I am so fucking pissed off at New York right now. We are in a fight. We are not on speaking terms.
For the first time since I’ve moved here, I fell down. I was on the phone, walking quickly from my office to a bar, and sliding by slow-moving fat-person traffic on Tenth avenue. As I rounded the corner on 42nd, I stumbled on some broken sidewalk, lurched forward a step or two, and slammed down onto the ground.
I totally, without a doubt, ate it.
It didn’t help that a huge cross-town bus was stopped right next to me and about fifty sets of eyes were staring at the girl who ate it. It didn’t help that the fat people I had just walked by were wincing and laughing.
At least a few gentlemen were kind of enough to help me up. “Damn,” one said, “that was a nasty fall.”
No shit. No fucking shit Captain Obvious, King of the Conspicuous.
The good news is I didn’t flash anyone. That would have been too much. The bad news is I was, in fact, wearing a skirt. So when the men helped me up and I adjusted myself and took a few steps forward, I realized blood was pouring down my knee and a nice chunk of skin was missing from my right hand near the wrist. After a few more unsteady steps, I dug into my bag for a tissue and mopped up some of the blood.
And then what? I had to get to a pharmacy, so I put my sunglasses on and walked defiantly to Ninth avenue and up a few blocks to a Duane Reade. I found the band-aids and stood online. Some stupid blond was paying for a Snapple in exact change. I sat there grimacing and wiping off my bloody knee with the soaked through tissue. A few women stared. I bared my teeth like a chimp and narrowed my eyebrows at them until they looked away.
When I finally had my first aid accoutrements, I walked into the skeevy dive bar and found my friends. I was late. They were ready to point fingers. I burst into tears.
An old man who bore a striking resemblance to Willy Nelson handed me a bottle of peroxide. My friend gave me neosporin. I holed up in the bathroom wincing and picking out little flakes of New York City pavement from my knee.
What do you suppose happened next? A lot of drinking and a long, dark walk into a void of cabs. Of all the stupid Thursday nights in New York, figures I can’t get a cab tonight. Fucking figures, right? I ended up wobbling across down in search of anything yellow that would take me home. What a disaster. Next time I’m covered in dirty band-aids and drunk off cheap beer I am taking the subway like every other stinking hobo.
New York has some apologizing to do. I expect flowers.