It’s that time again, folks! Fandango’s Flashback Friday. This little gem was first penned back in 2016…for some reason or another.
My hair was on fire again. All that money spent on highlights and a pricey Brazilian blowout, gone. People hurried past, concerned with their own affairs, scarcely glancing at my flaming head. That just goes to show you how self-absorbed people could be nowadays. If I passed someone whose head was ablaze, I’d at least scream or to try to smother the flame. Clearly, people from Nebraska were more attuned to their fellow human beings than New Yorkers.
Crap: a stoplight. I stood on the curb with 24 New Yorkers (I have that OCD which forces me to count everything) , when a 3-legged tabby—either pregnant or a jam-packed belly full of worms—tried to scrambled up my right leg. My Gucci nylons were a bloody (in every sense of the word) shred. All that was left of my hair was a wad of singed frizz as my scalp smoldered. Watery blood snaked down my leg, (anemic, again?). The song, “Cat Scratch Fever” wound through my mind. A man decorated in a three-piece-suit who reminded me of the guy on the Quaker Oats box stared at me as if I were a freak of nature. He opened his mouth as if to speak but apparently had second thoughts and closed it. He resumed fiddling with his iPod.
A drizzle of rain fell from the Heavens—I assume—to the delight of my naked, scorched scalp. And they say there is no G-d.
The red light finally turned green, and some moron offered me a Hello Kitty! umbrella which I refused. I wanted to be wet, and so did my head. There went my theory regarding New Yorkers. Maybe the moron was from somewhere else, and new to the city, like me. No matter. The cat was hopping after me like a special-needs creature. I scooped her up to ensure she wouldn’t get smashed by a careless, mean shoe. I knew all too well what a hassle it can be to navigate with only three legs and a useless stub.
I had 5 minutes to get to my interview at the “Ouí Chic Unique” modeling agency. I scanned the numbers on the brown buildings for 1110—the address that would change my life.
Of course, I was on the wrong side of the street. I hated crossing streets—no good ever came of it. The cat grew antsy; annoyed by the drizzle that had turned into a shower, and burrowed inside my coat. It turned out that rather than a pregnant girl, this was a wormed-up boy: a glimpse of his dangling modifiers gave it away.
I ran across the street, forgetting to look both ways as I am wont to do.
An old Indian motorcycle with a suicide shift on the side (that’s how I knew it was an Indian motorcycle) ran over my left foot. There went the brand new magenta Prado shoes. Well, one of them anyway. The right pump was free of tread marks but of what use is one magenta Prado? Nothing was going right, but at least I had a new cat: Templeton.
My toes were beginning to swell. They pounded a heartbeat inside the squashed Prado. It was storming now, which my blistering head graciously appreciated.
Safely inside the building, I hobbled to the elevator only to discover that it was “Out of Order.” There was no choice but to ascend the five flights of stairs to Ms. Abrams’ office. Half way there, I met her on the staircase.
Ms. Abrams hair was singed and smoldering too.
“Are you from Nebraska?” I asked.