Imaginary Socialite

Despite the dangers of big city living, New York can feels deceptively safe. People surround you at all times. You never drive. Your drugs have delivery service. It’s all too tranquil.

And then there are times like today, when you go, oh shit. This isn’t as easy as it looks.

I was crossing the street, under some scaffolding. In front of me, a bottle drops from the sky. A broken glass sound, the kind in the movies. Construction workers freeze. A cop starts his siren. A truck driver stops his engine - in the middle of 7th avenue - and climbs into the middle of the street.

“Baby!” he screams, “Oh my god, are you okay? Get in my truck, we’re going to the hospital!”

I can’t feel anything so I look down for blood. But there’s nothing. Some shards by my feet. Some horrified tourists. My iPod on pause. But otherwise, I am the same as I was before. I tell this to the truck driver.

“You were an inch away from dead,” he shakes.

“I was?” I ask. I’m kind of gleeful.

“You should call your mother.” He gets back in his truck. The cop drives away. The tourists scurry. I start to laugh and can’t stop.

Later I buy chocolate chip ice cream, and eat it for lunch, and then for dinner.

[BREE LARSON - AM I THE IMAGINARY SOCIALITE?]

This entry was posted on Friday, April 28th, 2006 at 12:17 am and is filed under My World. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.