The Japanese-looking dude with the camera (it's inevitable that anybody with physical features of those who originate from the Pacific Rim with a camera will end up being described as "Japanese-looking. Popular culture stereotypes is mostly at fault, most egregiously, and humorously, in Rosemary's Baby. Hailrrh Satan! But I think this parenthetical exercise has gone on long enough) was ignoring her completely as he stood amidst the garbage bags on Union Square East taking pictures.
"Yo, take my picture!"
It was like she didn't exist, like it was A Christmas Carol and she was trying to interact with the scene being played out in front of her.
"YO MOTHERFUCKER TAKE MY MOTHERFUCKIN' PICTURE!"
He kept ignoring her, but I obliged her request. "What's your name?" I asked her.
"No," she said back.
As I looked through the viewfinder of the YashMat I saw my nameless lady in red clothesline a random white woman who was too shocked to do anything but give a smile and hope she'd survive the ordeal.
It was a short ordeal for the white woman whose name I've since forgotten. It all happened so fast. The picture was taken, and the woman who I would not annoy at any risk walked away with purpose.
"What just happened," asked the recently released and slightly shaken woman.
New York just happened.
Just, happened.
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