It’s so much easier to watch from across the street, you don’t have to pretend that you’re not. Three parties: The victim. The victimizer. The witness. He’s a big, tall, burly man; a thick blanket of white hair sits on his head, he tugs at the leash with distaste, disregard, hate. He walks fast, with a purpose. I can’t see his face from across the street; well, more like I can’t get an accurate understanding of his eyes as I keep missing them. They stay set directly in front of him or darting down and shooting bullets at It. “It,” is a beautiful, coffee-colored mutt, mid-size, and in complete terror of him. I can’t distinguish if it’s a male or female, as its’ tail remains wrapped between its legs protecting itself with the sheer will to survive. The witness: the couple who remain a few feet behind, walking briskly in chase of him and it. She’s furious. Her pace matches his set, tense, hate-filled energy; her partner just behind, trying to catch up.
“I am the assistant to the assistant of the richest man in New York City.” This statement grabs our attention with a whip. The moment we hear “richest” anything, people generally go into Ga-ga land. And I don’t mean Lady. I think Maggie knows this and so decides to keep going. She’s got us, and why not, it’s a fascinated story.
Donna walks into the living room as if she’s more of a stranger than I am to this group. I beg to differ. I glance around in search of how it is that I got here…Oh, right, I know Tina, and her sister, and then there’s Chris, Tina’s sister’s husband. Regardless, I’m the new kid on the block. I win. Donna darts her eyes around the room in a high strung manner; a look of, “Oh, god, I hate these situations.” There’s something in me that actually appreciates her truth. It is difficult to walk into a space and come across as, “Hey, it’s all cool, I do this all the time.” And I guess we do, it’s just that most of us don’t get better with time.