J URBAN finished up his writing at the Mercer, slipped out of the bar and headed right on Price Street. His head hurt. The sun was beginning its descent and was casting odd shadows on the street.  The Prada store was closing its door, turning off its electronica music and reorganizing all the shirts and shoes that people only browsed through instead of purchasing. Urban wondered how they made money showing off. Urban wondered why he bought their things.  Urban wondered what he would do.

His mobile began to vibrate against the leg of his Double Ralph Lauren distressed khakis.  The pants were too short on Urban yet he knew this was the way they were to be worn.  Someone, somewhere deemed it necessary.  Urban was simply feeding off someone’s mantra–making it part of himself–but in a further sense, making it his own.  It as if the gods had joined together collectively and implemented the simple creed (although only for the spring) that tight, short pants must be worn. This made him possessive, especially when another person was wearing the same style.

The phone vibrated again.

Urban flipped open his mobile.

Yo, poured out of his mouth.  His greeting had once been hello that but did not work anymore.  It was much too common. Whadup’ was too black for him.  He was not necessarily a racist nor was he an overt white man, but the phrase whadup’ comprised his style and who he was.  Yo was quick and easy.  Almost as if the hell was left out hello, and morphed into a simple o.

Yes, yo was good.  Really perfect.

It took a long time for Urban to come to this decision. His thought process was long and complex and people didn’t understand the mental anguish he endured so he could sound perfect and unaffected.

-J Urban?


-Hi this is Mintrina.  We met the other night at Kenmare…downstairs.

Urban’s mind was running a million miles a second.  He met so many girls, whenever he went out.  Yet this one sounded nice–almost outgoing.

-Anyway, you gave me this number and I was calling to see if you would want to potentially meet for a drink. I’m just getting off work.

-Where do you work again? commanded Urban.

-I work at Trista Williams Gallery.

-Oh right, right. I remember talking to you about that exhibit.  Right, Mintrina.

He repeated the name slowly, hoping he could place the name with the face.  He was just simply unable to do it.  Fuck it, Urban thought to himself.  He might as well meet up with her. After all, she had to be impressive–he did not speak with ugly girls.  Dumb girls, yes.  Ugly girls, no. Dumb and ugly girls, no way!

-Well listen Minty. Can I call you Minty?  Urban did not wait for a reply.  I’m on Prince Street right now and maybe I could stop by the gallery.  It’s in SoHo if I’m not mistaken.

-Yes, yes.  Right off Broome Street. Actually that is perfect because no one is here and we can have a drink.  Really, this exhibit is just so crazy.  You must see it.

-Excellent, Urban said, as smoke from a freshly rolled cigarette poured off his mouth.  I’ll be there in fifteen.  See you then, Minty.

© 2010 by Kate Donnelly