September 25, 2000

Friday started innocently enough. I was going to a friend's apartment to play poker that evening. I am not a very good poker player, seeing as I have never quite been able to ascertain when, exactly, I should hold 'em, and, conversely, what might be an opportune time to, in fact, fold 'em. This does not deter me from playing, however, because the apartment in which the game is held has an unbelievable view of the southern tip of Manhattan (replace "Big Ben, Parliament" with "World Trade Center, West Side Highway") and there is a freakishly large black cat named Chris who does not manage to entirely shred my forearm to bits when I entice him to play kill with me.

Friday was a lovely, sunbeamy kind of day, so I just decided to wander around the city -- walk down 9th Avenue to the West Village (where my friend lives), read, get some falafel or pizza (which four out of five unemployed New Yorkers agree makes the cheapest and most appetizing lunch), and, in general, hang. Somewhere around 19th St., I realized I was going to be passing by Chelsea Market on my travels, and when I say Chelsea Market, what I really mean is Free Samples, and when I say Free Samples, what I really mean is Fat Witch.

Fat Witch is a brownie store. That's pretty much all it sells -- brownies. But, my god, the brownies it sells…they're like little tiny orgasms with a touch of butter. Anyway, they always have samples, so I strolled on into Chelsea Market (which is just a big ol' building with lots of stores -- mostly food-oriented -- inside) and followed my nose. I always feel bad scoring free samples when I have no intention of buying anything (the brownies are good, but I come from a long line of bake sale bakers, where cookies are 25 cents, rice krispie treats are 50 cents, and the biggest, most chocolatey brownies top off at a dollar. So $2.25 for a brownie, no matter how worldview-changing it may be, is just a whole lot of bravado), so I had to make disingenuous chit-chat with the saleswoman about what selection of tasty treats I might be looking to purchase. I inquired about gift boxes, out-of-town shipping charges, and then, when she went in the back to check on a fresh batch, I grabbed three toothpickfuls of brownie and scurried out the door.

As I was leaving the Market, I thought how silly I had been to even think I might run into Harris. Oh -- did I forget to mention that he works in the building? Yeah, well…he does. I don't have any sort of grasp of what the hell he does, but I know he does it on 16th & 9th. Whatever. It wasn't a big deal -- didn't play into my decision to go there -- but, well, it was slightly on my mind. Boy, wouldn't it be funny if. Yeah, so, I was leaving with just the slightest aura of relief surrounding me, when -- well, guess. You wanna guess? C'mon, it's so not hard. Guess what happened.

So Harris is walking in, in his casual Friday sports jacket (!), with his hair doing some sort of Farrah Fawcett on acid thing (confidential to Harris: One word: scissors), looking frighteningly like he just stepped off a plane from L.A. He is accompanied by a bevy of coworking beauties. Welcome to my sitcom.

There is about half a second where I consider not acknowledging him at all, but, as I'm considering this, my eyes catch his and instinctively tighten into my trademark glare. So much for ignoring him. He shoots my own look right back at me, and I look away and smile the way I always do when someone turns my own game right back on me. I keep walking one way, he keeps walking the other. For another half second, I want to keep right on walking -- and I do, but not before turning my head to see if he's turning his head to see if I'm turning my head. He is. "Hey," I say, not breaking my stride. "Hey," he says, not breaking his. We are both smiling. We are both what the fucking.

For half a second, I consider stopping and talking to him, but I don't. I just keep walking. If I'd stopped, I'd have had to act interested in the beauties. I'd have made fun of his hair and his jacket. He'd have said something that I'd have pretended to find fascinating, all the while kicking myself for pretending to find it fascinating. So I didn't stop.

Empowerment, thy name is Fat Witch.

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