beautiful, towering brownstone with a meticulously unkempt and tiny strip of garden in front of it. There was a row of seniors sitting in wheelchairs. A senior home! I would be able to do my science experiment here. I walked up the stairs, heavy, big, and steep stairs, created a feeling of importance to the building and having to come up as a favor seeker. The inside was anything but glamorous. A tiny, packed room with a nurse behind a door with the upper half swung open. The floor was halfway on the journey from white to black.
