2 Jews & Window Shopping

 I am about a year into the game of working there.  I say game, because the reality I live in here is so beyond real.  It’s some place between reality, and a John Waters movie.  It’s like I’m constantly working to save the queen, like I did in “Super Mario Brothers” but the second I get to the castle she is already somewhere else.  I am the queen and Mario all at the same time though.  I feel like I’m constantly working to get 15 pounds lighter.  I’ll never be satisfied.  I am another belt loop in, the long curls are now short, preened and neat. My shirts have jumped one size smaller. By smaller I mean that I can wear a small shirt without side-tit and or looking like my body is trying to escape the shirt. I like every other gay man, am trying to fit more than belongs in a smaller shirt. I now wear completely sleeveless cut-offs shirts at work, which is a HUGE leap for me. This is a big step, coming from the boy who went through his teen years avoiding pools and any event involving the expectation to be shirtless.  I think the last time anyone say me shirtless was at my Briss and that was a once in a lifetime event.  I would spend the pool parties with girls who would lie about being on their “time of the month,” so as not to swim and end up hanging out near the chips.  Essentially, this was where I would meet the future fag hags of America, one pool party at a time.  Inside, I will always be that guy who would avoid these events with over-sized shirts to cover up my boy bitch-tits. I would avoid these events at all costs.  I would do so the way people avoid a bum on the subway with scabies. I would work hard at not hiking, going to water parks, being in hot summer days, physical activity, anything that could lead to that because I didn’t want everyone to see me shirtless and discuss my boy-teets.  Side-boob was all anyone would ever get out of me.  Even though, I am no longer that guy, and probably thin enough to wear a sleeveless shirt, I still in the back of my head think I’ll have side-titty getting in the way, as was the case in my youth.

So, I go to Union Square with my cousin Nicole. It’s in the same fashion that we have shopped and hung out since we were little eleventeen-year olds by the food court. Then, most of our purpose was to find Nicole cigarettes, stuff our fat little faces and avoid turning into the mall rats whom we both new and Nicole had made out with.  It was at this point that we both should have realized that low standards should not be a life-mantra.  Side note: mall rats more often than not, are stupid little rich kids who think the world doesn't understand them.  In reality, they have every opportunity in front of them.  I have no sympathy for them, but I digress.

Now when we shop as adults it’s different.  We are more cynical, both of us wear less black because as adults we both have realized that silence is the new black, as Nicole eloquently explains it.  We probably are slightly less morbid and don’t go shopping as a cover so our parents don’t see us smoking.  Correction, it was a cover so they wouldn’t see Nicole smoking and me pretending I knew how to inhale (the only thing I knew to inhale at that time was a gallon of ice cream followed by a hot pocket). Another thing we do while shopping is that we pick a store, window shop, start from the men’s section and then work our way down to her favorite, makeup and fragrance.  While I hate shopping generally, I do love people watching and making up stories for the situations one sees in department stores.  Like the bitch who shoves herself into a dress that is 5 sizes too small. When that lady asks the sales person about her look, the response is always some bullshit like, “you look radiant,” while I’m thinking more like Rhino in heels. I love the sales ladies working the make-up counters.  They wear so much makeup that they make look like human claymations.  It’s free entertainment!  Add beer and popcorn I would never leave!

Anyway, back to the story.  The way we “shop’ is Nicole ends up at the makeup counter and gets her face done for free while never intending to buy anything.  We are Russian-Jews and the make-up counter is like a buffet for Russian girls, especially the samples.   Only after the fact do I realize that we single handedly keep the Jewish stereotype alive. She of course, then ends up purchasing one of the items and every time saying “I didn’t even want it, but the makeup girl made it look so damn good.” This happens time and time again in a most predictable fashion.  It’s also coincidentally where we learned about credit debt.  As long as you look pretty who cares though?

As we go up to one of the counters, Nicole is eyeing some hideous Cheetah bag that looks like a hooker had left it behind while running from her pimp. It’s one of those gifts with purchase.  Nicole’s taste in fashion is pretty great even though I love to make fun of it. Nicole’s fashion is a hybrid of Anna Nicole Smith’s hair, may she rest in peace, Betsy Johnson’s randomness and a Sex in the City’s accessories all mixed together with a love of animal prints (something passed on from Russian mothers to their daughters).  As I am trying to pull Nicole away from the glass case with that ugly bag that looks like it must have been made to carry cocaine, a rather large Jewie looking man comes up to us.

This Jewie dude is dark, round, tall and fuzzy like a tennis ball, with chest hair that pokes over his HUGE gold star of David which was covered in diamonds as it’s nestled in his large man-breast cleavage. It is so large that one’s eye can’t help but stare at his cleavage.  First thought is that maybe he works there.  He doesn’t have a name-tag on but is well dressed.  Second guess is that he is just a shopping feend.  Then I notice once the way the people working around the counters around us all of a sudden seem to be working, cleaning and fake-smiling, so maybe he’s a boss?  Actually, he is behind both of us, trapping me by holding one of my shoulders. I want to yell for poor Nicole to leave me and save herself, but I am only too late. Both Nicole and I pause, looking at each other to see if either of us knows him. I then responded to the tap with an awkward grin and a “Hello.” He then introduced himself as Michel, from Israel. Michel explains how he has known me from his favorite bar and will love to treat us to whatever fragrance we like. My mouth dropped. I have never been recognized like that before. It’s like being a celebrity. He manages the whole fragrance section, or at least that’s what I think he says.  He has a heavy Israeli/Frenchish accent (the two are so similar) and used the sound “ahhhh” a lot to show he’s describing stuff.  He takes us to a VIP spot of the store where he then offers Nicole a large sample of her favorite perfume “Sunflowers”. Being the poor college students that we are, we jump at this freebie opportunity. In all honesty, college students or not, anything free we go crazy for.  As Michel begins to compliment Nicole on her lovely skirt they both begin to talk Jew. They talk about what synagogues they have gone to. They then shift to the different symbols, he has on his neck and she has tattooed on her bosom.  They are the epitome of the modern Jew.

