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About New York City

Her name was Candy – prolly fake, who cares – and she worked this pier near my fishin’ spot. Skinny chick, big hair, smelled like cheap perfume and regret. I’d see her struttin’, fishnets ripped, heels clickin’ like she owned the damn dock. “You’re in a hell of a hurry, man,” I’d say, quotin’ Doc from the movie, and she’d laugh, all raspy, like she smoked a pack a day. Made me happy, that laugh – real, y’know? Not some fake-ass giggle.

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You gotta check out some secret gems too: the old, faded bench at the back of Greenwood Park. Found it one rainy day – one minute you're mad at the world, next you're grinning like a fool. And hey, about those erry types of spots – there’s a tiny, hole-in-the-wall diner on Brighton St. have you seen it? They serve the best greasy grub ever. Shweet!

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