Where Is My Mind? By Sean O’Brien

“With your feet on the air and your head on the ground
Try this trick and spin it, yeah” — The Pixies

Traffic stuck to the hot and gummy asphalt. Gases simmered and squiggled from the pavement. The earth spun at 800,000 miles an hour, and I was frozen; I couldn’t move. My stomach and head played hide and seek to the rhythm of morning after fun, hung over and over. I eventually saltated to my feet and ambled forward. My get-away sticks zig-zagged and cut like scissors in between the creeping death of taxis and surly straphangers to whom I yelled Coprolalia’s laden insults as I twitched and jerked.

I was out of my mind.
It was 9 a.m.

Most New Yorkers swerved around me like a sand kaleidoscope and paid me little mind as I stumbled and navigated through Times Square. I only received the desired response I solicited from a few folks, tourists — the horror. I needed that power differential; it aided and abetted my deranged sense of humor I feasted upon.

Crossing 8th Ave and 46 St. is not a pedestrian task. It requires a heightened level of math, artistry, and skill, much like a game of chess, not Frogger. Taxi cabs don’t care if they hit you. Burly Ironworkers do not concede an inch as they fast track it to the local Shanty. The object is not to get hit and boogie to your destination unnoticed. Move, like water. Flow with the City’s spirit and adrenaline. Don’t get in its way.

My pasty Irish skin revolted and fled me, layer by layer, freckle by freckle. I sauntered past the underworld of peep shows, pawn shops, strip clubs, liquor stores, bars, check cashing joints, street sex workers, drug dealers, shylocks, pimps, and drag queens and pressed onto the King of beauty, Ray Beauty supply, my employer.

Vomit curdled in my mouth as I spun out of orbit and into work, a good thirty minutes late. Why break tradition? As long as there wasn’t a double-parked truck out front looking to unload its haul, I’d skate through any admonishments from my bosses, Bobby and Jimi.

Either I was so hung over, or the glass door was so clean I attempted to walk through it instead of opening it. My brain was still reeling and not reliable, distorted as the guitars on Revolution by The Beatles.

Where is my mind?

As I bounced off the glass door, almost knocking myself unconscious, I realized, much to my dismay, that there was no rebound trick to demonstrate that I wasn’t an idiot. It wasn’t like walking on a sidewalk and tripping on something where you break into a runner’s stride, motioning and yelling, “hey man, slow down,” to an invisible friend speed walking fifteen yards ahead of me. Instead, I accepted defeat, lowered my head, and staggered diagonally to the back of the store and directly into the bathroom.

Bobby laughed as I stumbled past him and greeted me with a boisterous, “Top O’ the morning to ya, madam! Don’t you look lovely? What is that perfume you’re wearing, Captain Morgan’s? It’s delightful.”

Jimi, Bobby’s brother and top dog at Ray’s, threw me his signature smile, suspicious and derisive but equally as comforting and reassuring that I wasn’t in trouble. He’d been there.

Lori, Bobby and Jimi’s sister, a sexy little Italian number, shot me an adorable smile. She could melt me when she wanted to.

Gerri, Jimi’s wife, rolled her eyes, shook her head, and made the sign of the cross, probably praying me a Hail Mary. I appreciated that. We Catholics have to stick together.

They were family to me.

Once in the bathroom, I checked the coke spot, grabbed the bag, and dumped out a few lines. I checked the liquor spot and took a swig of Jamerson’s. I brushed my teeth, put eye drops in, washed my face, and was ready for work.

My eight-hour work day broke down like this:
I arrived 30 minutes to an hour late and worked three hours of honest work where I sold and instructed customers on hair dye and various techniques.
An hour to cop more blow and have a few drinks from the bar up the street on lunch.
Two hours either fucking or messing with the customers. And there’s a difference. You fuck with the gender you want to fuck, and mess with the one you don’t.
One hour at the end of the day during our evening rush behind the cash register, taking frequent bathroom breaks. I’m proud to say, at that job, at least, I never stole a dime.

