She loved Brooklyn like a fat kid loved cake. She loved the feel of it. The smell of it. The taste of it. Every single thing about it.
She had always wanted to live in the city. When she was a
kid upstate she would see movies and TV shows based in the City and want to
move there to get out of her hick town that was more of a prison than a home.
She would watch reruns of shows like “Friends” and “Caroline in the City” and
she would dream of coming to New York to be an artist. The problem was she
wasn't particularly talented. She couldn't sing or dance or draw. A mediocre
student she just didn't have the skills. But she didn't let that stand in her
way.
Instead of Manhattan like Rachel and Monica she found her
way to Brooklyn. It was much cooler than Manhattan. Cheaper too. Not by much
but enough to get by.
When the time came she moved down to Bushwick with a couple
of her friends from high school. They all got bullshit jobs to pay the rent on
the shoe box apartment they had in a dilapidated brownstone. Jobs in retail.
Waitressing. Temp work. Make work. Just enough to get by while they searched
for what they were looking for. If they could figure out what the fuck they
were looking for.
They all wore a uniform. Not the fast food uniforms that she
wore in McDonald's up in the little shit hole town outside of Utica where she
grew up. A different kind of uniform. The hipster uniform. After all she had to
display her tribal markings. It was the only way to belong in the big city.
So she had the ragged haircut. Dirty hair under a dirty knit cap. The ripped jeans. Tattoos. A
nose and lip piercing. An i Phone. A bike that she rode to work. And an entitled
attitude that flowed before her like the stink off a homeless guy’s asshole.
She was a hipster and she was making no bones about it. It was their time. Get
out her way when she rode her bike down Court St.
The date with this dude she met on Tinder was just not
working out. He was your typical pajama boy Peter Pan hipster. Older than her
for sure. In his thirties. He was wearing the uniform too. Male division. Well
the quasi male division. Dirty jeans. Ratty retro shirt. Thin vest. Beard like
a misplaced Amish farmer or the bassist in ZZ Top. And an attitude. That he was
all that and a bag of organic gluten free kale chips. Another wasted night.
They had met for a drink at a little bar right off the
bridge on Carroll St near the Gowanus Canal. They had a drink. He had a craft
beer. She had a mojito. He paid. So far so good. At least he wasn’t a cheap
douche nozzle like the last five guys she had dated. They chatted awhile.
Superficially of course. Without giving too much information. Just feeling each
other out. She didn’t think they would be feeling each other up. It just wasn’t
happening for her. Sometimes that’s how it works out.
They decided to go for a slice of pizza at the pizzeria on
the corner of Third Avenue. They had gluten free slices which was unusual. She
figured she would get a bite and then walk back to her bike that she had
chained up in front of the boutique that she worked at. This way she could
brush off this dude and get home safe. She definitely didn’t want him to take
her home. In fact she insisted on paying for the pizza so he didn’t get any
proprietary impulses. It would be best to shut that shit down as fast as
possible.
When they finished they said goodbye on the sidewalk. Totes
awkward. A quick hug and a peck on the cheek and she scurried off down Carroll
Street back to the store. She hustled along. She wasn’t afraid. She was never
afraid. Her bosses at work couldn’t believe that she lived in Bushwick. They
thought it was a war zone or something. But she was of the generation that
hadn’t lived through the crack wars and the crime waves of the ‘70’s and 80’s.
That Nazi Giuliani had cleaned it all up and she had no reason to be afraid.
She could go anywhere and do anything and never looked over her shoulder.
The street was a little dark. It seemed that the streetlight
was out right in front of the bridge. The smell was enough to guide you. The
turgid water glowed from the chemicals in the Canal. They had been cleaning it
up for decades. It was even a superfund site. But the Canal at Carroll Street
was particularly bad. They had installed huge fans that pushed the water out of
the canal and into the ocean. Unfortunately the fans were on the other side of
the bridge so the water never moved on this side of the Canal. It was basically
just a stagnant, putrid pool of slop. She quickened her step so she didn’t have
to smell it.
There was a shadowy figure standing on the bridge wearing a
hoodie. She wasn’t apprehensive. Well not really apprehensive. What was going
to happen to her two blocks from her job? Just as she got close the guy turned
and she could see his face in the moonlight. Shit. She know him. She relaxed.
It was so stupid to be worried.
“Hey how are you? What are you doing over here?” She said.
She smiled at him. He was always very shy. So she didn’t want him to feel bad.
She never wanted anyone to feel bad if she could help it.
He didn’t reply. He just sort of ducked his head down. And
took his hand out of his pocket. It held something shiny. What was it? A
cellphone. No a knife. A knife?
He took the knife and slashed it across her throat in one
swift practiced gesture. She couldn’t even scream. She just started to gurgle
as her life’s blood spurted out in a rush. He grabbed her. Held her up. Making
sure he was out of the path of the blood. He looked into her terrified eyes as
her life was rushing out of her body. He pushed her against the rail. Over. Her
last thought as she died was how bad she was going to smell. She didn’t feel
anything as she slid beneath the water.
The shadowy figure looked around. No one was out. He folded
the knife and put it in his pocket. He walked away.
One.
