Wading Through Red

My first cigarette in Brooklyn was put out in a hole. At least it felt like a hole; it was actually a one-room basement walk-down. It reminded me of my old Datsun: barely room for an ashtray, smelled like piss, and one of the windows didn’t work. The piss smell in the hole came from the guy who lived outside my window in front of an old diner that went out. His name was Irwin and he hated me, but not because I threatened to set him on fire, or because I threw his empty beer cans at him. He hated me because I had a shower. I hated him because he didn’t. I could smell him through the window, and that never helped my devastating headaches. Nothing helped, but I’d like to blame Irwin. I am very grateful for my shower, the fact that I found one within my price range, and within walking distance of so many greasy spoons, all of which would soon have my application. I figured if I came to NYC to be a waitress, I might end up an actor (or an artist, or a writer . . . like there’s a difference).

After a few grand weeks of doing nothing but pretending to do something, I decided to look for a shrink instead of a job. Mind first, then body. One does of course fantasize about sex before actually having it. (Not thinking about Irwin anymore, are you?) I started in the yellow pages since I didn’t know anyone yet. I probably could have walked down any street in Manhattan, asked anyone at random, and gotten the name of their shrink, the dog’s shrink, the maid’s, etc. But that would mean I would inevitably have to make small talk, and I wasn’t ready for that yet. Like any other town, half of the yellow pages were dedicated to physicians and attorneys, and although I suspected I would eventually need a selection of both, I set aside an entire day making notes and writing down phone numbers. Laying my hands on the pale, yellow paper, I tried to extract virtues like patience and forgiveness from the black and red text describing the miracles each shrink could perform for a nominal fee; that is the shrinks who had the means to buy the ads inside a box. I figure the ones with just a name and phone number probably hadn’t gained the experience necessary to handle 59 minutes of unadulterated me.

I filled a few pages and decided to delay any immediate use of the payphone down the street by gathering a much needed subway map. Walking two short blocks to the nearest subway, I requested a map from the overweight, braided beauty behind the glass. She quickly shoved it through the half-moon without speaking, and I headed back up the steps to breaking sunlight and marginally fresher air. The stifling summer heat that turned the great NYC into the Sauna Islands was finally subsiding as November approached. I decided it was safe to resume wearing underwear, as it was less likely to become a sloppy wet mess making me thoroughly aware of moisture in places you shouldn’t think about when in the company of millions. Walking quickly, with every bodily crevice unusually arid, I came upon my humble abode immediately aware of an elephant-like woman standing over the grate in front of my building. She was noisily relieving herself with grunts and sighs of utter satisfaction while the daily pavement patrons passed as if she weren’t there.