Free Slaves of New York by Tama Janowitz

condition similar to leprosy. I was not my mother, in a dream world without clouds. But I was myself, Marley Mantello.
    Oh, Marley, I thought, my boy, there is nothing you can't do. It was unfair, I was so much more alive and talented than any human being had a right to be; and if I had the financing I could have shown this to my son and to the world, by writing books, making movies, forming a rock-and-roll band and various other plans I had in mind for myself once I got rich enough to hire slaves.
    I felt quite weighted down with the voluptuousness of my thoughts. Then it occurred to me that quite possibly I was weighted physically as well: an overabundance of hair. I always cut my hair myself. I was so good at it I didn't even need to look in the mirror.
    So I sat down on the bank of the Hudson and got my scissors out of my key chain. It was true, it had been a long time since I had last cut my hair, which always grew quickly. No wonder my thoughts were crazed and tangled, with so much hair like violent worms feeding on the juice within my brain. My
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    strength was slowly being sapped. I crossed myself: though I wasn't Catholic, it couldn't hurt.
    Besides, this was penance of a sort. Like the monks of yore, I would remove my worldly vanity, my golden curls. Or at least give myself a trim, in the name of poor Larry who had AIDS. It wasn't fair to give him this illness on top of the fact that he wasn't a very good painter, while I was in the prime of life and a genius to boot. And now to be graced with this offspring, little Achilles. The gods no doubt needed placating, a sacrifice to keep them on my good side.
    It was only with difficulty, sitting there on the bank, that I was able to trim off the bottom hair and then lie back in the cold dirt, tired out. The hell with the top: though I had not a mirror to hand, I had probably done a good job and would be pleased with my appearance. I certainly felt dizzy. Well, what had I eaten today? Practically nothing.
    It would have been nice to go now to the bistro on the corner and sit quietly at a table, eating a lovely, juicy hamburger with a mound of French fries alongside. And how very quietly I would sit, eating my hamburger and asking for an extra plate of raw onions and consuming an entire bottle of ketchup.
    But my pocket, as always, was empty. Meanwhile, thinking these thoughts, I rose, leaving my piles of curling blond hair to blow along the shore. Whosoever discovered these hairs would no doubt have good fortune shine upon his life; such was the nature of all that had been touched by me, Marley Mantello. And before the last hair had blown away, I snatched it up and stuffed it into my back pocket—this I would present to my son, whether I was alive or dead, so that he could turn out like me.
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    case history #4: fred
    Fred had a problem: he liked to approach strange girls on the street and offer to take them shopping at Tiffany's. As he was an out-of-work musician who lived in a cold-water walk-up near the Williamsburg Bridge, this often got him into trouble.
    The first time it happened he was leaving a midtown record company (he had gone there to drop off yet another of his tapes) and across the block he saw a tall girl with short cropped hair and a certain elegant hard way of walking. He crossed the street against the light and came up alongside the girl. To his surprise, he found himself saying, "Listen, I like your linear definition. I was wondering—just for the hell of it—would you let me take you shopping at Tiffany's? It would give me a great deal of pleasure, and naturally I wouldn't expect payment of any kind."
    The girl looked at him and said, "Buzz off."
    If anything, Fred was energized by the experience. A few weeks later, while shopping for artichoke-chocolate-chip ice cream at Di Roma's in SoHo, he saw another girl with skinny elbows and a wry, pixieish face. He looked over her shoulder; she was purchasing a can of cream-of-asparagus soup. "Good