Two, maybe three in the afternoon. The G-string-clad ass of a Thai waitress throwing out a bag of trash parades past the front window. Inside, greasy faded tablecloths cling to white plastic tables, where cirrhotic old men sit in the company of giggling whores, hunched over steaming, stinking bowls of soup. They talk, they yell, and the clinking of spoons shatters their words into a thousand crazed syllables. Behind them a collection of shabbily-dressed adipocytes wearing baseball caps and vacant stares decorate the bar. They flip through newspapers on those awful, overstuffed stools upholstered in thick green plastic that’s slowly creeping in between their cheeks. I look at them. If it’s true that life can burn you, then these guys have been third-degree scorched. Half of them have all the prerequisites to become card-carrying alcoholics. The other half already are. They look happy. I have no doubt they are. The walls of this joint ooze curry. The air is yellow. Breathing is a struggle. The lungs’ only respite comes from the virgin oxygen molecules that the revolving door to my right sucks in from the outside and spits out diluted among the tables. In the middle of the room, on a shelf screwed to one of two load-bearing pillars, is a TV. Big. On. Like always. The screen is filled with obscene characters, willing to sell themselves on an afternoon talk show for a shred of publicity. The volume is low, but not low enough to obscure the chattering of an ex-Playboy Bunny, sharing the experience of motherhood with a contrived look on her face. “My life used to be nothing but parties and rich boyfriends.” Cut to the audience. Close-up of the ex-Bunny. “For years I was a slave to alcohol and cocaine.” Brief pause, sob, then a large, Hollywood tear followed by a hug from the host. Applause from the audience. “Sorry. Then a year and a half ago I got pregnant, and today I’m the mother of a wonderful girl named Marilyn. Hi, Marilyn!” Applause. General laughter, and a quick shot of a Botox-laden fifty-year-old woman forcing out a tight-lipped smile. God what a show. More applause. Might as well call the place Silicone Valley, because the stuff seems to be everywhere. “Motherhood has taught me what really matters in life. So now, even if I spend my days at home in my nightgown changing little Marilyn’s diapers, I’m happy. I’ve got it all. Y’all might not be able to understand.” Christ Almighty, do I understand. I understand that my grandmother must have been a genius. A life spent breaking her back in the fields, a war, and five children by the age of twenty-three. Her richest boyfriend: my grandfather, the great apostle of poverty. On their wedding day, he told her at the altar, “Lou, today hunger and thirst are tying the knot.” Somehow my grandmother had always just known that children are important, and drugs are no recipe for happiness – if she even knew what “drugs” were. But maybe that was just my grandmother. A genius. I sit at the table beside the front window, wedged between the glass and the hall stand piled high with coats. My back literally against the wall. A damp wall, soaked in little drops of condensation that jerkily make their way down. First they accelerate, then suddenly hit the brakes. For no apparent reason. Friction and gravity don’t seem to apply in here. It’s comfortable in that corner, I feel protected. From this position I could observe people. I like watching them, always have. In college, between classes, I used to sit on the steps in the back of the room and watch my classmates. They would talk, and I would observe. I’d study their movements, nervous ticks, the way they spoke. By the end of the semester I’d given them all nicknames: Tata, Elvis, Fonzie, Dustin, The Water, Tutankhamen, The Fly. Those classes and classmates are long gone now, but I’m still watching. Sitting at the table next to mine is a couple in their forties. He’s balding with a combover, she’s a toothless hag. The man has calloused hands, with motor oil residue so firmly encrusted that his prints seem tattooed on his fingers. Shopping bags full of presents squeezed tightly between their legs. Maybe clothes. Maybe not. I can’t help observing them: they don’t have a shred of grace. Not in their eating, their movements, their speaking. The more I look at them, the more I’m convinced that the masses are ugly. Ugly like the woman smoking in front of the TV set. Faded dyed-blonde hair, long toenails with black polish, fingernails eaten away. Yes, the masses are ugly. The bald guy is sweating. It drips down his neck and under his shirt collar. His dame smiles at him, her teeth few and far between. Now I’ve lost my appetite. I turn back toward the street. The waitress is returning. As I gaze admiringly at that shapely Asian ass, my attention is suddenly drawn to the sidewalk