December 24, 1989

In my haste to escape the stifling presence of that asshole Roger, a flyer catches my eye.

That's all it is, really; some struggling performance artist is protesting something – the flyer says "Save Our Homes," so I infer that she was fucking her landlord and suddenly he turned into an asshole. Or, more plausibly, she got sick of him, dumped him, and had to pay rent. I can relate. My landlord… well, let's not go there. Free rent relies on my smuggling myself into his apartment late at night, breath bated every time a door creaks. Terrified that his wife will walk in, I have to make myself practically invisible.

Invisible? Me. Ha! I can't walk down the street without being ogled.

So this flyer ends up literally flying into my face, and as I peel it off of my face, I examine it. Maureen Johnson. Over The Moon. In tiny print on the bottom, it thanks Mark Cohen, who I am fairly certain lives in my building. It's a common name, but I'm pretty sure that his is the name it says on the broken buzzer for – what floor? Oh, god. It's Roger's apartment, isn't it?

Wait, so that ties in this actress to a man who ties in with Roger, who ties into me.

What is this, six fucking degrees of seperation? I just need something to do.

It's decided. I'm going. It's three hours from now, which gives me time, but time isn't really something I want right now. I want to have fun. I want to run somewhere far, and from Christopher and Bleeker – the place where I always buy groceries, because they are so cheap here that I can spend three bucks on food for a week (which isn't saying much, considering stereotypes of dancers like myself, but I'm not anorexic, I'm not) – the Eleventh Street lot is pretty far. I set off at a run, the flyer balled up in my hand.

When I get there, oh, god, perfect. As if I weren't exhilirated enough from having run all that way, I meet the eyes of him. My dealer. I don't know his name, nor he mine, though he calls me "Kid" and sometimes asks if he should be carding me. I tell him to go fuck himself, and he watches me as I pass, my hips swaying. Of course, this is not what happens now. Now, I silently approach him and extend my hand expectantly. "Hey," I mutter, unfazed by the passing policemen who have eyes only for the donuts clasped in their gloved hands.

"Hey," he growls back to me. "You're flushed. Just fucked?"

I just hand him the money. He can be perverted, but he is, in his own way, almost friendly. Certainly friendlier than – oh, fuck.

It's Roger, of course. I grumble something and try to make my exit, the packet of heroin warming my hands, but of course this obsessive-compulsive asshole will hear none of it. "Hey," he says, and I respond identically. He looks put out, and I want to push past him and leave, but he insists upon having a conversation. Before I know it, well, yes, he transforms into the Artist Extraordinaire that I knew he was when I first met him. His cigarette puffs smoke out at me, his attitude glaring at me from his eyeliner, but I don't mind. He's cute. He's hot. He's sexy. And he's kind of sweet. Certainly more sweet than Benny is. God. Benny.

Then comes his offer, for a date. I accept, because I assume I won't have to pay, and that means preserving more of my three-dollar groceries. Besides, it's hard to look away from his eyes and his half-smile. So I let him lead me into the room, some big performance space with an elevated platform and a crowd of people – some cops, some homeless people in their tents that are trying to block out the noise, and a good deal of deliberate viewers.

I'm not really a big fan of art. Sure, I like to dance, but the rest of it can be boring. Some amateur actress normally wouldn't appeal to me, except I know about motives, and I know that if she has a purpose, if this is a protest, it isn't art: it's self-expression. That, I have no problem with. That, I can get into, because with every kick and twirl I do over at the Catscratch, I'm lashing out at everyone. Mama and the others from back home, Benny and the others who have treated me like a whore, and assholes like Roger who pretend to want romance when they really want sex.

Wait, what am I thinking?

But my thoughts are interrupted, because a low growling roar of a motorcycle jolts me out of my pondering. All of a sudden, too-bright lights are in my eyes, blinding me temporarily. This is Maureen. This is the artist. This is the girl who gets cops and groupies and – is that Benny back there? Well, just fuck all. He comes to see me at the Catscratch, too, just to grab my ass and try to pull me into the crowd so he can screw me against the wall.

Again, I stop thinking, because suddenly there is a story onstage. It's cheap, and it's bad – a tale of a spoon and a cow and a bulldog. But jumping over the moon? I want to do that sometimes, too. Not to reach my dreams, because I don't have any; I want to jump over the moon to achieve ecstacy and utter joy. I want that perfect moment of the cold needle, of the hot liquid pouring through my veins, and oh god, I just can't focus now, can I? Fuck. Roger's going to want me to meet her later, and I'll have to say something. That was good? No, no. I can relate?

As it turns out, I don't meet her until we are at the Life Café, Roger and Collins and Angel and I. Angel keeps an arm on my shoulder, and I am comforted as snow pours into my hair and looks like dandruff. I hope Roger knows what it is, because dandruff is just gross, and on dark hair it looks even more fucked up.

It is a quick meeting, my introduction to Maureen, because everyone is being shoved into the doors of the Life Café. We are freezing and we want the lukewarm environment, its temperature cranked up by everyone's presence and the fact that, as Roger warns me, "there will be table-dancing." I laugh, but I have had my fair share of table-dancing in the past, and I know how amazing it can be. Better than sex, because boyfriends are fine, but friends are on a completely different level.

"Hi," I say to Maureen as we all squeeze into the tight entrance of the restaurant. "I'm Mimi."

She nods to me, almost curtly, certainly distractedly, before she double-takes and sees Roger's arm around me. I guess she didn't expect to see Roger with a girl. Well, I know how she feels. I didn't expect to see Roger with a girl after the way he yelled at me, and I sure didn't expect that that girl would be me. But I just blush as Maureen laughs. "Hi," she replies. "I'm Maureen. You're Roger's girl? Good luck."

I laugh. Roger punches her, but I just laugh.

"Talented and funny," I tease. "Ditzy?"

Roger snorts. "Oh, very," he assures me. "I knew her all through high school, believe me."

So as it turns out, my distraction is not so strong after all, because by the end of the evening, I have a new friend, and each of us is wearing the other's shoes as we walk to our respective apartments tonight.