Mami’s birthday was approaching, and all I wanted to do was go to Jamaica and dance some reggae to Bob Marley, baby! I booked tickets, for six of us, and Sister #3 booked a resort that promised to be unforgettable.
Never was a promise so nicely fulfilled.
Later on, when we heard that the resort was notorious for naked people, boobs, and public sex, “Cancel” was the only response we all had for my sister. Last time I saw naked people it was in a thermal bath in Budapest, where the only naked ones were oh, soooo old (except Elie and me; we had to set an example for the other young, more reserved ones) and they had enough fat hanging down to (no, I really shouldn’t go there…)
What would mami say? She would be so upset.
“I don’t understand why we don’t all just get naked,” was my mother’s response, as she applied some makeup one morning and displayed her perfectly huge and fabulous teeth. Turns out mami is a lot more liberal than the rest of us twenty-something-year-olds.
“Watch, we probably won’t see anyone naked, and will be dying to see someone, anyone.” That was Sister #3.
But there were plenty of naked people in Jamaica. There was the naked old man I couldn’t stop laughing at, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he made his point by showing up half naked at the Italian restaurant where we were celebrating mami’s birthday, and sitting right across from us. (Have I mentioned what a lucky girl New York City Girl really is? Everyone follows her). And there was the lady who was so fat her skirt ripped right up her derriere. Talk about class.
Two lap dances, a striptease, a massage by a cute Jamaican masseur and hundreds of naked people later, my mother still couldn’t get over her amusement. “This is so great! I want to live in Jamaica!” she kept saying.
But I had already stopped laughing. By the time two old ladies with boob jobs got to the stripper’s pole I was thinking that maybe it wasn’t so funny anymore. I was tired of saggy butts, plastic surgery, and freaks.
Had I suddenly turned into a boring human being or was I just born like that?
We said goodbye to all the freaks in Jamaica and said hello to all the freaks in New York. The Halloween Parade was on, and everyone was loose! I saw the lion, the bee, the men with wigs, the men with underwear, the men with makeup, the nurse, the firemen, the bum…I saw them all! I admired the geishas parading down Sixth Ave. I walked down on West 4th, till Jones Street, where I stood, in the same 70s dress that I wore to Bowlmor Lane last year for my fabulous Sister #1’s company party. I was the least freakish off all. I sat on a bench in front of a spot that promised organic food, debated whether I was hungry enough, and settled for people-watching. Elie, otherwise known as Epileptique, (http://epileptique.blogspot.com/), appeared.
“I just found out I hate crowds!” she blurted out. Secretly, I knew she would, but I made her come anyway.
Selina (http://selinaisabella.blogspot.com/) had disappeared for the day. Hirohito, Elie’s brother (for the year) from Japan, who happened to be dressed as a samurai, got lost somewhere too. “Oh, he’ll find his way home somehow,” Elie pointed out. “Let’s find food.”
Up 7th, towards Chelsea, more freakish people.
Is this who we are? Are we just people waiting for the moment to show our real selves? Are we all just freaks?
After settling down at a Bohemian spot on 9th Ave., a cup of hot chocolate with whipped cream later, I confessed, “I might be boring.”
She looked at me funny. Later on, after she told me about her super rich, super fat new boyfriend –another freak, it seems –and I made a comment I can’t even recall anymore, she said, “You, my friend, are crazy.”
Just what a friend needs to hear.
