Wrong Neighborhood
The thing about Olena was that she wouldn’t recognize me as one from her neighborhood, like I didn’t exist for her, that’s why she acted like she didn’t know me when I saw her in the Village.
“People are strange to me,” I overheard her say one time, looking right at me on the corner of 7th street as she stood there talking with other girls from school. “I just don’t know them.”
I smiled to myself, thinking that was a clue, a hint, a come on…but I had heard this so many time before and of course the chances of running into Olena were very slim in the Village. The place was always crowded with people going in and out of the park and my chance of picking the right location she was in were astronomical if not any greater. But I at least took the chance….
The film we had last seen at the Sheridan was The Hustler with Paul Newman, who played a macho Texas he-man who got whatever lady he went after. I thought of going in and watching the film without Olena giving me a hand-job (if I was so lucky to get one) but it was a dollar and twenty-five, something I didn’t have, so I paced outside, fuming, thinking she was in the movie house…then went to the park thinking I’d see her there…then headed again back to the Sheridan, getting angrier by the minute….
After about four hours of walking back and forth I headed back down to the Lower East Side….
There was Olena, tight-pantsed, tight bloused, her blond hair puffed high on her head like she was wearing a tiara and just ignoring me. I cursed at her and didn’t even say hello…I went home and angrily jerked off.
But I wished I had gone in and watched The Hustler again; it was the last chance they’d be showing that…at least for awhile….
Shit! I hated being stood up…even if I didn’t have a date.
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