I Do Not Love New York
"When I mooved to Rockaway, I hadtuh start all over," went the loudest voice on the promenade from a too tan, too scattered to look me in the eye artist colonist.
"I mean, you're thinkin' 'Rockaway's not far from Brooklyn,' right?" No pause. "But it's far enough, lemme tell ya."
Her voice descends as a train whistle through a tunnel. I see a walkway along piss-ridden water - not green like the Manistee in spring - and I'm told by my dancer friend, this is the best of Brooklyn. I'm hungover at 25, hoping the smell stays put.
"So you're probably just judgmental, that's what you are," as she steals the last donut. "That's why you don't know anyone."
Lady, it's like I told you: I'm from Michigan.