NY, NY, cont.

I walked up Columbus Ave., looking at all the fancy storefronts. A guy passing by was staring at my arm so hard he actually turned around to keep looking at it. Just when I was about to tell him to take a picture ('cause I'm a New Yorker too, and I speak my mind), he said, "Nice! That's very nice!" We stopped, and he came over to get a closer look. He studied my arm, and was bold enough to lift up my sleeve to see the continuation of my tat, and you know what? I let him, because I could tell he appreciated the artwork. We told each other to take care, and went our separate ways.

Later, at the Duane Reade drugstore, the line was really long. I was third in line--it wound down the aisle so you couldn't see how long it was when you first came in. I got the brunt of the reactions to the line, being at the front of the aisle. People would come in, look past me, and say, "Oh, god!" One older white balding guy said, "Fuck it!" and put his stuff back. You don't hear that in Boston. It was refreshing. I said something about the length of the line to the woman behind me, and she replied, "I know. This place sucks."

There was a Jamaican woman in front of me who shouted out, "You want me to call for backup? We need backup at the register!" Her accent was so thick you could barely understand what she was saying. I, however, could understand her, being an expert in accented English deciphering. She turned around to me, and we laughed. She asked her friend what she thought about the little girl who was missing.

The friend didn't know the news story. She said, "Woman, don't you watch no news?!" She laughed again and turned around, and I told her that I knew the story she was talking about. We traded thoughts on it, and then it was her turn. She was waited on by a black woman with an Australian accent. I love New York.