Texts from my 13-year-old niece
Wednesday (morning (some time ago))
A woman at the pool was going on about her love life to the lifeguard. "He was rich. Like really rich. But I didn't like him. He repulsed me. And the sex—well, he replused me. Still, we were together for eight months. I think he wanted me to marry him. I could have married him, had some kids, and locked in a chunk of that money. But I'm not that kind of person," she said, adding, "He had a boat."
Saturday a few weeks ago
Jury duty this week. Voir dire. Defense attorney asks, "Do you have a problem with the fact that my client is dead?" No, I say. "Do you have a problem with Italian interpreters," he asks. Are you planning a séance?
Before Saturday (morning)
Deep in Bed-Stuy around 11 p.m. looking for food after far too many drinks. See a barbershop going full blast. I roll in for a shave and a six pack later, learn a valuable lesson: never trust a barber drinking Hennessy with a straight-razor.
Served as the motorcycle chauffeur for a french cameraman last night, zipping him up to the MET museum so he could film a girl famous for being in vampire movies. I pulled right up to the red carpet.
No one took my photo.
Before even that
Listening to The Strokes (yeah, don't ask) and ripping up old photos. Jeez, what is the point of memories? Killers, right?
Way long ago
Growing up, I had a dog named Holly. She was part beagle, part something else. She was all black, save her paws and a white V that ran her chest. It made her look like she was wearing a tuxedo.
Holly is a bad name for a dog. It was my parents' idea.