Frankly, with some, when you come to the table you're already at a disadvantage. "New York?" their eyes narrow, their mouths pucker ever so slightly. "Aren't you a surfer?" they give you the one eye up and down, they turn their body slightly sideways, they physically manifest their newfound distrust in everything you have or ever will tell them. And for that agonizing moment, your insecurity gets the better of you. You even question yourself. Then all the stop gap checks, the emergency breakers kick in and your hackles rise a touch. Then a touch more. Then you are saying something fast and emotive, barfing out all the great reasons why a surfer would want to live in New York, your defensive spittle sidestepping all the reasons stuck behind your molars as to why it is terrible to be a surfer in New York. You talk faster and faster, extolling the virtues, waving the flag, blowing the psychic clarion call for all your fellow New York surfers to join you in the fight. "Send me your strength!" your astral projection simultaneously pleads to the spiritual vibes of your compatriots.
This morning, very early, Brandon came over to take class with my wife. In his hand, a literary gift. I love New York.
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