Place your angle of vision under a coffee table in a doctor’s waiting room. Let’s assume it’s an upscale, upper East Side place with Mies Van der Rohe chrome and leather banquettes. Let’s make the carpeting a Silva Bruns design. Not a familiar name? All right, change it to the ubiquitous Stark smart check or tweed. Better? You do read Architectural Digest, don’t you? There are shoes. Gucci, Fiorucci, even one pair with the Oprah-beloved Christian Louboutin red soles. The shoes around this one table represent the GNP of a small Caribbean nation. Beside the shoes are bags. New Yorkers willingly make of themselves beasts of burden toting those tiny blue Tiffany shopping satchels, The Big Brown Bag from Bloomies, accompanying their own assortment of alligator attaches and Louis Vuitton totes.
This is the Upper East Side, remember, so none of these is a knockoff. No purchases from street vendors here. These folks know their stuff. So do I. I’ve been around, baby. I’m a cockroach, but just don’t call me Gregor. That’s such a cliché. None of that existentialistic crap for me. It’s Fat City all the way.
I love to travel. Left the wife in Brooklyn a long time ago. Better off without me and she was getting on my nerves. Porking up after all those kids. Yakety, yak, always something.
So I hitched a ride in Sonja’s handbag --- now there’s one phony Chanel --- and at present I’m hanging out in the townhouse where Sonja is a maid. Money, baby. Nothing but green.
Author’s note: Unfortunately, the remainder of this story exists within one or more notebooks, presently made inaccessible by winter’s whims. I recall adventures in fine dining, mad midnight frolics with sex, drugs, rock and roach, but they will have to wait as a future installment. Nevertheless, having discovered these few paragraphs already written, I felt compelled to submit for the Kafka blog, although the voice is the antithesis of Kafka. Compulsion? Now there’s a topic…
Causes Mara Buck Supports
Kennebec Valley Humane Society, Amnesty International