Perhaps a city is a living thing. Each city has its own personality, after all.
Los Angeles is not Vienna. London is not Moscow. Chicago is not Paris. Each city is a collection of lives and buildings and it has its own personality.
So, if a city has a personality, maybe it also has a soul. Maybe it dreams.
-Old Man from "The Sandman" by Neil Gaiman
PQ is the kid over there. Yes, the one with the dirty blond curls and clear eyes. He told me once that he gets all the curls from Pantene curl gel. It really works, too. I bought it because I loved those little curls on his head, like a halo.
Now give him a second and the impish grin—there it is. Friendly, sparkly, Puckish. Met him a few months ago. He just graduated from Vassar and moved back here, where’s he’s from, originally. Sensitive kind of kid.
One evening he comes in, orders a beer and, with his eyes all blurry, says, “Marlon Brando died today.” The boy was close to crying. Now Marlon, God rest his soul, was one of my favorites—I am very sure that Tennessee Williams saw Marlon and went home to write A Streetcar Named Desire just so Marlon could be Stanley Kowalski. And there’s Pasquale, tearing up because the man died—I’ve never seen a guy that carried that much emotion around.
You can find him at Urban Outfitters, where he works. He used to work at Mexi Cali Grille, but it shut down. I think he’s relieved to be out of the food business: “I’m just glad I can go to the bar after work and not smell like fucking burritos,” he said.
I think he’d make a good art teacher, actually. He’d be great with children; he is one himself, the way he finds simple joys. And he’s an artist—anyone could see that from looking right at him. He’s excited that there’s a Michael’s opening up near his house so he doesn’t have to go all the way to A.C. Moore to get cheap art supplies. That’s probably why we get along—art seeks out art.
He’s also a perfect gentleman. I dressed up as a Catholic schoolgirl for my boyfriend’s birthday and we went down to Rudy’s. PQ, like a true man of the court, framed his compliment with intellectual introspection: “I mean, I went to Vassar with all those feminists and I have nothing against feminists, but my girlfriend at college would never dress up like that. I mean, I went to Catholic school. That’s, like, the ultimate fantasy.”
He was with a girl named Heather for a little while—a kind of a joined-at-the-hip love affair. I felt bad for him when it was all going on, because she was boinging on a rebound and that fool falls hard. Jelly heart, sucker punch.
If Pasquale were a Tarot card, he’d be the Sun. In my Vertigo Tarot, the Sun is a radiant newborn, riding a horse with wings, heralding in joy, simplicity, confidence and innocence. Pasquale’s heart may break easily, his smile may be quick, those eyes may sparkle with a little fairy dust, but in the end, he’ll be happy.
About me
- I'm Starry Saltwater Rose
- From New Haven, Connecticut, United States
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