A Series of Vignettes

Night in New York City

The three young women presented their IDs to the bouncer standing in the doorway. Zanzibar stopped granting admission to the general public at 9 pm. After that, the chic Manhattan restaurant turned into an after-hours bar. Only the elite, dressed mostly in black, filled the trendy night spot.
The bouncer ushered them past the bustling bar, crowded by young ladder-climbers schmoozing scantily-clad flirts. A hostess led them to a table surrounded by black leather ottomans as seats. The room was Asian-inspired – very fung shue – decorated in drastic blues, blacks and bamboo.
Each ordered a drink. A mango mojito for the red head. An aspiring actress, she had a smile that could captivate any casting director or potential suitor. A cosmopolitan for the cute one. Her straight brown hair and big blue eyes made her the embodiment of every man’s girl-next-door fantasy. She had the sexy museum curator look down to a tee. A martini for the prep. Dressed in black from shoulder to shin, the brunette exuded the poise and confidence needed for politics.
They chatted and scanned the plethora of sexy suits as they waited for the server to return. Once they were settled, with drinks in hand, the three friends began their evening of gossip and man watching.


The two had been waiting for what seemed like eternity outside the large stage door. It was unusually cold, but the October night had brought a chill. Normally, they would have never waited so long, if at all, after seeing a show; however, a glance of Hugh Jackman was worth the discomfort of their tight shoes.
The crowd should have dispersed by now; the wait was so long. Yet, it seemed as if the number of pushy fans had grown. A group of Australian tourists clenched cameras and yelled “Oi! Oi!” at the door, hoping their racket would make him exit sooner.
One – the smaller of the two – pushed her way through the anxious crowd and left her taller friend at the back with the camera stretched high. Right as she reached the front, the door opened and Hugh stepped out.
She thrust her playbill toward his hand and committed him to memory. He wore a black baseball cap and tight black t-shirt. She did not notice that his brown pants clashed, she was too mesmerized by his beauty. He handed her the autographed playbill and caught her eye. She smiled.
With a dazed look on her face, she returned to her friend. They left the crowd and started toward the bars of 9th Avenue, still in awe of him. There were no words.


Click, click, click. The sound of her heels hitting the grayed concrete echoed through the tunnel. They call the N and R trains “Never” and “Rarely.” Taking the train back to her hotel, rather than paying a taxi, had seemed a good idea. But that was around 11:30 pm, when she bid her friends goodbye at their stop over an hour ago. She was still waiting for a train.
The young brunette in her clubbing finest – black pants, sequined top, stilettos – stood out among the waiting commuters. The rest were all men, and none looked as if he were returning from a night of posh socializing. Why had she chosen the lowest cut halter in her closet?
She tried to look as if she belonged in the subway at nearly 1:00 am. She attempted a look that said: “Don’t mess with me. I’m one tough bitch… but not lookin’ for trouble either.” She was fooling no one.
Finally, a train rumbled to a halt, and she stepped through the parting doors. When her stop arrived, the train did not slow: night-time construction during off hours. She would have to exit at Times Square.
The bright lights blazed, even at two in the morning; however, there were no tourists in white sneakers snapping pictures. There were no crowds waiting outside Hard Rock or Planet Hollywood. Now the only characters along Broadway were drunken tourists and those taking advantage of the inebriated. She walked quickly and with purpose.
She recalled that during her first visit to the Big Apple, she had refused to ride the subway after dark, despite the protection of her father. After a decade, she was finally gaining the confidence to maneuver solo throughout the city… even at 2:30 am.


“I’ve never done it before,” she said over the phone in excitement. “Tonight will be my first time. I want it to be perfect.”
The brown-eyed, strawberry blond 21-year old had received countless offers, but the time had never before been right. Tonight she felt ready. She would soon experience physical sensations beyond anything she had ever felt. Nothing would ruin her night.
She wore her peach Marilyn Monroe-inspired dress (with no underwear), pearls and her killer stilettos. She finally heard the knock she had been anticipating. He smiled when she opened the door. She grabbed her jacket, grasped his hand and laughed flirtingly as she led him to the roof and the crisp autumn night.
She waited anxiously as he prepared. She was ready. Shouts and honking horns from the noisy street below drifted up to them as he passed her the joint.


$.99 pizza drew her from the warmth of the apartment. Wrapped in a heavy wool sweater, she ventured back outside. She still wore the denim skirt and strappy sandals from her earlier evening out with the girls. Goose bumps covered her legs. Only two blocks to the 24-hour pizza stand.
She passed a group of men on the corner.
“Oooooh baby!”
“Shake it, sweetheart!”
“Heeeeey, sugar!”
She ignored their remarks.
She crossed the street and ordered a plain slice. The pizza guy handed her a flimsy paper plate, already saturated by the pizza’s grease. She took a bite, unable to wait the three minute journey home to taste the cheesy goodness.
As she passed the loitering men, one called: “I’ve got a dignified dick for your civilized c***!”
She did not pause as she continued home, despite the crudeness of the catcall. She was shocked by his rudeness; yet, she supposed, he should get props for creativity.