Here it is: The bad pick up story of bad pick up stories.
I’ll set the scene. Kelly and I were drinking our heads off last Wednesday, and after we ate the sushi that may or may not have fallen all over the floor of my living room, I walked her to 14th Street.
Goodbye, I said, and waved her on.
I turned back onto Avenue A loop and walked by a man, a normal looking man, head first in a dumpster. I knew he was normal because his bike rested aside the big garbage bin with a clean-looking backpack.
I kept walking, perhaps strutting, in my tank top and sweat pants. I was drunk. I might have swaggered.
“You’re beautiful!” he called, and I kept walking.
“Of course I am,” I yelled as I walked, face straight ahead and picking up speed, “Your head is in the garbage. Everything looks beautiful when your head’s in the fucking garbage.”
This is the truth.
I kept walking and before I knew it he was on his bike and at my side, goading me on with intelligent quips. When I reached my apartment building, I sat down in front of the entry way. He jumped off his bike and unzipped his backpack to reveal a huge camera.
“Let me take your picture — you look stunning with this backlight.”
I said absolutely not, tossed my hair back and posed. After a good 40 or so pictures, he asked for my number. He said he freelanced for the New York Observer, and he would take me out about town.
I said no. The last thing I need is to see yet another man’s garbage.