FEELING A LITTLE SINISTER

Ah, what a beautiful, slow morning. The sun is bright and warm. Distinctive hints of the end of summer are hidden in the air: a slightly cooler breeze, a soft, earthy smell, longer shadows at midday. I am sitting on a bench in the little park at the corner of Spring and Mulberry streets, and I’m watching kids play on a plaything almost big enough to house them. There is water spraying from a fountain nearby. There are supervising parents and nannies all around. The first leaves are starting to loosen their grip on the branches and some have fallen onto the cobblestones and small puddles of water. This seems to be the closest to experiencing the innocence of children playing in a wooded stream while living in a city of urban filth, cold walls, and honking taxi drivers. What more could one ask for?

How about a raunchy looking French girl in a mini-shirt pushing a baby stroller towards my bench?

Just now the French girl moves from her bench on the other side of the park and sits down at the other end of mine. I know that she is French because she makes it known to me by speaking French a little too loud to the two children she is watching, and because she is not pretty. She reminds me of a hasty impressionist painting of a peasant girl worn by years of fieldwork in the countryside. She is young, no more than 25. But her eyes are tightly sewn at their outer edges into crow’s feet. Her skin is youthful, and sun damaged. Her nose, hastily constructed. She is waiting for me to take notice of her, formally. She is instructing the two children, obviously not hers for she would want to play with them, not me, to stay close to her but not too close.

I find myself feeling a little sinister.

I think she shall be my sacrificial lamb. I will ask this French peasant girl out. I am not romantically interested in her. I am merely practicing for the real thing. I am building up strength and courage to ask someone else, someone not so French and not so peasant-like.

One of the two little girls runs by me.

“She’s very cute!” I use the most sincere voice I could.

“She’s too much to handle.” This French girl’s English isn’t bad. It actually sounds nice, in that sexy, foreign, French way. “But they aren’t mine. I’m a nanny.”

“Well, it looks like enjoyable work. Playing with kids, going to the park, taking walks. That’s a good living.” She explains that she’s in New York on vacation.

“You’re working while on vacation?”

“Yes, because it is a long vacation. I leave back to Paris next week.”

Perfect. No chance of running into her again.

“So, we should go out! I’ll treat you and your friends to a farewell night out!”

“Oh…”

“It’ll be fun! Where do you like to go? What do you like to do?”

“Ah, well…”

“What’s your number? Well, then, here’s mine. Saturday good?”

“You know, I’ll have to think about it. Thank you.”

Think about it? Didn’t she just walk her ass, pushing that baby stroller, across the entire park just to sit next to me? Wasn’t she just talking her French all loud and shit, saying “Oh petite Marie, wah-wah-waah-wah”? Didn’t she just do that? And now she has to think about it?

Bitch.


(There is a favorite quote of mine: “A man on a date always wonders if he'll get lucky. The woman already knows.” Yet, there is even a harsh sting from a rejection hoped for.)



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