Hurl

   Yesterday, a 19-year-old neighborhood girl OD'ed herself by downing a handful of Tylenol with Diet Coke.

   Don't remember the name, but often saw her walking back from the block's 7-11 with a big paper bag full of college-girl junk --cheap chocolates, Ben & Jerry's, and vegan microwavables. Shy. Small. Rarely spoke or smiled. (We’ve howdied, but we haven’t shook yet). Her goth-cum-lolita dressing was creepy, but she seemed really nice.

   But then, I must confess: I don’t know girls that well.

   This black guy, who drives a Blue-and-White cab all around the Five Boroughs and lives in my building, said, “The lil’ bitch’ll survive. But hell, she’s gon’ git them doctors pumpin’ her guts out, that’s fo’ sure.”

   “Is it painful? To get your stomach pumped out?”

   “Nah! But sure as hell ain’t as nice as humpin’ a bag full-a nails.”

   The city paramedics arrived at her apartment building on those new huge Harleys Giuliani uses for his election motorcade. Their sirens blared non-stop even after they’d arrived and parked outside the building. Drew a big crowd –which was amazing considering the level of bystander apathy New Yorkers are known for. It was like the Fourth of July, but without the barrage of firecrackers, the countdown, and the drunken cheering, and the 3rd Avenue Latino whores wanting to kiss every sailor or marine who passes by. Wrecked quite a havoc for a slow, working-day Tuesday night.

   I was in my study, finishing up some leftover work from office, when they came --balls slinging-- and kicked her door down. At first I thought it was just a typical DEA raid (they do that here sometimes) because three nights before, on the news, over the cluttering noise of my old typewriter, I heard of a major crackdown going on right before the mayoral election. Got up from my seat, looked across the street, and saw her being carried out in a stretcher. The beautiful make-up, the god-awful mascara, the black lipstick on her cheeks, the hair the size of Jersey City –-all ruined.

   An old black woman, who came up from the Subway and noticed all the commotion, said, “They’d best make her hurl, or she’s gon’ be dead. She'd best hurl, that poor white girl, or she's gon' --oh, Lord Almighty.”

   Others around her seemed to agree.

   She lived alone, but I assume she still had a mother or a father or a close family member who cared about her. For, once in a month or less, or whenever Thanksgiving comes around, I often saw her on the phone for an unusually long period of time, talking intimately to the person on the other side. By 'intimate', I mean: she smiled, she laughed, she chuckled, and she played with her hair while waiting patiently for the other side to end. 'Intimate', just like the rest of us.

   But never saw her with a guy, or a gal, or a dog --she always walked home alone.