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Sybil Weatherfield for New York Shock

From Friday, January 6, 1995

Random Manhattan freaks are

my consolation, my comfort.

Their presence gnaws at me like

existentialist angst. Just when

you think it's safe to go back

in the water, there's a freak.

Just when you're getting used

to the conspicuous spending

lifestyle, there's a freak. Freaks

are reminders, cannonballs

burning fire over our summers

of love. When there's a freak

on the street, it's always the

winter of our discontent. Try

being complacent about

children fighting wars and the

homeless living in paper bags

when you run into a freak. Just

try it.

A few unfair generalizations:

freaks are people with

"alternative" housing situations

or toilet habits, a continuum

of bad-hair days, a firsthand

knowledge of what's open

twenty-four hours and what's

not, radical ideas about

culture and religion and

sexuality. Sometimes they're

demarcated by body piercings,

tattoos, combat boots, exposed

undergarments, primary-color

hair shades, or clothes that

wouldn't work at a sales

meeting for sporting goods.

You don't only come to New

York for the bright lights, do

you? You want the graphic

apparition, the wake-up call, the

embodiment of harsh reality in

individuals at odds with the

world. Isn't it nice to know

someone's taking a stand

against the status quo? I came

to New York— in part— to

witness that.

I look pretty normal. Average

height, average weight. I had

braces. I've been on Accutane.

Diets have ravaged my insides.

I don't wear two-piece

swimsuits in public. I have

pretty good cheekbones.

Occasionally, I'll catch a man

checking me out. I'm all for

liposuction if one has the

funds. I've flirted with getting a

tattoo. I'd secretly like to wear a

ring in my eyebrow. Maybe I'll

get colored contact lenses

someday.

I guess I just don't look like a

freak. This has been a tough

realization for me. I mean, I feel

for freaks; I empathize with

them. But I need to financially

support myself too.

Actually, I'm jealous. There's

something brave about

nonconformity. Sure, you've got

that whole contingent of spooky

freaks out for attention. But

there are others, others bent on

creative eccentricity— those who

dream of revolution, social

upheaval. The heart of a freak

may be a pure heart. This makes

me believe grandeur is really

possible.

Didn't you come to New York to

find a pure heart?

When I first moved to

Manhattan, a pigeon crapped on

my head. Settling into the

Village, everything made me

very, very nervous. All those

people, many of them hip. Fear

of economic opportunity,

ideological redundancy,

philosophical paralysis, a

multitude of fashion no-nos.

What next? I knew I didn't

belong. I had no AC and it was

August. Because my linens were

still packed, I slept flat on my

back on a bare mattress— no

doubt fraught with invisible

bedbugs and body lice. It was so

noisy you'd think the St.

Patrick's Day Parade was taking

place on a summer night on

the street below. I missed every

ex-boyfriend who'd ever cheated

on me, and I desperately wanted

my mommy.

When the sun finally rose on

that fateful first Manhattan day,

I went for a walk, determined to

find the Strand Book Store and a

good cup of coffee.

I sat on a bench near the dog

run in Washington Square Park

with an okay cup of decaf. While

I watched the city dogs frolic

like they were free in the

Catskills, a pigeon took a dump

on my head.

Befuddled and frightened, I

headed home. I was on the verge

of tears. New York hated me.

The dogs were indifferent to my

suffering. Even the birds

despised my very presence. I

trudged off, knowing the crap

was hardening on my hair,

knowing a shampoo polemic

awaited me at home, if home it

were. I tried to saunter; I

waddled: crap on the brain.

Then, the freaks!

A guy with a stack of pancakes

tattooed on the top of his bald

head. Another dude with safety-

pinned features and a t-shirt

declaring, "I lie to women." A

girl in a fuchsia wedding dress,

carrying a boa constrictor.

After the deviants, I felt okay

about the pigeon shitting on me. Suddenly, with all the subtlety

of a dog with gas, I knew the

world and all it contains is

absolutely, unreservedly, and

utterly about things other than

me— which made my bout of

self-absorption seem

insignificant.

Freaks say, "You are not the

center of the world." A good

freak points a finger at what's

wrong with society. Freaks

refuse to participate. Freaks are

necessarily nonmyopic. Their

deviation points to that from

which they deviate.

If I love freaks so much, why do

I still go to the Gap? Why do I

shop at Banana Republic? Why

haven't I even gotten a tattoo?

I'll tell you why. I'm a voyeur.

New York isn't my porn

flick; it's more like PBS. Like the

glory days when I lived for

Sesame Street, I'm learning to

read. I want to get the

subversion, the nihilism, the

rejection. I just want to get it. I

want to understand the

landscape and, possibly, stand in

the space between complacency

and nihilism. Maybe cowardice

prevents me from getting a

tattoo of a stack of pancakes

on the top of my shaved scalp.

But the voyeur in me takes

comfort in knowing someone,

somewhere, is saying

something about this old

planet.

Send in the freaks. There ought

to be freaks.

Oh.

Don't bother.

They're here.