Somewhere between St & Ave.

Stringy hair lodged into a Yankees cap rimmed with sweat stains. Bulging meaty fingers desperately weaving through grease, like a clumsy, classically-trained pianist before an audition, chasing the fumbling chiseled down Ticonderoga tucked behind your ear.

Prickly legs peaking out of hand-me-down light wash Levi’s. Arty boy! You bicoastal rat! Name-dropper! Reference-getter with the emotional capacity of a sock, piece of chalk. Squirming through menthol Marlboro clouds that curtsy the huddled Union Square fallout of angry ankle-hugging fishnets, MK&A wannabes. (We get it.)