Two Changes

Sunday Morning, 3AM, 28th Street, Chelsea

I am walking next to two black women. They are very, very tall, WNBA tall. And they are amazing looking. Elaborate hairdos, swept up, with some kind of blingy looking pins. Stylish glittery dresses under faux-fur coats. With all that glamour, all that height, here on 28th Street at 3AM, I decide that they are definitely trannies, probably leaving some event at Crobar where they likely were door hostesses.

And then I hear their voices. Their voices are high, delicate, feminine. One makes a joke and when they both laugh I am reminded of the tinkling of fine stemware.

And so I change my mind about these two.

All three of us arrive at the corner of 10th Avenue together, where there is the usual late-night polyglot of limos, town cars and taxis, but all spoken for at the moment. We wait for a change of the traffic light to bring another wave of taxis. But before that happens, a toothless homeless man with an uncontrolled spray of pigtails launches himself out of the doorway of the corner bodega and runs up to the two women, who are standing next to me in the street.

With his hands in the pockets of his filthy coat, the man does a deranged dance around the women, shouting over and over again, "I lub yo' weeb! I lub yo' weeb!" I am just deciphering that into "I love your weave!" when one of the women whirls around on the man.

Now her voice is gravel-filled, it's rough, it's five octaves lower, and she bellows, "You better STEP yo' rank, smelly, ODB teethin', Coolio-hairin', garbage can wearin', skanky ass the FUCK back from me, nigga!"

And so I change my mind about these two.

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