Rays was not just the undisputed King of Beauty, it was also the underground melting pot in the world’s largest melting pot, New York City. It was alchemy. It was where there the vain, the vapid, the disfigured, the perfect, the obtuse, the tortured, the tormented, the gross, and the gorgeous were all equals and equally treated like shit. It didn’t matter if you were a T.V. star or a TV, a movie star or a porn star, a punk rocker or a rock star, a D.J. or an emcee, a guy or a doll, entitled white folx, or my favorite, the Times Square misfits. At Ray’s, you weren’t special; you weren’t getting special treatment. We couldn’t care less who you were how you thought you should be treated. And the Time Square misfits? They really didn’t give a fuck who you were. This was their neighborhood, block, and world, and you were in it. Don’t get that twisted.

There was Cherry bomb, Bootsy, Metcalf, and Mero. Each one, gamier and grimier than the other.

Mero, with whom I was a good friend, was my favorite. He had a heart of gold and was indeed a good soul. Mero was an M.I.T. graduate, well-traveled, and a cultured closet homosexual. He was tersely conflicted. If you couldn’t come out of the closet in New York City in the mid-90s, when and where could you? Mero was fond of the more pleasing things life offered. He was an opera and theatre connoisseur and would often be seen walking the red carpet to various Broadway show openings with a swarthy and taut Persian or Spanish guy. Mero claimed that after graduating M.I.T. in the 70s, his community in Boston banned him for his unbridled sexual prowess with the Bostonian ladies. Driven out for his Casanova ways, he settled into a one-bedroom rent-controlled apartment on 45th St. between 8th and 9th Ave, where he dealt high-end cocaine and entertained his peers. His rent was $220 a month.

Cherrybomb was our local pimp. He ran 8th Ave from 42nd set to 47th. I liked Cherrybomb. He had good taste in music, food, and literature. But I had a hard time reconciling his profession, which robbed me of the opportunity to get to know him better. Cherrybomb ran his hoes with an iron fist, and his recruiting techniques were savage. He turned out housewives, pregnant women, kids, runaways, boy scouts, anyone. Nothing or no one was off-limits to him. That’s probably why he was so successful; he could objectify all. He was also generous; he tipped everyone, which is a novel approach when you’re on the streets. It worked for him. He also spent a lot of cash at Ray’s/He’d march into Ray’s once a week on Saturdays with his army of whores and drop a couple of grand in an hour. Cash ruled everything around him.

Bootsy was a sweet and good-hearted hermaphrodite with a horse-sized cock he struggled to hide. He was disfigured and disproportionate. He was heavily tattooed to cover his scars. He had burn marks and pigment displacement. His botoxed lips, cheeks, and forehead made him look like a carny. But to his credit, he got up every day, looked in the mirror, told himself he was beautiful, and hit the streets. No shame. He was a kind and ancient soul.

And finally, Metcalf. Metcalf was a flamboyant homosexual who reeked of Jack Daniel’s, pot, and semen. He wasn’t a good-looking or well-built guy either. He was a disaster. He would stumble in drunk and stoned, slathered in coconut oil, with his balls hanging out of his skin-tight daisy dukes. He repeatedly offered to cast me in some commercial or show he was producing. Then he invited me out for drinks at his preferred spot, The Mailbox.

Each of them was peculiar and endearing, like two virgins having sex for the first time. As awkward and uncomfortable as it was, it was fun and addictive. You looked forward to seeing them and doing it again, only after you thank God they left.

Kthanksbye.

In addition to the grab bag of humans and personalities Ray’s would see, we also attracted every half-assed, full of themselves douchebag T.V. star. If they didn’t have an entourage of yes-men with them, they had some model, some tight piece of ass in tow.

