Dodging a putrid puddle of vagrant’s piss, I walked to the L stop and leaned against the brick wall as I waited for the train to arrive at the platform. There was quite a crowd, excited voices chattering as the weekend finally bloomed before them. Still smoking my cigarette, I felt as alone as I was. It wasn’t that I wanted to talk to them to begin with, the opposite really, but I found it aggravating that they didn’t want to talk to me. I preferred to be the one doing the rejecting rather than being rejected, so I kept quiet, not wanting someone to get the impression that I was trying to engage and find it necessary to brush me off. Plus, people mostly frustrated me with their overthinking and underdoing. I liked being alone anyway.

The train ride to Towertown was full of giggling. A gaggle of cheery dames sat behind me, tittering and tattling about what their night was going to bring, and all I could think about was how disappointed they were going to be when they realized the fellas they would be seeing wouldn’t be into their type. It was strange that the pansy parlors were still popular with the straight-laced suburban types. It really was illuminating how boring being boring was.

Disembarking from the L, I walked fast toward The Gallery on State, suddenly craving the shiny lightness that swirled around the space, a beacon of hope in an otherwise dark night. I wished I liked it less, that I could be one of the guys who would fight not to get a Towertown establishment on my rounds, that I could be different than I was.

No matter how many times I walked through the discreet entry of The Gallery, I never stopped being in awe of what a savvy son of a bitch Abraham Walters was. Abe probably never leaned against a wall and wished he’d become one of the bricks. The belle relished in the attention that was poured over him, and in return, he showered his group of bitches with similar affection. The Gallery fizzed and sparkled with passion, be it toward life or one’s fellow man. The place was alive—a living, breathing, rising and falling tit-less chest.

When I walked through the door, security fell back at my stride, understanding who I was and the importance of my visit. I couldn’t deny that I liked the power, the value. It was something I lacked so profoundly in my everyday life, my West Side Story as told by the Russian mob, my family. Ownership of my own life was a fantasy, and my story was a tragedy, or at the very least, a drama.