Paul only came to New York with a few expectations: to eat a sandwich in Brooklyn, to not see a Broadway show, and to spot a rat in the bowels of the subway. Check, check, and check.
We walked over bridges, under overpasses, and through steaming piles of Red Hook dog feces to find the best sandwich in Kings County. Pressured by the squawking Italian deli owner, he ordered a large, which was the size of a small child and was supposedly topped with razorblades.
Instead of seeing a Broadway show, we put on a 3-night show of our own, starring ourselves, with various props such as stuffed birds, chandeliers, a love seat, and the Garden State Soundtrack. The plot thickened as we educatedly debated the only thing we disagree upon (O) and I realized that he is the only person I can stand to prove me wrong...and then I lit my hair on fire. The second act of most of our shows included very little dialogue and the four of us "dancing" (if you consider jerky arm movements dancing). During intermission, we bashed crafts, made sure our socks were in our pockets, sang in the shower, complained of ailing shins and enlarged spleens, and made up new ways to cheer when the Packers scored a touchdown. Laughter was really what rubber-banded it all together, and it erupted not only from the audience but from on stage: silently, rolling on the ground, re-arranging my hernia.
And finally, as we dragged our feet to the A train to JFK, a fat rat appeared in the tracks as we hugged goodbye.
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