Saturday, December 18, 2004
It’s 33 degrees with a wind chill factor of 30, I am shivering, and I can already start to see the icicles forming on my individually placed pomade-lathered strands of hair. Merino wool is not as warm as I had presumed.
Then I clench it between my fingers. And like that first vodka tonic, a wave of almost supernatural heat rushes from my hand throughout my body, warming and revitalizing my every inch. The source–my voucher. Oh yes, the voucher–my solace after an 18 hour day, my saviour–even better than an MD sponsored lap-dance at Scores.
I can already see myself inside, laughing at the hoi polloi walking to their subways and taking their yellow taxis. I can already feel the cheap leather I pretend is expensive massaging my aching buttocks. I can hear myself commanding the driver in his cute black uniform as if he were the pool boy at my parents cottage in East Hampton. It’s my own little paradise.
Too bad there are f*ing 15 people in line in front of me.