Hipster Holocaust

 

Hipster Holocaust Chapter Thirty-Two

Goldie Hirshberg was pissed. Her fucking dog had run away. The stupid boxer was really her moron husband’s pet but she got stuck taking care of it. Along with their brat of a kid and their stupid brownstone. This wasn’t what she had signed up for when agreed to marry the jerk.

She had thought she had the perfect “Sex in the City” lifestyle when she had graduated from college. She moved to Manhattan from Manhasset to be on the cutting edge of fashion and style. Goldie thought she was in the height of fashion. Part of the hipster invasion she would go from art gallery opening to spoken word poetry slams. She loved to get all dolled up and go out with her three best girlfriends. Cosmo’s and flirting and maybe bringing somebody home when she felt particularly daring. Every week they sat in front of their TV to study “Sex in the City” which served as her textbook and lodestar. Like millions of other young women of her generation she thought she was oh so unique and fascinating while she slavishly copied the attitudes and actions from the show. She sent a decade proving how special she was by acting like everyone else.

Her carefree lifestyle all came to an end when she met Joshy on her birthday when she turned thirty-five. He was a Wall Street Guy. Tall, handsome and best of all he was a Jew. Mazel Tov. Her mother and grandmother could stop haking her to get married. They had a whirlwind courtship of fancy restaurants and trips to the Hamptons to his boss’s mansion on Shelter Island. They even took a helicopter there once when he was working on a big project and his boss wanted him at his fingertips. She didn’t care about him abandoning her to toady to his boss because she got to hang out at the pool with the Eastern European Trophy wife as they downed martini’s and basked in the sun.

They had the big wedding and the honeymoon to the Islands that anyone would want. She thought their life would be golden. A smart Manhattan apartment. A place in the Hamptons. Cocktails at the Carlyle in her Jimmy Choos. Except for one thing. She got pregnant on the honeymoon. Her husband refused to live in a Manhattan apartment with a new baby. He had grown up on the Upper West Side and swore his kid would have a yard. They joined the exodus of the rich urbanites to the wilds of Brooklyn. Brownstone Brooklyn to be exact. It was at least civilized. Not Bensonhurst or Borough Park. Carroll Gardens had smart restaurants and coffee shops. Even a cool bar or two. They bought a two-million-dollar brownstone next to his boss which sort of assuaged her grief at the end of her dream. You see she thought she was Carrie but she turned out to be Miranda. A miserable cunt who married a guy she really didn’t love who got stuck in Brooklyn!

Goldie had to make the best of it. She eventually dropped the rug rat. Bought the expensive stroller. Even got that stupid fucking dog. She just didn’t want the false aura of domesticity end her life. She had to go out for cocktails with her friends. They even took the trip out to Brooklyn now and then to hang out with her. She had been sitting at the outside café at that cool bar that pretended to be a slice of Texas in Brooklyn with her best friend. Along with a whole lineup of pretentious snots who were too cool for school. Other women who had settled for a dude with a dollar now that forty was in the offing and their biological clock has started going Koo-Koo bitch you are approaching your sell by date.

Today was the day that took the cake! She had the stupid dog run away. Her idiot husband would be livid. Sometimes she thought he loved the dog more then he loved her. He was certainly more affectionate toward him. Maybe that was it. He was gay for a dog. What a loser.

All of that didn’t matter. She had to find a way to smooth it over. She was good at that. She can say she was attacked by that bitch in the bakery. And that stupid man with the wagon. He was probably homeless so there would be no point in suing him. But they could sue that waitress, her bakery and anybody else she could think of. She came from a very litigious family.

Suing everybody in Brooklyn would not solve the problem when her husband came home. The only thing he loved more than that fucking dog was bourbon.

“Maria come down to take of the baby I have to go out,” she shouted in her normal petulant tone. She treated Maria like a slave. Which what these Mexicans were to these rich entitled hipster bitches. Just a robot to do what she said or get fired. They never hired legal immigrants. They wanted the power to intimidate them and bully them with impunity. So only illegals need apply. Mexicans were the new slave labor.  She never thought about what Maria thought about her and how she was treated. Goldie had never heard of Nat Turner. But then Goldie had never heard of a lot of things.

