NarcissusCaravaggio, Narcissus, 110 x 92 cm

The other day, I was making my way back from a visit to the Grand Central Academy of Art.  For the avid reader of my blog, that previous line is all of the “art” that will be contained in this blog.  But, to continue, as I made my way downtown Manhattan, I decided to skirt the outside of Bryant Park.  In the distance, I could see a plethora of camera wielding paparazzi, a few large convention tents, and a swaying mass of sycophants.  They were giddy with expectation.  I quickened my steps past them, lest I interrupt the ceremony of whomever it was being apotheosized.

As I rounded the corner, I was suddenly confronted with twenty men, standing in line on the sidewalk.  I instantly discerned that these men were not mere mortals.  They were twenty young stallions, confident, concupiscent, coquettish creatures, each bedecked and bedazzled in foppish fashion.  They were male runway models, the Brahman of high society.  There they stood- cool, calm, with their chests thrust forward, their shoulders back, and their lips out.  Their mouths turned downwards at the corners, their noses sneered.  Their very eyelids seemed heavy with disinterest in all of human affairs.  Each man effortlessly affected a manufactured detachment, with nonchalant and distant stares at something on the horizon.  I eventually realized that all twenty of their gazes were actually directed towards the reflective glass building on the other side of the street.

They were all six feet tall.  So am I.  They were all wearing linen button down shirts.  So was I, except I decided to employ all of my buttons.  I could unbutton a few.  They all had their hair slicked back.  I could slick my hair back.

And then, suddenly, I realized why I had been placed on this particular planet, at this particular location on the earth, at this moment in time.  I was preordained by the heavens, before the planets were set into their orbits, to be the twenty first model.  It was destiny for me to be here, for this moment in eternity.  In an outpouring of wrath upon the idol worshipers, I was to be a rod of judgment- though in a sarcastic, satirical sort of way.  I, Kevin McEvoy, was destined to walk in that line as the twenty first runway model, into that tent which was festooned with images of Mercedes Benz, into that seething mass of oogling idolators.  I was meant to walk behind these models, and mock them ever so subtly- sneer just a bit more, puff out my lips just a bit further, swagger ever so much.  I got into the line behind them, aware that I was heading toward certain martyrdom, yet focusing on the glory to come of such an act of heroism.  The gods were with me.

I stood on the back of the line, thrusting out my chest, sneering my nose, staring deeply at some point on the horizon.  It was our turn to enter the tent.  Any second now.

And then, after a minute of sweating palms, waiting, I stepped out of the line.  I chickened out.

I slipped back into the crowd, an anonymous, spineless waste of destiny.  The heavens let out a sigh of disappointment.

I am so annoyed at myself.  Agh.  I will always regret my cowardice, and I vow to never again shrink from an opportunity like that.


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