There is a brownstone on my street whose parlor is filled with glass and Lucite sculptures. Not like, some artwork scattered among the furniture, but an entire floor full of glass and Lucite, in all different colors and shapes. There is a huge Lucite grid with different-colored circles on it, a big stack of what looks like martini glasses, purple triangles and cylinders, wine glasses inverted on plastic platforms and what looks like many different lampshades, sans lamps. I have no idea what they are for; the rest of the brownstone appears to be a normal, lovely home. The walls are painted a pinkish-purple, there is never anyone in the room, the sculptures fill the floor, and the lights are always on. I canít figure it out.
We walked past it again tonight heading to dinner. Kent and I ate at the Tex-Mex place around the corner, even though we were supposed to be at a party on the Upper West Side. We were supposed to be at the party of a sister-of-a-friend-of-the-family, at a fancy apartment with a rooftop terrace overlooking the park, but circumstances intervened. I was not up for the party to begin with, but then I took Tuesday for a walk when I got home from work, and as we turned the corner onto Clinton Street, a crazy fucking dude stopped on the street and waited for me to get closer to him. When I got within earshot he started talking and then got louder and louder. Donít bark, donít fucking bark or Iíll fucking kill you, dog, he was saying. Then I got closer to him (hoping to PASS the fucker and go home) and he started walking right next to me and the dog, and he kept talking. Iíll fucking kill you and your fucking dog, donít think I wonít. If your dog barks Iíll fucking kill you both and you can call the cops if you want but Iím gonna kill you, you fucking bitch, he said. And this guy was IN MY FACE. I wasnít scared, not really, but very, VERY uncomfortable, and I just wanted to take my puppy and GO HOME. This guy kept making comments and I was pulling Tuesday along, hoping she wouldnít bark because what if this crazy fuck really did want to hurt her, and for the first time EVER, there was no one around on the street. Finally I got to the corner, and a family was crossing from the other side of the street, and I took advantage and ducked behind the family and turned, beelining for home. I walked into the apartment and told Kent, Yeah, weíre not going to the party. Youíre taking me to dinner and youíre buying me several drinks.
I told him about the guy on the street and pulled off my Cute Clothes and pulled my hair into pigtails and slipped on flipflops and a comfy top. I sort-of washed my face - which basically means I got the grease off but left mascara smeared all over my eyes Ė and we officially blew off the party. When we walked into the restaurant, my decision to stay home was validated, as Pastry and her fiancť Trey were sitting at the bar, drinking beers. We pulled up stools and ordered beers and enchiladas and I told them about the crazy dog-hating fuck from earlier. What makes the whole thing so bizarre is that we live on the Yuppiest street in the Yuppiest neighborhood in a Yuppie city. Normally the biggest threat I face is getting mowed over on the sidewalk by the prep school kids rushing home to upload Franz Ferdinandís latest single onto their pink mini-iPods. Weird shit happens, I guess.
On our walk home, the Lucite and glass room was still lit up.