2011-10-19 07:06:35 UTC
HERE IT IS:
The only woman in this entire town whom I can relate to, is a mannequin who stands in the window of the boutique on the corner of Madison St. and West Avenue. In moments of dead seriousness, I have contemplated asking her to join me for a cup of coffee, but I don’t think that the shop’s manager, Mr. Petrocelli, would be at all amused by my antics. Besides, she most likely prefers gourmet French roasts with double shots of espresso, an extravagance which I could hardly afford for the two of us this afternoon. I have taken the liberty to name her Alicia Star, a name that suits her avant-garde haughtier and the sad, pensive stare of her skyward gaze. Ms. Star is tragically misplaced on this dreary street corner, her pale visage wed with hope and sorrow. A silken wave of raven black hair drapes the side of her face like a shroud.
I have a sense that Alicia despises the mundane drudge of city life as much as I do. But the storefront modeling gig pays well. It is but one, final inconvenience she must endure before she resigns from this onerous vigil over a murky college town street. The phone by her bed stand (an antiquated, rotary dial phone) waits patiently for the inevitable call from Don Collinsworth, the Hollywood agent whose eye she caught on a trip last summer to Santa Cruz. It is a fiercely kept secret between us that, on that day, she intends to resign without the slightest grace: knocking the clothes racks to the floor, giving the Italian shopkeeper a crude parting gesture, and cramming a gold bead necklace into her purse. A brazen Ms. Star will storm out the front door, turning her back on Madison Street once and for all, the crescendo of her high heels rising in pace with the beating of her heart until, at last, she rests her tired soul in the luster and the lights of Sunset Strip.
A blaring street siren rouses me from my absurd daydream and, as I glance up, amidst the morning fog, the clanging pot of a street urchin jolts me back into the dull sterility of my urban existence. This is my real life: traversing lonely streets, gazing inside vacant shop windows of places that will soon be closing for business, gazing inside crowded cafes, inhaling the rich, toxic fumes of a city bus as it rattles slowly down the street, parting my lips to greet a beautiful stranger just in time for her wayward glance to evade me, passing cold, uptight women in business suits and proud, well dressed men with briefcases and coiffed hair, drifting…drifting..drifting…into the obscure isolation of graduate student life at Redsfield College.