Chapter 71

Nothing is more abjectly pathetic than returning to your home alone late in Manhattan. It is the Walk of Shame flip-flopped, scissor turns of hindsight at every corner. Did I present as that subservient to Chaz, alluring only as a Gal Friday?

Bunches of jittery people are lighting cigarettes, smoking cigarettes, extinguishing cigarettes outside a brasserie. They’re like the unavoidable perfume spritzers at Bloomingdale’s. I cross the street to avoid them. A man with no legs, pants bound above the knee with twisty ties, rattles a container at me. I ignore him.

“Ooooh, he’s shy! That’s it. You’re Shyguy,” he mocks.

I whirl around. “No goddamn legs, and you call me a name?” I bellow hoarsely. “Get a really thin dog if you want to make money begging, Stumps!”

His taunting, cracked lips turn to fearful, wide eyes. It’s a low moment when you misdirect wrath at two-thirds of a person who’s probably been victimized before. He can’t run, so I do, feeling incredibly foolish.