chris-bulilan-Unsplash
by Rebecca Tiger
You will read a story about your mother’s death, how you struggle to tell the story of grief, at a backyard reading in Brooklyn, and after, a dancer will come up, a chip laden with homemade guacamole in her hand and tell you that she loves your work because “I really dig hearing about death.” You will ask about her art and she will explain, with a bit of food stuck to the gold ring she has around her front tooth, that she performs with her titties out so audience members can staple money onto her body. Someone else will ask her if this hurts and she will say “it’s just a sting,” nothing more, and she will ask you, specifically, if you mind nudity. You will answer: “I’m the original nudist,” having no idea what you mean but you are on your second Manhattan, you were swimming naked in the sea before she was born, who does this kid think you are, she is, and she will say, “cool, cool” as you both decry the torture of bras. You will look through foggy eyes at the other readers, twenty-five years younger than you are, whose words move like slinkies on Adderall, who juggle white wine and weed, a sweet smoke coming from vapes. And you will lose your footing trying to keep up on the uneven grass, you will fall and scrape your knee, and the Aries with Gemini rising will ask if you are hurt and you will say, “it’s just a sting.”
Rebecca Tiger teaches sociology at a college and in jails in Vermont and lives part-time in New York City. She writes stories on the train from here to there. You can find her twitter: @rtigernyc
