Where Men will Hit on Me

In an effort to sow a musical seed, I found myself at the Guitar Center on W. 14th Street. For years I've wanted to do more than appreciate music. In my search to create I've stumbled upon the harmonica!

That's right, I will become a brown girl who plays the harp. Dominated as the instrument is by men--middle-aged ones, for that matter--I've decided to conquer the minute mouthpiece. While purchasing the music maker, I was hit on not once but thrice by boys who are in bands--or are adequately interested in bands.

The first was, Rubes, the assistant store manager who informed me that Ja Rule had recently thrown into his last order the very same harmonica I was buying--Hohner Twenty, 10-hole diatonic in D! His tongue ring clicked as he impressed me with his celebrity accounts and hipster spectacles. Finally, he handed me his card and suggested I give him a call if I had trouble with my instruments. When he asked me why I was picking up the harmonica I retorted, "Well, you just put your lips together and blow right? How hard can that be?" I think that may have sealed the deal.

A sweet Asian boy with punk hair and a sprinkling of facial hair approached me with the most unlikely of inquiries, "Do you work here?" To which Rubes snorted and walked off as I shook my head in dissent. His frown turned itself upside down as he asked what I was purchasing. I told him my tale of harmonica love and he informed me that he was in for a new amp. Apparently this bassist got more than he bargained for when I explained that he didn't look amped. He shook his head and offered to buy me caffeine--not coffee, but he offered me CAFFEINE--if I wasn't completely enthralled with V, I would very well have taken up his offer. Incidentally his name was Kevin Wong and he has an identical twin Kelvin...oooh two Wongs would be just RIGHT!

The last suitor was a suited, black man who bought nothing but claimed to be a lapsed drummer. When I asked if it was his passion, he raised an eyebrow which he was stunned I raised right back at him. He said it had been but between college and work and now the grind of life, drumming had lost its way. I left him with the words, "If you have a passion to perform, you should march to the beat of your own drum." He asked for my number as I smiled and skipped out of the store, harp in hand, song in heart.

Harmonious I was, as the truth was confirmed: I was definitely the kind of girl who men only approach when I don ratty Sunday jeans and a cut-up t-shirt as I ask a million questions and try my hardest to find my way in a music store--completely out of my element, ready to make a fool of myself but at no one's expense but my own.

Right before it fades to black in the sitcom of my life: I find myself--chin up, eyes alight--walking towards Union Square shopping bags in hand with a distinct spring in my sock-free, flat-shoed step right before left and left after right, down the pavement I trudge--life tick-tocking.