June 12, 2000

I have back fat. Not a lot -- nothing to scare the kids with -- but enough that, when I am wearing something that exposes my fatty back, I am pretty well aware that I ain't gonna get hit on. Or, if I do, it's despite my ample display of flesh, rather than because of it.

I know I should, because of this back fat predicament, wear full-torso covering miu-mius during any and all time I spend in public. However, I am an evil and bad citizen, with a clear disregard for the community, and as such, I wore one of those Indian tops that are basically backless, save for the strings that tie around the neck, the shoulder blades, and the waist. I actually own two of them, each bought on separate occasions. This means that I bought one, saw the horror that was me wearing it, and -- bought another one. If I ever move, I hope my prospective neighbors will be alerted to my crimes against humanity.

It was very hot today, you see. All weekend, it has been very hot. And I was inspired by the Coney Islands chicks I had the pleasure to observe yesterday. So many bikinis on women who supposedly should not wear them. So many bare midriffs. And no one was looking twice at them, except to smile. Some had boyfriends, husbands, kids. Some didn't. But they all had one thing in common: extreme confidence. I envied that so much.

Back to me. I was wearing my little backless wonder, along with cutoffs that I just can't bring myself to throw out even though there is little holding the crotch together but a few scraggily threads, and I'd just missed the 1:10 p.m. showing of Decalogue, Parts 1 & 2. Well, actually, I hadn't missed it yet, but there were about 10 people in line ahead of me, several of them elderly, and it was taking two or three full minutes for each ticket transaction to be completed. It was 1:05 p.m. I did the math and decided the best course of action would be for me to find a heavily air conditioned atmosphere and stay there until the next showing, which was at 3:20 p.m.

So, that's what I set out to do. As I was ambling up Broadway, pausing to look at handpainted dresses being sold on the sidewalk, some guy hurried up to me and said, "You look so neat, I just had to talk to you." He was black, maybe 40, and very enthused. "I'm not trying to flirt with you, I do animation and videos for MTV, and I'm looking for people to do voiceovers." Now, the first thing I thought was, how interesting that he's not trying to flirt with me, and is just interested in me for my voice, when I haven't uttered a goddamn word. I said as much to him, and, without missing a beat, he said "You're great. Really great. I love your voice. Just looking at you, I knew you'd have a great voice."

He told me his name was James, and he showed me his card. It did, indeed, have the letters MTV inscribed somewhere near his name. He then asked me what I was doing just then, and, like an idiot, because I just can't think on my feet, I told him. I was just killing time before a movie. Can he buy me a drink, he asked. Oh, sure, what the hell. I'm all about working the back fat for free drinks.

We went to some semi-annoying restaurant across from Lincoln Center -- kinda touristy, kinda expensive, kinda a place your parents take you before you go see Yo-Yo Ma perform at Lincoln Center. I ordered a Diet Coke (they didn't have Pepsi -- nobody had Pepsi), and he ordered a Bass. He was somewhat disappointed at my choice of beverage. "That's not a real drink," he said. "It's too hot for alcohol," I said. Which was a massive lie. It is never too hot for alcohol. I just didn't want James to be gettin' ideas.

He asked me where I was from. He asked me what I did for a living. He asked me if I'd gone to the Puerto Rican Day parade. He asked me if I was part Puerto Rican. In answer to that last question, I showed him painful pink spots that I affectionately refer to as my "tan" on my naked shoulders. And then, finally, he asked me if I was single.

"No," I lied. "I've been living with my boyfriend for a year." Even in the land of the false, to hear those words come out of my mouth was a little freaky for me. "Living with my boyfriend." Ahahahahaha! It also, apparently, was a little freaky for James. As soon as the word "boyfriend" had left my lips, he looked down at his watch (nice touch!) and -- I swear -- suddenly remembered a "meeting [he had] to go to." Classic ditch! He apologized for having to run, slapped a ten on the table to cover the drinks, and left me alone to ponder the unwanted wedge of lemon that came with my soda.

The moral of this story: Back fat is sexy! It will get you voiceover jobs! It will get you free Diet Cokes! It will get you leered at by creepy middle-aged guys who work for MTV! Cultivate it! Moisturize it! Fortify it!

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