Scene: Pete’s Candy Store, Williamsburg, BK. I’m waiting for my friends’ band to go on. I’ve walked what feels like 6 miles through an industrial area. I’m a little nervous, glad to see my friends, in need of a beer. A girl I don’t know sits down across from me and starts fondling the arm of the boy next to her.
“I’m —-,” she says. She has those big shiny eyes that make you think the person looking at you is stupid or stoned.
“Jen.” I shake her hand.
“Are you Dave’s girl?”
Blink, blink. “Well, whose girl are you?”
I lean over the table. “Baby, I’m my own girl.”
At least I didn’t have to man the merch table.