The following piece was written in February 1997, under the pseudonym "Daedalus," for Alexis Massie's now-defunct Web site Pandora's Box of Tricks.

Manhattan. Brick and concrete—trench bottom. Nose, mouth: streamers of breath break for the surface. Idling tourist buses: exhaust clouds wrestle like dragons in the street, red-lit, bellies pulsing fire. Black air, too many people.

Concert at the Garden, one hour. Time to kill. Wander. Hands in pockets, eyes on sidewalk, cold in lungs with tiny ripping teeth. Them: pairs, schools, packs—oblivious, shrill. Me: wraith, alone. Belly a fast-food rock—still hungry, not for food. Wander.

West 33rd. Red neon, lurid, magnetic—half a block. Walk past, don't look. Sidewalk sign, peripheral glimpse: XXX, private booths, live fantasy. Hungry. Too many people. Keep walking.

Streets: rich kids in clumps, fuzz-mustached cops, scraggly arms waving cups, frowning evening-wear elders, glint-eyed scalpers, open-mouthed tourists, taxis like sharks, outcroppings of thugs. Traffic. Noise. Cold.

West 33rd.

Red neon.

Full circle. Me: comet, moth. Shit.

Paper cup in my face. No thought—quarter, clink. Bum: gap smile, thank you happy new year god bless, bow—underworld doorman.

Inside.

Fluorescent white light, cloying sweet air. Yards of glassed-in shelves—sleaze for sale on video. Customers: male, middle-aged, Caucasian—quiet, detached, like art patrons. Exception: young couple, giggling, embarrassed, excited. Clerks: male, middle-aged, Middle Eastern—guns under counter? Of course, don't be stupid.

Stairs, glance up—balcony landing, dim. Doors painted red. Woman on stool, legs on railing: thighs like fat loaves of bread. Sign: fantasy booths. Glance down.

Browse: Nasty Sluts Who Like to Eat Cum #28, Nasty Sluts Who Like to Eat Cum #29, Red Hot Snatches, Anal Cheerleaders, Lez Be Friends. Stomach churn.

Eyes to balcony. Fat woman on stool looking down: hey, baby, come on up.

Shit. Look away. Lungs: no breath. Out out out out out!

Cold air.

Got away. Me: good! Good: me!

Concert at the Garden: forty-five minutes. Wander. Crowds, lights, traffic, noise. 7th Avenue, Times Square, Broadway, Sixth Avenue ... West 33rd. Red neon. Ellipse. Shit.

Inside, up stairs, fat woman on stool: dingy panties, dingy bra, dingy huddled shawl. Fat woman, standing, soulless smile: here for a show? Quick nod. Fat woman: that's five dollars for tokens, thanks honey, go there into booth D.

In booth, close door, lock knob. Coin slot, full-length glass panel, opaque cover: who is on the other side? Me: eagerness, despair, loathing, eagerness, despair. Who?

Voice from speaker grille: put the tokens in the slot.

Clink, clink, clink, clink, clink.

Cover slide open, through glass—fat woman from stool. Idiot me. Of course.

Loathing, despair. Telegram from soul: leave, leave, leave! Deer in headlights, rabbit in snare.

Fat woman: ten dollars for topless, twenty for all nude, thirty for dildo.

Autonomous hands: ten dollars through slot. Don't have twenty.

Bra off. Fat woman: take down your pants. No, no, no! Autonomous hands: obey her, disobey me.

Through glass: fat hands fondle mudpie breasts, expressionless eyes. Me: nothing, limp. Shiver, ice. Loathing. Two minutes? Five? Ten?

Eternity.

Cover slide shut. Unfreeze. Buckle pants, zip, tuck: out out out! Fat woman: already back on stool, spider settling in web.

Stupid residual courtesy: thank you.

From her, radaring back—hostility, scorn, nothing else.

Flash down stairs, outrun the scorn, outside—arrow toward the Garden. Cold air. Traffic. Crowds. Noise.

Resolution: never again. Resolution: know self, like self, respect self. Resolution: fix self.

Scorn clinging to my back, didn't outrun it after all. Scorn whispers: only one fix. Scorn whispers: disappear, vanish. Scorn whispers: end it.

Me: fuck you, scorn! Fuck you! Fuck you!

Tough words, magic words. Scorn shivers apart and flees, flees into a darker place than this city, this night, this world.

But it will stitch itself together and return. Always does.

Hope: hope my own stitches will hold.

Concert at the Garden. Half hour. Go. Thaw. Dance.

Live.