St. Ignatius High School, 2000

Teenagers filled the auditorium, dressed in preppy uniforms. Cheerleaders appeared on stage. They danced to pop hits of vintage hits, B*Witched’s “C’est la Vie,” Mandy Moore’s “Candy,” and Spice Girls’ “Spice Up Your Life.”

The cheerleaders yelled, “We got spirit. How about you?”

Students would yell back, “Yeah, we got spirit. Yes, we do.”

Ezra sat with headphones, unbothered. He had big, funky tortoiseshell glasses and wore a tie and shirt, contrasting his alternative vibe. He listened to the Smashing Pumpkins’ “Muzzle” with the volume way up to drown out the bubble gum pop. It could have worked better. It made a weird smashup between Mandy Moore and the Smashing Pumpkins. Ezra took a bite of his Twix bar, hoping it wouldn’t break a bracket or twist the braces wires. He sat and took out a copy of the “Bell Jar.” Someone threw a rolled-up paper at him. Ezra read the paper. “Hey, asshole, let’s get some looseys at the bodega.”

Ezra looked over his shoulder at Zoe, who smiled at him. Zoe had a hip, New York arty vibe, even in her school uniform. She worked on a collage, oblivious to the teenage Americana surrounding her. Ezra smiled at her. Braces and big glasses shone brightly from a distance. Ezra shook his head in agreement. The pep rally announced its class of 2000 Senior Prom court; Ezra rolled his eyes as his fellow teenage cohorts applauded. He just wanted that loosey. (Looseys are cigarettes sold individually at bodegas.)

On weekdays, Ezra took the Second Avenue bus from his Upper East Side school to his East Village home. He felt relieved. The bus stopped at St. Marks and Second Ave. Zoe greeted him. They embraced. She was out of her school uniform and nose ring; an “Elvis Costello” sweater characterized her downtown chic appearance.

“Look what I have, Ezra-cito,” Zoe said

“Yes, let’s cough up a lung,” Ezra said, lighting a cigarette.

“You look too corporate to buy a loose cigarette.”

Both laughed. Ezra and Zoe found a bench on the side of the bodega’s storefront, surrounded by classic East Village tenements. Zoe didn’t smile much, but she grinned. It made Ezra uncomfortable. Nobody enjoyed misery more than Zoe. Ezra kept thinking something was up.

“That Sylvia Plath book is so good.”

“Word, son, I knew it would tickle your fancy.”

“Oh, yes. Depressing literature is happy literature.”

“Question, son.”

“What is it, ma?”

“It always feels like we’re the only queers at school. So weird, we live in the city.”

“I’m not gay. I want to be tackled by a whole football team.”

“You’re right. I’m not a lesbian. I want to be tossed around by the cheerleading squad.”

“So, what’s up? Are you suggesting we start a gay and lesbian club?”

“Even better, how about you and I go to prom? It’s our last hurrah.”

“What’s the catch? We both have avoided all St. Ignatius events, even their shitty plays.”

“I wanna go wear a tux, and it would be an excuse to talk shit.”

“I do love talking shit more than anything. Okay, let’s do it.”

“Cool, are you going to wear a dress? No, sir, my ass is too big for the designer.”

Ezra put out his cigarette. He realized what he had done. Prom at his preppy high school ignited the jitters as intense as a few enormous black coffees. After cigarettes, Ezra went home. He had a few people who would delight in his interest in most American rituals. Twenty-four hours later, Ezra found himself in a tuxedo shop on Ludlow Street. Anjelica, his mother, looked on. She kept drying her eyes from tears of joy.

“Mijo, you’re going to prom. Que noticias mas alegre, Anjelica said with a slight Texas twang.

“Who are you going to prom with? You found a boy?”

“No, no guys at the preppy shithole will date me or come out of the closet. I’m going with Zoe.”

“La lesbiana.”

“Ma, Zoe is more than a lesbiana. She’s an artist, bookworm, and yes, huge lesbiana,” Ezra cracked up laughing.

“Your papa was my prom date back in El Paso High.”

“Ma, is this another morality tall tale from Tejas?”

“We didn’t have sex or drink. We had unos chile rellenos and a Coca-Cola.”

“Must reiterate, I’m “Lord of the gays.” Zoe, is the “una lesbiana, muy grande.”

The tailor, an older man, approached the mother and son and said, “Everything looks good with the tux?”

“Yes, Mr. Horowitz. We will take it.”

Ezra inspected himself further. He noticed a red spot growing on his face. Each glance made the red spot more rogue. When it looked like a volcanic eruption, Ezra panicked.

“Ma, I’m going to get a zit.”

“Mijo, don’t panic. You’re still guapo.”

“Liar, all mothers are supposed to say that.”

