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Venus envy | page 1, 2
I stood on the corner for a good 45 minutes and watched the activity. A truck drove by and sprayed water on the streets to create a post-rain appearance. Three 10-year-olds waited anxiously nearby clutching paper and pens, presumably for autographs. Their mother, who grasped the leash of a west highland terrier, tried to schmooze one of the production assistants, to no avail. Hewitt was nowhere in sight. How long could I wait to see those perky breasts? I mean, this was something I could tell my grandchildren about: I saw the perfect, perhaps cosmetically enhanced breasts of an aspiring superstar. At the same time, I had completed a 10-hour workday and was just plain tired. Love my breasts, I began chanting internally. Touch them. Feel them. Love them. PAs temporarily relocated me while they dismantled some boards they had mounted on the side of a building. The signs were plastered with posters and scrawled upon with graffiti to make them look all gritty and urban and shit. I found it amusing that they had to make a street corner in the East Village look gritty. There are plenty of places in New York City that need no decoration. I chatted with one of the PAs, a younger guy, while he pulled down the posters. I told him I was there to see perfect breasts. He said, "You really think they're perfect?" I said, "Perfect, cosmetically enhanced breasts." "Aw, that's not fair," he said. "The minute someone gets famous, they say, 'She has fake breasts,' or, 'He's gay.'" I hadn't the heart to tell him "they" were usually right. Instead I said, "Fair enough. Perfect breasts, then." "Well, actually, they're not bad," he said and laughed. "I'm sure," I said. They cranked up some huge lights on either corner of Third, and then another set farther down towards Lafayette. People started to gather on the street corner. We all just stood around, waiting for something to happen. We could sense the impending presence of greatness, or some crap like that. I chatted with a scruffy NYU student who was smoking a butt nearby. "Are you here to see the breasts, too?" I said. "I'm just chilling, taking a break. I don't even know who it's supposed to be." I explained that we were awaiting the arrival of an international pop singing sensation, television star and horror movie princess. "Huh," he said. "I don't have a television set, so I don't know who she is." And then I asked him to marry me. No, I didn't do that, but I did smile at him warmly. Finally she arrived and shot her scene, and wouldn't you just know it? She wore a jacket. No breasts for this fan. No, not tonight. I bid my compadre farewell and headed home. On Sixth Street, I ran into two of my co-workers, returning from their weekly volunteer session at an art program for homeless teens. They were glowing from their good efforts and intentions. I told them what I had witnessed, and they told me they had no idea who Hewitt was. I then realized, as I tend to do about once a day, that I was an asshole. They invited me to join them for a drink in Soho, but I declined and shuffled onward. When I entered my apartment, I immediately went to the bathroom. I pulled up my shirt, camisole and bra, and stared at my breasts. I pinched my nipples until they were hard. I looked for a minute more, and then covered myself. Perfect.
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