The little pussy The future orange juice vender
I was about to head out of my apartment to run a boot camp and yoga class in Central Park with a personal trainer I paired up with. By “paired up with,” I don’t mean we’re having gay sex or anything. At least not yet. It was raining cats and dogs and at one point even Abandon fell from the sky and I had to tell her to get back in the house.
As I exited the first of the two doors of my building a Spicito, which is Spanish for “little Spic,” said something to me. I turned around and said, “What?”
He couldn’t have been more than four years old. He said, “It’s really raining out there!” Visible behind him was his brother who was probably only two.
I said, “Thanks for telling me the obvious, Einspic. That is why I have this umbrella here. And I’m not a little pussy like you who is afraid of a few drops of water from the sky. What are you, the Spicked Witch of the West? Are you going to melt if you get a little water splashed on you? Is that why your family’s always roasting corn in your apartment, to cover the smell of your unwashed dirty balls? Do you shit your diaper whenever the sun goes behind a cloud? Here’s a little suggestion for you: when people ask you what you want to be when you grow up, why don’t you start answering them, ‘A man, instead of the pathetic little pussy wimp I am today.’”
He burst into tears and ran back into his apartment, the little crybaby. I looked at his younger brother and said, “Do you have anything to add, little bitch?”
He said, “No, I’s awright.”
“You’ve got a little pussy for an older brother,” I told him. “Don’t let that turn you queer or nothin’.”
“No, I like the vag more than the pene,” he said and my heart suddenly warmed with the knowledge that this little bitch, living in a drug-dealing building, with shootings on the block and a pussy for an older brother—with all the odds stacked against him—just maybe had a chance to make something of himself in this cruel world, like being one of those guys that squeezes fresh orange juice or something. I’m not one of them sentimentalists but I’ll tell ya, it warmed my fuckin’ heart.