The pimple lowered Ezra’s self-esteem. He attempted to walk the hallways with a brave face. He blasted the Talking Heads while surviving the conformist confines of high school. Ezra spotted Zoe.

“Zoe, I don’t want to look like a geek. Let’s call off prom.”

“It’s that big ass zit.

“Yes, but wouldn’t it be more fun if we go down to Saint Mark’s and score us some fake IDs?”

“Son, I already did that. I’m known as Maureen Calhoun from Miami Beach, FL, around these East Village bars.”

“I used to be Eduardo Perez from Santa Fe until I lost it on the subway.”

Zoe took out a compact with concealer. Ezra looked on with suspicion. She brushed Ezra’s fair skin, and the volcanic zit disappeared.

“There you go, no more cold feet.”

The bell rang. Ezra and Zoe went their separate ways. Ezra felt more confident. For the next several weeks, Ezra waited for prom. He dreaded the experience. The night finally arrived. Rather than flaking, he turned on his earphones and escaped through his favorite bands, Blondie, The Talking Heads, and Sonic Youth.

“Shit, fuck, shit, it’s time to ready for prom.”

Ezra readied himself. He had his tux laid out on a chair. Examining the tuxedo, it didn’t have any wrinkles. Ezra went into panic mode. He fixed his very curly hair and adjusted his tie.

He packed his tote bag with the essentials: cassette tapes, candy, and a copy of “The Bell Jar.” His look was complete.

“Mijo, your amiga, esta aqui.”

Ezra stepped into the front room. The walls had family photos, quirky paintings, and crowded bookshelves. Anjelica had her camera ready. Meanwhile, Enrique, Ezra’s father, had his camcorder going. Zoe, dressed in a black tuxedo, gave an awkward grin.

“Ezra, you look like a queer,” Zoe said.

“You look like the biggest lessie ever,” Ezra replied.

They laughed and hugged. Enrique and Anjelica would not stop taking pictures.

“Por Dios, you two don’t smile,” Enrique replied.

“What are your grandkids going to say with such serious faces?”

“Ma, we’re gay and can’t reproduce.”

“Es verdad,” Enrique said with a laugh.

“Mijo, I have a gift for you. It has great historical value, brought from Nuevo Leon to Texas during the Mexican Revolution.”

Ezra stared in confusion. Enrique handed him a hat box with a Mexican flag. He opened the box. A beautiful grey cowboy hat revealed itself.

“Abuelo Mario’s cowboy hat.”

“Put it on,” Anjelica replied.

As a native New Yorker, Ezra didn’t embrace his parents’ love for Southwestern fashion.

However, he placed the cowboy hat on. It fit him perfectly. His jadedness faded.

“It’s looks muy bonito,” Zoe said.

“Zoe, drop the sarcasm.”

“Yo, I’m for real.”

“I don’t care if I get teased. I’m wearing this shit.”

After a photo palooza, Ezra and Zoe stepped onto the East Village pavement on Third and First Ave. Ezra loved his new hat but felt self-conscious. Zoe stopped Ezra before they continued toward the subway.

“Come here.”

She led him to a side street. Under a tenement, she examined Ezra’s skin. Afterward, she took out her compact.

“Pimple, be gone.”

The pimple disappeared. Ezra still sweated. He appeared nervous.

“My social anxiety is through the roof.”

“Why? You hate everyone.”

“I’m a gay guy with a huge zit and cowboy hat, is why. By the way, I thought you loved the cowboy hat?”

“I do. My butch side wishes I could get away with that shit.”

“I look mad Mexican with this hat.”

“You’re just 100 percent Mexican. Would you like a refreshing Coca-Cola?”

She took a plastic Coca-Cola Bottle from her purse, opened it, and handed the soda to Ezra.

“This isn’t going to help my acne or anxiety.”

“Drink it, fool.”

He took a swig, and his eyes grew wide. The coughing was uncontrollable. Zoe looked around. She hoped nobody would notice his treacherous cough.

“What is in the Coca-Cola?”

“It’s rum. It can’t be that strong?”

“This is my first swig of alcohol.”

“You for real?”

Zoe took the Coke bottle and finished the whole thing. Ezra felt deep Catholic guilt for drinking alcohol before twenty-one. They both chewed a mint and took the short walk to Webster Hall. Webster Hall is well-known as a music venue. Now, it hosted a gaggle of private school teens. Limos were parked outside—Guys dressed in black tuxedos. Girls wore the latest prom dress fashion (They loved those pastel hues). Ezra and Zoe looked on in intimidation.

“Hey, let’s just score me a fake I.D. and hang at a gay bar.”

“Ezra, they’ll never let you in with that cowboy hat and braces.”

Both eccentric teens enter the legendary venue. Ezra blended into the crowd, even with a cowboy hat. A disco ball enticed dancing. Teens danced the night away. Teachers glanced on, looking for inappropriate behavior or dancing. Typical 90s pop blasted. Ezra and Zoe were intimidated.