I then start to daydream the way I do in every math class I have ever taken, which is why I got straight Cs in that subject. I start to think about how I have always wanted to be the famous people I read about in “Okay” magazine. I want to be in the middle of a crowed clubs, at all the hottest parties, with the hottest women, men and paparazzi just trying to get a glimpse. The public keeps trying to figure me out, like who I’m dating, why I didn’t show up for my Barbara Walters interview.  I will be bigger than anyone prior.  I mean larger.  I actually mean famous and not larger, not that there is anything wrong with that.  I just have put so much effort in being thinner and don’t want to lose momentum.  My name could be on billboards. I won’t be able to stand inside of a Macy’s because I will get mauled by people wanting to take photos, just to get a peak of me. I will be working on my new album titled “Tender Yiddishy Lovin,” after my latest blockbuster as a young pop-sensation. Because I would be so famous, I will be asked to speak for lobbyist groups on various things to the public and Congress. BradJolina and I will have to work together even though we argue so much over little things and have a sound off on twitter for no reason. This is because as a famous person, my opinion matters, does in fact count and make a difference. Even if my points in interviews and speeches are redundant and moronic, that won’t matter because I’m famous.  I will be more than just a number on the U.S. census. I will have a charity in my name, which brings back art back to under privileged communities. People will be speculating about my sex life. “Is he gay or straight?” They will ask on the covers of the magazines at the check out counter. I will be linked from every Hollywood hussy to every hot leading man and keep them guessing. In my “E True Hollywood Story,” they will interview random teachers from my high school days who barely remember yesterday, but of course remember me. They will talk about how I stood out even as a child. They will interview other celebs about my crazy party boy habits. I will be known for making a mark at every event. I will have a hired cigarette lighter for when I go on tour even though I don’t smoke or know my talent.  Paris Hilton will be one of those interviewed, talking about how she thinks that I am out of control and crying for help, from Mikonos to Miami Beach. This, right before my production company makes me leave my hit television series to attend rehab for pain killers that I take from Robert Downy Jr. I will be the envy of all those who didn’t give me a second thought. Until now, I have spent my life in what has felt like an invisibility cloak, going unnoticed. Now I am the person everyone notices and wants to know. I will be empowered. It will be amazing. I will have a house in every major city then, move to London because I am simply too cool for the United States. In London, I will of course develop a quasi-Americano-British accent like Madonna. I will be the envy of so many. Then I, too, will matter.

My dreaming is quickly interrupted. Nicole is tapping my shoulder trying to secretly ask me to save her from having to keep talking to this Michel. It’s one of our nonverbal cues we have for one of us to save the other. We soon leave with bags of loot. Michel gave us mounds of various makeup and fragrance goodies. It’s almost like the bags that celebrities get at the Emmies.

That night, after that most interesting day of window-shopping complimented with a free gift bag, I have a feeling that something bad is going to happen.  I ignore that feeling the way a city person learns to ignore the homeless guy who sleeps near their dumpster. When I get to work I am greeted by the doorman, Richie who is watching the bar’s entryway.  He is walking a rather large gentleman out of the door. By walking out I mean that the doorman is hugging this larger guy, keeping his arms restrained and essentially pushing him through the door. This guy is sloshed to say the least. He slurs loud and keeps telling the door guy “Honey, I love you, why you no love me? I give you gift?” The voice sounds familiar, but I am not sure from where. This moment is disarray. As the doorman nudges him outside, the man falls straight onto his face. When he is picking himself up, I realized that it is good old Michel. I feel bad for the poor drunk who just hours earlier was so nice to me, but really can’t help him and am running late for my shift. I leave him there and ask the Richie to take care of the guy.

The irony in this whole event is that, a few minutes after he is carried out of our bar for being too drunk they try to poor Michel in a cab. I could have sworn they got him into one too.  I assume that cab took him home.  It actually just stopped a block later and let him out in front of another bar.  After about 10 -15 minutes, there is a new crowd in the bar and new drunks to be kicked out. Poor Michel is soon forgotten. He then proceeds to stumble half a block away into another bar, which for some reason doesn’t seem to notice how sloshed the poor guy is.  They do though have no problem giving him yet even more alcohol. I later find out that after chugging his shot and leaving that bar, some random unknown man comes up to Michel. This is all happening in front of the bar, which is a block from mine. Right outside on a busy weekend night where the street is filled with people out. This man starts yelling at him for being what he calls a “damned faggot,” according to Michel, then proceeds to beat the living day lights out of Michel’s face. Michel is hospitalized for 3 weeks after getting gay bashed right in front of that other gay bar.   It takes 10 minutes for someone to call the police, even though there are several onlookers walking down the street. This all happens in front of a bar known for over pouring their patrons and not being keen to legal constraints.  Yet, for some reason, none of the drunken fools remain for police questioning. There are no witnesses. How can something like this happen in the middle of a crowded street, in San Francisco of all places and NOTHING is done?