by Jeff Glovsky
This city, even under the weight of fat tourists, reeks of thirty years ago: all the noise and crime and ghetto-blasting; drugs, ill-tempered ugliness … Its beauty become horrible, its awfulness old hat.
Now from a deli, as if to assert this assessment, a middle-aged white guy, fists clenched in a trenchcoat, bleeds onto the naughty pavement followed by three shrieking, young Bronx chicks. “Fuckin’ white bitch!” among others, these howl … hurling a swirling hot coffee his way.
Turn and watch white guy trip away: clenched trenchcoat flapping (fists within), tight, birdlike, frightened, in a hurry …
Snort, laugh and cackle, back into their deli! Laugh and cackle, black and howling …
Nighttime, still another scene: a car horn bleats and deafens, blared out only by a fire truck.
This fire truck roars on to hell … It finally makes it through the mess of traffic at a stop light; lays off laying on its foghorn finally, fades into a distance …
Cross-fade, back to car horn bleat, still: frozen at the red light now and seemingly unhappy. See pedestrians implore the solid noise and cease of silence; shrug “What’s up?” and shout “piss off” and “fuck you!” … Light turns green, the car horn screams still.
…Sails through the intersection, middle finger raised.
And then half-crazed! The Asian woman clings with unexpected life to her beige duffel bag …
Hear naughty pavement crack and thud; see blood, and feel hair pulled …
She holds on to her dear bag — containing everything, yet nothing — as four others kick it open and fat tourist traffic watches.
Jeff Glovsky: Slice / Life 