{"id":112109,"date":"2017-06-27T17:04:36","date_gmt":"2017-06-27T21:04:36","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=112109"},"modified":"2017-06-27T17:27:49","modified_gmt":"2017-06-27T21:27:49","slug":"starting-out-in-the-evening","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/06\/27\/starting-out-in-the-evening\/","title":{"rendered":"Starting Out in the Evening"},"content":{"rendered":"
<\/a>

Photo: Dan McCoy, NARA, 1973.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Years ago, a psychic of some sort told me that the top of my head was open, that I had a WELCOME<\/small> mat where a locked door ought to be, and I should be careful: any passing or wandering spirits could just drift in and make themselves at home. It felt like that last night. Partly in terms of psychic disturbance, \u00a0getting too many signals from too many stations\u2014but also because everyone on the street wants to tell me something.\u00a0<\/p>\n

I took a bus over to Avenue B.<\/p>\n

There was a very dignified East Indian man sitting in front of me. When we were crossing Sixth Ave, he turned around and looked at me very seriously.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat can you tell me about bedbugs?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know \u2026 bedbugs. What do they look like?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not sure \u2026 Do you have bedbugs?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIf I show you a picture, will you know?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cProbably not.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat is not really satisfactory,\u201d he frowned. \u201cThey are biting me. But mostly my wife.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo that\u2019s lucky for you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d he grinned. \u201cI am always lucky.\u201d<\/p>\n

And then he got off the bus.<\/p>\n

Five minutes later, I was wandering through Stuyvesant Town looking for the Oval.<\/p>\n

I asked a man wearing a windbreaker.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s across the street,\u201d he said. \u201cYou won\u2019t find it. I\u2019ll show you.\u201d<\/p>\n

We crossed the street together.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo I seem jittery?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot really.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m all wound up,\u201d he said. \u201cDo you know what I just did? I just bought half a million shares in medical marijuana. Penny stocks. Less than that. Each one\u2019s a fraction of a penny. The whole thing cost me a hundred dollars. And you know it\u2019ll go up! If I can sell them at five bucks a share that\u2019s more than two million dollars. I never win the football pool. This seems like a better bet. When I leave the postal service\u00a0in five years\u00a0time, this\u2019ll get me through.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou work for the post office?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI love the post office,\u201d I told him.<\/p>\n

\u201cMe too.\u201d And he pointed me toward the Oval and walked off.<\/p>\n

I left the Oval after an hour. I just missed the Fourteenth Street bus, and I was lazy, so I hailed a taxi.<\/p>\n

Near Avenue A, the driver pointed out the window and muttered something that sounded obscene.<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t respond.\u00a0He gave me a look.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy do they eat donkey?\u201d he asked. \u201cIt\u2019s disgusting.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWho eats donkey?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAll these places.\u201d He pointed to the caf\u00e9s and restaurants all along Fourteenth. \u201cYou think it\u2019s beef, lamb. It\u2019s donkey. Disgusting.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow do you know?\u201d<\/p>\n

He spat out the window.<\/p>\n

\u201cI am Egypt. I know. I<\/em> know!<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n

He was quiet for a moment, then he spat again.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd these girls. They are sexy, no? So sexy! But they are disgusting. I am Egypt,\u201d he said. \u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Brian Cullman is a writer and musician living in New York City.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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