Page 53 of Not Just a Trick Play

“Amelia,” I say.

“Hi, Amelia.” I do believe the chap is speaking to my chest, addressing my right tit “Amy” and the left “Lia.” His perusing grin is nothing short of smarmy. I look around to see if there’s anyone else I could partner with, but everyone is already occupied, including Jake who’s with another woman.

I sigh and give Brad a polite smile. He takes my answering grimace as a sign to put his hand on my lower back as we walk through Bowling Green. Maybe he’s just trying to be helpful?

Corrine leads us to the iconic Charging Bull statue and launches into a tale of bull and bear markets.

“So, Amelia, what do you think of bulls?” Shocking. A man asked for my opinion—whether it’s because he’s interested in my thoughts on livestock or large statues doesn’t matter, I’ll still call it progress.

“I suppose the metaphor makes sense,” I begin, cautiously optimistic about this dialogue. “The bull, often used to depict power, is well-known for being strong and unyielding, and quite majestic in its own right?—”

“Absolutely,” Brad interjects, his eyes lighting up. “Majestic and powerful. Yeah, they’d know how to dominate, huh? Kinda hot, thinking about the…power dynamics.” He winks.

My brain does a full stop. Here I thought a man was asking for my opinion, not giving it to me.

I force a smile. “Actually, I was referencing their enduring symbolism, not their…power dynamics,” I correct him. Seriously, did he mansplain my own analogy to make it sexual?

He chuckles, clearly missing my irritation. “Hey, nothing wrong with appreciating a little stamina in the markets, right?”

I glance around, hoping for a diversion or possibly a rescue from a swooping superhero. But no, Jake is thoroughly absorbed in his companion. Brad steps into my line of sight. “So, I find the whole area just pulsing with energy, you know? Wall Street really knows how to…get the blood flowing.”

I take a step back, feeling like a matador trying to dodge a sleazy bull. Polite enthusiasm, polite enthusiasm, you can do this. “Ah. Yes. Of course. And isn’t it known for its music history too?”

Brad’s eyebrows shoot up. Apparently, a non-flirty conversation doesn’t compute. “Music? Here?”

“Oh, absolutely!” I exclaim. “In fact, the Charging Bull was featured in Weird Al Yankovic’s ‘I’ll Sue Ya’ music video. It’s quite a pop culture landmark as well as a financial one.”

Brad blinks, his sleaze-fueled momentum derailed. He quickly regroups. “But?—”

I interrupt, raising my voice enough to barrel over what I’m sure is going to be another dubious gem. “And that’s only the beginning. Around the corner, Trinity Church hosts an array of concerts. They’ve had everything from full orchestral ensembles to intimate performances by soloists.”

Brad recovers fast. “Intimate performances in dimly lit venues, huh? Sounds like a perfect setup for some close encounters.”

I backpedal furiously. “Well. Umm… Many of the performances in this neighborhood weren’t exactly candlelit and cozy. More, you know, impactful. Big! Big performanceswith even bigger messages!” I say, waving my hands as if I’m trying to physically enlarge the concept.

A couple beside us stop their own conversation and glance our way. Oh god, I’m being that person, aren’t I?

But survival calls for desperate measures, and right now, drowning out Brad is a matter of conversational life and death. “We’re talking about the kind of music that doesn’t just fill the space. It practically protests by existing!”

Brad leans in, but I plow ahead, refusing to let the conversation slide back into the gutter. “I mean, some of the songs performed were more than mere melodies. They were anthems that underscored some of the major protests that took place right in this neighborhood. Music that wasn’t just for tapping your toes, but for stomping your feet—against the financial system, no less. They were more rallying cries than whispered sweet nothings.”

The woman in the couple glances at Brad then gives me a nod of solidarity, clearly getting the gist of my frenzied diversion tactics. “Think guerrilla warfare with culture bombs,” I say with a slight smile. She chuckles, and suddenly, I’m not just throwing words to escape Brad; I’m rallying the troops.

I continue to regale him with tales of impromptu street performances and secret gigs in nearby bars. More people glance my way now, even Jake, who doesn’t bother trying to hide his grin.

Before we hit the next stop, Brad’s smarmy smile has completely disintegrated into a bored grimace and excuses himself under the pretense of finding a loo.

At Zuccotti Park, I try once more to mingle, pairing up with a lanky software developer. But that results in me consoling my current companion about his latest breakup instead. Perhaps I should sell myself as a rebound? After all, I’m in no position to be picky after today’s stacked failures.

His attention keeps straying to a spot beyond my shoulder. I swivel my head in that direction. “I think that’s Jake Cunningham.” His voice pitches high at the end.

I clear my throat, and his gaze returns to me, his expression sheepish. “Would you mind…?”

“Yeah, yeah.” I wave him off. Broken-hearted joins the Jake Brigade, growing less and less morose with each step. More power to him, I suppose.

Jake catches my eye and gives me a not-so-apologetic shrug. Harrumph.

My plan for embracing this dance of match-talk-step-swap scheme is waning. Still, I decide to give it one last try.

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