One hungover afternoon, this is pre-Vicodin and pre-heroin, of course, pre-crack. Yes, I’ve done them all. There’s a chance I was on one of them when I wrote this story. Crack gets a bad rap. One upside is with crack, you don’t need caffeine. David Hasselhoff writhed into Ray’s. He looked stoned and had a general malaise attitude about him. Depressed and tormented by his difficult life, I reckon. Acting tortured, depressed and dark is a move I’ll have you know. He may have been all of those, but I know from experience that it’s a move that produces results. No one in Ray’s cared about his Baywatch celebrity. If anything, we dug Knight Rider. But tourists ate that shit up. It’s a reciprocal relationship where the tourist fawn over the stars they meet, and the stars pretend to be happy and accommodating, but deep down, they’re so misunderstood and miscalculated. Another move. It’s all moves.

I didn’t approach Hoff; I waited until he passed me and asked if he needed help. He gave me a stolid “No.” Another move and in character with his brooding façade that day.

I can not help lots of people; I can pay him no mind. Done. I approached the Asian broad and went hard with jokes, beauty knowledge, and Irish charm. I got her talking. The charm does that.
You know, for an Asian lady, my hair is perversely curly, which I like, but Hoff wants it straight. Any recommendations?”
“Yes, I recommend dumping Hoff and going out with me.”
A smile, a blush, an internal thought, then a questioning laugh.
“Follow me toots, I’ma show ya a sexy display I created the other day. Apparently, just for you. Hey, are you Chinese?”
“I am.”
“Well, I live in Chinatown in this dope loft, so that makes me Chinese, no?
“Sure.” Another laugh. Girls like to laugh.
“May I tell you a racist Chinese joke?”
“Is it yours?”
“Yep, I came up with it last November.”
“November, why November?”
“It’s an election day joke, sort of. I’m civically responsible, and I vote in elections. My new voting poll is in Chinatown and staffed with lovely Chinese volunteers. They know me from the neighborhood, so it’s an easy relationship. I like easy.”
“I bet you do.”
“You’ll have to forgive my because my Chinese accent is terrible.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Let’s hear it, good-looking.”
“I walk in and am greeted by Mrs. Yuang.
“Oh, Mr. O’Brien, so glad you here. You good man. You here for Erection Day?”
“Erection Day? Hell yeah, I’m here for Erection Day. Let’s get this popping. I’ll take you, her, that old Chinese ho in the back, and that gimp in the booth. -(Then, in my singing voice)- You know it’s hard out here for a gimp…”
“You’re terrible, Mr. O’Brien, but that is funny,” the Asian lady responded, quite pleased to know my last name.

“Here’s the Babyliss flatiron. You need it. Other flat irons are subpar and will fuck off your hair. And we can’t have that.”
“Sold.”
“Yeah, easy decision when Hoff’s paying, huh?”
“You know it, Mr. O’Brien.”
“How’s the frizz?”
“Ugh, the worst.”
“Use this,” I said as I handed her Aveda Anti-Humectant. “It’ll handle that frizz issue.”

Paying David no mind didn’t mean I didn’t mess with him.

I did.

Hoff’s present look was the anthesis of his Baywatch look. He looked frumpy and moped around, groping various beauty products and fake reading the bottles. He was thin and not at all Baywatch buff. His Baywatch hair was a scam, too. His natural hair was thin and wispy, like a girl scout wafer.
Hoff was sifting through volumizer shampoos and conditioners. Although I had sympathy and compassion for the guy and his hair, I was cocky in my mid-twenties and just went for it. I mentally toyed with scenarios and which one would best enrage and upset him. I could offer him condescending hair loss advice because that’s all I have, advice, no experience, and I’d be sure to mention that a bunch. I could talk to him about Fatherland, Germany. I dig Germany and have been there a bunch, so I can carry decent conversations on it. I’m not always a dick, but I wanted to mess with him, so I settled on an oldie but a goodie.

