Settling Down in
New York
by Albert Russo
We’re in Nuuu woowoo
Yawwwk, and more precisely in downtown Manhattan,
and more preciselier still, in Soho.
Unky Berky doesn’t
stop warning me: “Walk like you know the
place ... don’t gawk like a tourist ... don’t
smile at people ... put on your fiercest Parisian
look, you know how to do that very well, and no
one will bother you ... keep your list of
addresses with you at all times ... where did you
put the phone card I bought you? ... and let me
see if the whistle is well hooked to your
necklace ... “ etc. etc.
Coz I must tell you, my
uncle has forced me to wear this stoopid mini
whistle as a pendant in case someone tries to
molest me, as if the cops had nothing better to
do than to rescue little Esmée from the claws of
a ninny psychopath - he sees one in every third
person that crosses my path (hey, I’m a poet).
You’d think he was my private body guard,
except that he looks more like a stray Santa
Claus, wrapped up in his crimson foddered duffle
coat, his winter bonnet and his lama scarf. 20
degrees fair’n heart ain’t
exactly the tropics, but I don’t mind since
we’re in Nuuu Yawk and only a few days off
Christmas when it’s supposed to be snowing.
People surely won’t
confuse me with Claudie Stiffer, more with an
otter, the way I’m dressed, with that
Norwegian hooded anorak and those plushy boots my
mom insisted that I wear. But since I’m not
Cinderella and since I certainly don’t
intend to look for Prince Charming - I stopped
believing in fairy tales the day my mother got
married to that goon of a Firmin - it’s ok
and, wash more, I won’t attract the
attention of psychos.
The Soho loft Uncle Luke
put at our disposal had originally been bought
for Nick, his grandson who’s an artist, but
Nick took his rucksack with him and left for
Hollywood to make a name for himself, hoping to
follow in the footsteps of some of his Italian
American compatriots like John Travolta, Al
Pacino and Robert De Niro. Have you ever heard of
Nick Binetti? Neither have I. Maybe he’s
gone into porn movies, apparently many young folk
do that to earn a fast buck, even when they’re
bright kids who attend college, coz it’s no
longer considered a mortal sin. Did you know that
during the Cannes Film Festival, porn stars
compete for the Hots d’Or? They showed it on
TV, with the girls’ boobs out and some of
the guys’ asses bare. And you should have
seen how proud they all looked, distributing
kisses around like they were gods and goddesses.
It wouldn’t be proper
to ask uncle Luke if that’s what Nick is
doing. He repeats three or four times everything
he udders, not because of alka seltzer’s
disease - which is the same as Old Timer’s
disease -, but because he’s no longer used
to talking to anyone.
Excerpt
2 from ZAPINETTE GOES TO NEW YORK by Albert Russo
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