People who walk the streets of New York jaggedly strut more like the traffic of cars, looking just as inanimate. It is a silent flow of traffic unless there are calls out for: change, cigarettes, or simply, just common decency. I have come to seek the homeless on the street that my eyes lay on the most and will worry if they are not in their spot. They must have moved on, I hope. There is a scrunched old man, who lays naked and rear-out, missing and gaining shoes as the days go. I have begun counting the number of shoes so far. I've noticed six in the past month. He usually keeps to himself, huddled in front of CVS in a fetal position. Last I saw the ‘change woman’, two cops were urging her to leave. A temper was thrown, and she abandoned her spot. Another open space on the curb.
A constant stop in my routine lay squeezed in a corner among havoc and screaming sirens. The store’s bright light draws the people in like they are flies. Always a crowd of zombies drifting in front, with a sad flea market guarding the border. The items are a lost in found, missing flip flop here, stick on nails over there; it is better than window shopping. The door has a spider web of glass shatter, thinning the farther it reaches. The light is not adjustable, and suddenly a creepy braced-grin from behind the counter recognizes me. Shuffling forward, ready to run out, I approach him and order like in a Starbucks line. One mint-pod pack, Marlboro long reds, and two stativas, please. By the following customer, I'm always hounded, looking to grab me. Leaping away, I give a playful smile and disperse.
My feet become slammed into heels, a dress to sculpt my body, and I’m dragged along to the open air. Out of the safety of my warm sheets, yet I’m never disappointed. A familiar scene of lime velvet couches to soothe the soles, and faces of the usual crowd. A familiarity of seeing them every weekend, in drunken short conversations. I know the basics of everyone, barely their names. I have begun to bring my camera along, taking pictures of all the people I find that flatter me. Questionably, there is a man I have known for a while, the worst first impression. People mainly attack Greeks for their economics. How funny is it that we have a failing economy? You would not be laughing if you actually saw what living on an island in Greece is like. Not everything is like what you see in a vacation advertisement. He called us dirty, because he chose to drink with strippers in Mykonos; had his phone allegedly ‘stolen’. I was shocked that I held my tongue, yet I continued to smile and embrace him. Boosting his ego by taking pictures of him every time we encounter each other. I question this too.
Promoters are the devil workers, my father says, as he travels through New York clubs often. They always fill my cup as soon as it is empty. A full glass, but an empty promise. The boys bounce from girl to girl, encouraging more drinking and dancing. Allowing promoters to take advantage of the vulnerable. The girls are just money to them, the more heads there are, the more they benefit. Flirting and gaining their trust just to leave them hurling on the curb. Clubs are too obvious when it comes to showing how they run. Get a lot of girls drunk, and men with heavy pockets. Where does the money go when girls drink for free? My constant question on how promoters work. One day it is all going to catch up with me; I will face a price eventually.
Or the worst mistake, when a woman leaves her friend alone, in a bar. Pills tossed into drink, separation, entrapment. My friend was missing for fourteen hours, with her phone scattering between the city and resting at the airport. Her sister was frantically calling to anyone who had made contact with her in the past few days. She has not answered her phone. It was on everyone’s mind, what the possibilities could be. She could be trapped on a plane shipped off, still drugged in a stranger's bed, I mean the anxiety. The dorm guard was of no help in receiving information as to why her id swiped into the building at two in the morning, without waking her roommates. I felt helpless. I could do nothing to help her, and guilt resided in me not going out with her that night to protect her. A hopeful story was made that she just left her bag in the uber; that was sadly not the case.
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