on the other side of the street. With motherly concern, a pregnant girl is tightening a tie-off around her arm. And while a little boy, excited by the sight of a PlayStation in a toy store window, tugs at his mother’s arm, the pregnant girl extends hers. In the midst of urban indifference, it’s Christmas Eve. The most incredible reality show there is, streaming live, 24 hours a day. No pay-per-view here. And today I have a front-row seat. The girl’s vein is dilating, and I still don’t have my beer. “Waiter, my beer.” I ordered it twenty minutes ago. The Indian waiters are helpful and efficient, but they just can’t get it into their thick, greasy skulls that a customer on the verge of depression has certain priorities. In cases like this, ordering a beer is like a call for help: it can’t wait. Immediate intervention required. “Here’s your beer, sir. Would you like anything else?” “Huh?” “Anything else, sir, would you like anything else?” “Quiet,” I say. “Quiet?” Moving my index finger toward my mouth, I signal for him to shut his mouth. “Well …” The waiter begins, but I cut him off, in a whisper. “Stop talking, the show is about to begin.” The waiter tosses the towel over his shoulder and takes his place behind the bar. He glares at me, then, shaking his head, starts drying glasses again. The young mother fingers the syringe. She eyes it, flicks at it, holding it right in front of her face. She wants to be sure there’s no air inside, wants to see a drop - not too much, of course - emerge from the needle’s tip. Then, ever so slightly, she smiles. It’s going to be a very pleasant trip. Her vein is nice and swollen, and she caresses it briefly with the needle. Her mouth moves. She’s talking to her unborn child, an addict like her despite his unpricked arms. “I can’t hear, I can’t hear,” I cry out. Several people look over at me. I want to hear what the girl is saying. How do you raise the world’s volume? The chili pepper I swallow makes my eyes tear up, and the woman’s outline is momentarily distorted. “Fucking Chicken Tikka Masala!” I slam the fork down on my plate, defiantly returning the strangers’ stares. They immediately turn away. I don’t want to miss the climax. I take the napkin in my lap and dry my eyes. My vision is restored. “Come on, stick yourself with that damn needle already, what are you waiting for?” People continue walking past. People continue walking past a pregnant woman who’s about to shoot up. People continue walking past a pregnant woman who’s about to shoot up, on Christmas Eve. People continue walking past a pregnant woman who’s about to shoot up, on Christmas Eve. And they couldn’t care less. Some people slow down, because white, scab-covered legs are blocking their path. What to do? We have grandchildren to spoil, flowers to order for sick aunts, presents to buy for girlfriends. Then there’s Christmas lunch to think about, the movies, friends, the dog. We need to hurry! No, sorry, those legs are simply too much. But even those who slow down simply step over those devastated legs and accelerate. Obstacle overcome! People continue walking past a pregnant woman who’s about to shoot up, on Christmas Eve. And they couldn’t care less. They have schedules to keep. Another caress of her stomach, and the stuff of dreams plunges down amid millions of red globules. My chicken is finished, and the show along with it, as the young mother’s head falls slowly backward against the wall. Suddenly, the urge to run to her. I slap twenty bucks down on the table, suddenly wondering where the baby in her belly is resting his head. On his umbilical cord? When I emerge from the restaurant it’s starting to rain. As though hypnotized, I cross the street with total disregard for oncoming traffic. “Hijo de puta! Mira donde conio vas!” A Puerto Rican taxi driver politely points out that he’d only just avoided running me over. “Tienes razon, tienes razon, hombre,” I reply, giving the hood of his taxi a vigorous smack. I walk slowly, and with each step the girl’s belly seems to become more transparent. I can see the baby inside it, pleading for help. “Mommy, mommy, the dose was too strong.” The girl is very beautiful, with light skin and red hair. Green eyes. I approach cautiously, grasp her still-bleeding arm, and, like a good husband on his wedding night, pick her up and carry her to the car. After sitting her up in the back seat, I strap a seatbelt on to keep her vertical. I was happy. Maybe I was going insane, but I was at peace with the world. I could take her to the hospital. No, no hospital. I just drive, letting time and the road pass beneath the wheels of my beloved Mustang Hertz. I pullover in a field outside the city. For hours I sit silently in the driver’s seat, an overdosing pregnant woman my passenger, feeling like some kind of metropolitan Charon.