A Night In The Life of Rebecca Fogelstein
It has been a strange couple of days. The strangeness
began Friday night-Friday the 13th. First, I let my
'yet to graduate from hair school' younger sister color
my hair. She wanted me to go darker in shade. I was
all game for it until the color turned our really, really
dark making me look as if I should be hanging out at
the cube at Astor Place with my little pack of blinking
tongue ringed goth buddies.
Despite the hair fiasco, I plunged forth into the night.
I was already late to hear my friend Dana's band play.
I jumped in a taxi and when it came time to pay I
reached down in my bag only to discover I'd not
only forgotten my wallet but also my ID to get into
the place. 'Fuck!' I yelled to no one in particular.
Out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly noticed a
glimmer from the seat next to me. I look down and
what is there but a woman's red leather wallet with
a silver buckle. I quickly opened the wallet, paid for
the cab (YES-I put the money back later when I
returned it the next day) and dashed out the cab to
join the line of hipsters waiting outside the club.
"ID Please." said the huge bouncer with a flashlight.
"Um…here you go." I said rummaging through the wallet.
I quickly look at the drivers license of a girl with wavy
dirty brown hair, a round face and thick black eyebrows.
It wouldn't have been a total stretch hadn't it been for my
new goth look but I was desperate.
"Ok…who do we have here…Rebecca Fogelstein…you
live near Flatbush Ave huh?'
"Um…yup I do." (heart thumping)
"Do you like the neighborhood? I live over there."
"Yes…fantastic neighborhood. Just moved there."
I was sweating and my eyes were darting. As many of
you know I am a HORRIBLE liar. I always have been.
Instead of just saying a co-worker was 'on another line'
the other day I said she was 'out getting pizza.'
'Ok Rebecca. Have fun tonight' the guy winked and
let me in.
When I got in the club I called and left a message for
Rebecca Fogelstein. She wasn't home. The rest of the
night I was only called 'Rebecca Fogelstein' by all my
friends. I felt like a new woman. The hair, the ID. As
we drank beers and smoked cigarettes, we each took
a turn to look at the wallet and get a glimpse inside
the mind of this mysterious personality. From her
buisness cards we discovered she was a holistic
nutritionist. We found a card for a physic healer. We
discovered that she had overnighted a package to
Mexico on Monday and that she had the home
number of one Lieutenant Jay Robert Fuller.
At the end of the night at around 2:00am, I went
up to get one last round for everyone.
'ID please.' Said the bartender.
'No problem!' I said a little too loudly.
The bartender took the ID. She looked back at me.
She looked back at the ID. She tapped a fellow
bartender on the shoulder and pointed at me. He
shook his head laughing as in 'no way'. She walked
back over to me and said, 'Honey…let's face it…this
is SO not you.'