Maria rushed down and picked up the baby who immediately started cooing at her and was settled. Goldie felt jealous for a moment but only for a moment. There was time enough for her daughter to get to know her. Then she could torture her the way her mother had done to her. It was a family tradition.

“I don’t expect Joshy until late tonight. But if he calls or God forbid comes home early you can tell him I will be right back. I have to do an errand.” “Yes, Missus I will tell him.”

Goldie went out the door and dialed up an Uber. Thank God for the ride app. No need for a car. Or to call a dirty cab let alone a car service that used to service the transportation needs of people in Brooklyn until the ride share came along. The ride share app made living in Brooklyn almost tolerable.

While she was waiting, she went to the mailbox and reached behind it to the hidden recess in the wall. She slid a panel out and took out the pack of cigarettes and the lighter she had secreted there. She lit up a butt and put the pack and lighter away. She had promised Joshy she would stop smoking after she had the baby but that was just one of the many things she had lied about. She really needed that smoke.

The Uber pulled up. Great. A fuckin’ Toyota. She had to squeeze in a fucking Toyota. Can this day get any shittier. “Car for Goldie,” asked the driver who looked more like a Russian MMA fighter than an Uber Driver. “Yeah, that’s me. Take me to Otsego off Van Brunt in Red Hook.” Goldie threw her ciggie on the floor and got in the back seat.

They drove without incident to the hipster brewery that specialized in home brewed bourbons. She knew Joshy loved their stuff so was going to get him a big bottle to give him before she told him she had lost his dog. Maybe that would distract him for a moment.

She strolled into the place with her usual toxic mix of bravado and entitlement. She bellied up to the bar and order a Cosmo. She needed a little liquid courage to face what she was going to get when her hubby got home. He would be pissed off. Not in a violent way. He was too much of wimpy nerd to raise his hand to her. In any event she would kick his ass if he did. He would just whine and pout and act out unless he got something to distract him. The bourbon should do the trick. Plus, the stupid mutt would probably come home on his own. Didn’t Lassie always find her way home? Why couldn’t that dumb fuck find his way home.

As she ruminated on her sorry lot in life, she had inhaled that Cosmo as if it was water. The bartender was no dummy so he set up a new one by the time she had finished the last drop of her first. He did the same with the next one. And the three after that.

She had managed to get trashed. She did that when she was upset. Or even more when she was uncertain. As she stumbled out of the bar she stopped and took a deep breath of the night air. What time was it? She had no idea. No matter. She had decided on the strategy to deflect her husband’s anger. Shock and awe. She would give him his bottle of bourbon. And a blow job. That always got her what she wanted ever since Hebrew camp. Still, she was pissed. He gets all that and what the fuck does she get?

“I know,” she mumbled to herself. “Ice Cream.” That new fancy ice cream parlor she had read about in Time Out New York was around here somewhere. She would find it and get some ice cream to go with the bourbon. Look out bitches because Goldie has fixed it so everybody would be happy!

She had only a general idea of where she was going. She staggered in a zig zag pattern from the wall of a building to the cars in the street. She would bounce off one and stagger diagonally to the other to bounce off that.  Still moving forward in search of her ice cream.

If this kept up much longer, she would just call an Uber and go home. She had just bounced off an older model BMW. What was that car doing in Red Hook. Some people had more money than sense. She barely noticed someone standing in the doorway. Not that she was afraid. Her natural stance was arrogance and entitlement and drink only reinforced her tendencies. She was never afraid. Not even wandering drunkenly in Red Hook.

She tried to straighten up a little as she started past the figure in the darkened doorway of a shuttered shop. She passed him by without a thought in her drunken head. She had only gotten about two feet in past the doorway when she felt a vise like grip around her breasts as an arm grabbed her and held her tight. She tried to scream but nothing came out. Just a wet gurgle. She only felt that wetness. As if she had thrown up on herself. She dropped her bottle and it sounded like a gunshot when it broke on the sidewalk. She wanted to shout. To scream. To complain. But nothing came out. Except more gurgles. And blood.

She fell to the ground and her last thoughts were not of her husband. Not of her child. Her last conscious thought was of the hundred dollars she had lost in that broken bottle.

She was that kind of fool.