The East Village used to be littered with heroin junkies. They amuse me greatly.
Gentrification has swept them all away. Well, not all.
On the N train yesterday, a woman enters with a container of ice cream: vanilla with red raspberry sauce all over it. I smile at her. "Happy Holidays," she says to me, drowsylike.
When they greet you on the subway, something is up.
The woman sits down and immediately nods off. Her ice cream tips, nearly falling onto the floor of the subway car. She practically falls onto the floor she's leaning so impossibly far forward. Somehow, she doesn't.
Minutes later, she rights herself, and begins to slowly, woozily lick at her ice cream. Then she falls into another nod. Down, down, down she sinks...
The ice cream plops onto the floor, kerplunk! but she still holds onto the container. Raspberry goo falls out and drizzles all over the spilled vanilla. It looks like blood. A minute later she wakes up and notices the spilled ice cream.
"Oh shit," she mumbles and slowly she bobs down trying to scoop it back into the container, but whoa. She's overtaken by another nod.
Down, down, down she goes. So deep, so lovely.
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