Ray’s store was a small store with little room to pass people or move around. Our basement, however, was enormous. We sold wholesale to copious companies throughout the U.S, Canada, and Mexico. We did well off of those relationships. It was paramount to keep production humming and the money coming. Ray’s layout was simple. Front door, order, and front desk to the left, then 3 aisles filled to the ceiling with the product. Our shelving system was old but served its purpose. They were sturdy metal shelves, but they had no back to them. So, if your stocking game was off, you pushed the product off the back of the shelf into a no money earning situation. Jimi didn’t like that. If any product fell, Jimi would hear it.
“You betta pick that Horse and Mane Tail Shampoo up, or I’ma take it outta your pay.”
I positioned myself opposite Holt, with the shelving unit in between us. I pushed aside my shelves item so I had a more straightforward path to Holt and a more direct path for my voice.
“Kit, come in, Kit,” I whispered.
I glanced at the strategically placed mirrors we used to monitor shoplifting and check out girls’ racks and butts. I couldn’t gauge his reaction well enough to tell if he had heard me. I dialed it up.
“Kit, come in, Kit. It’s Michael,” I said louder.
Mirror check.
He got visibly agitated.
Up another notch
“Gimme all you got, Kit!”
He threw the shampoo he was holding, stormed off, knocking over my Bayliss Flatiron display, and screamed, “fuck off, you assholes! Every one of you!”
Standard Operating Procedure at Ray’s.
I followed Hoff out, and as he disappeared into the busy 8th Ave traffic, I yelled, “Michael, are you sure you want to do that? And for the record, not any of those shitty records you made, but the record states the 82' Pontiac Trans Ams are wack, like your hair! Come back soon, ya hear?”
The Asian broad followed soon behind. She, too, stormed out of the door, probably pissed she didn’t get her products, and her meal ticket went unfulfilled.
She stopped before me and yelled, “Why are you such a dick?”
I was tempted to flash her my junk and inform her that I was not a dick, but my penis was. I was a person. It was an old joke between me, an old buddy, and some skank.
“It gets me laid.”
Maybe I’ll see ya around, Mr. O’Brien.”
“Come to the Erection Day. It’s a hell of an event.”
“I bet it is.”
“Aight, take it eas.”

I was still on the clock, like that mattered much, but I wanted to earn my keep. I decided to give Mikey, our front desk guy and the guy that taught me a lot about hair color and dying techniques, a break. I had my motives, though. I liked answering the phone and fucking with people.
“Hello, Ray’s, the King of Beauty!” I screamed into the phone as I picked up an incoming call.
I Frightened the lady.
“Oh, my goodness,” the lady responded and stalled for a moment. Then in a half-frightened half surprised voice, she asked, “Are you open today? “It was 3:30 on Thursday. Everything in N.Y is open at that time. It’s the City that never sleeps but takes a nap on Thursdays between 3 and 4? Use your head, lady, or give me head, you choose.
In my most pleasant and baritone voice, I steadied my timbre and replied, “No, madam, we’re not open. But I decided to come in and spend my day off at work, just in case anyone called needing help. I’m so glad you did.”
My monotone sarcasm went right over her voice-only head.
“Oh, I’m so sorry I bothered you,” she began, “I’ll call you back tomorrow if you’re open?”
If this broad’s body is as thick as her head, she’s probably easily manipulated sexually, smoking hot and a meatball of fun in bed.
“Sweetheart, I fucking with you. Of course, we’re open.”
She reciprocated with a polite and cute laugh and replied, “whew, okay, what time are you open to, sir?”
“What’s that?” I asked, “What am I open to? “I’m open to sex. Yeah, I’m open to sex for sure.””
The church bells didn’t ring. “Excuse me, what did you say?”
“I’m open to six.”
“Oh, I thought you said, well, never mind. I’ll be by tomorrow. Thanks a bunch.”
She hung up.
Another call was coming in, which I declined. I had to call Eddie Luke, owner of SoHo Studios, and my coke dealer. Best coke I’ve had in the States.
“Yellow?’
“Eddie, Seanage. What’s doing, kid?”

TBC…