“You’re a wallflower, right?

“Yes, a 1000% wallflower,” Ezra said.

Lil Kim’s “How many licks?” sounded. The teenagers screamed in excitement. Ezra and Zoe froze. Ezra moved his shoulders slightly, not wanting to relinquish his status as Manhattan’s “favorite wallflower.”

“Wow, that’s the super-duper censored version.”

“Yeah, Lil Kim is fab, but not gonna dance.”

The gay heavens tore through the roof. Glitter fell from the sky. Glitter covered Ezra and Zoe. NSYNC’s “I Want You Back” inspired the two eccentric teens to dance.

“I’m feeling gayer than ever.”

“That’s okay. I didn’t think lesbians could go so bananas for a fucking boy band.”

They danced as if NSYNC choreographed their dance routine. The disco balls glittered against the disco ball. He looked to his left; Skylar, Ezra’s crush, danced with Delilah. Like Ezra and Zoe, both were also (magically) covered in glitter.

“The glitter, it’s a sign.”

“You like Skylar? He’s a bitch.”

“Maybe we’ll click. Are you into Delilah?”

“Do lesbians U-Haul after one date?”

“I don’t want to say, howdy.”

We’re growing a pair if the next song is also NSYNC.”

The next song was NYSYNC’s “Tearin’ Up My Heart,” Ezra and Zoe put those dancing shoes on, and we’re back to a pop music state of mind. Zoe and Delilah made eye contact. They began to dance. Ezra looked on. He smiled. Zoe might have found a girlfriend. Now, Ezra was free to pursue a possible boyfriend. However, Skylar and Ezra avoided eye contact as they had an awkward dance.

“Hey, Skylar. I’m Ezra.”

“Nice to meet you, nice hat.”

“Oh, thanks! My great great grandpa brought this over during the Mexican Revolution.”

“Hey, Ezra. I’m not into you.”

“Okay, why do you bring this up?”

“I have a feeling. It’s your voice. Also, I like skinny white guys.”

Ezra froze. He couldn’t believe that he was not only rejected but felt racism for being Mexican American. Skylar walked away. Zoe glanced at him.

“Hey, do you wanna go?”

“Yeah, why do you stay? I need my alone time.”

“Fuck Skylar, son.”

“Let’s meet at Odessa tomorrow.”

Ezra bolted out of Webster Hall. Heading toward First Avenue, he felt shocked. It was challenging to process the racism and rejection. The East Village zaniness did little to distract him. Approaching his home on 3rd and First Ave, Ezra took the elevator up. He hoped his parents were still asleep. They were. The news show 20/20 roared through the house.

Enrique woke up and said, “Mijo, you’re home in one piece. How was prom?”

“Oh, yeah, I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

Ezra went to bed. He took his Smashing Pumpkins cassette and began listening to “Muzzle.” The disaster set in. Billy Corgan’s voice disappeared. The tape became stuck in the Walkman.

“No, I love this tape.”

The following day, the old grey sky smiled upon the East Village. He had a breakfast with his parents. They asked him every question about prom, from the decorations to the sodas served. Afterward, he went to Pluto Records, hoping to find a used copy of Smashing Pumpkins’ Melancholy and the Infinite Sadness. Walking toward Sixth and Avenue A, cowboy hat, red cardigan, “Clash” t-shirt, and high tops, Ezra stopped. He stood in front of “Pluto Records,” in shock.

“Hey, kid, cool style. Wanna appear in Interview Mag?” the photographer, Isaac, said.

“Do unicorns fart glitter?”

Isaac looked so hip, dressed in all black, with curly black hair, and Doc Martens. Ezra posed for the photo. He gained validation for his funky Texas meets New York style. Isaac gave him a form to sign. Ezra signed it.

“You’re New York’s East Village Cowboy,”

“Me? Really?”

Isaac smiled and disappeared into Alphabet City. Pluto Records’ door opened. Ezra was delighted to go inside and receive much-needed record therapy.

Back to The East Village, 2024

Ezra stared at the Smashing Pumpkins tape. It took him back to the early 2000s. So much had happened since he last jammed to that cassette. His cell phone buzzed. Ezra looked on in wonder. It was a text message from Zoe. The text message conversation went as follows.

“Hey, son, your L.A. family just landed at JFK.”

“Yeah, welcome back to New Yawk,” he replied.

“Wifey and I are excited to see you.”

“Isaac and I are excited, too. Dinner at Veselka at 8:00 PM?”

“Yes, sir, Delilah and I are too excited to see you crazies.”

“Oh, and congrats on buying the coolest record store in NYC. J”

“Gracias.”

The shop was quiet. Ezra took out his old NYSYNC CD. When nobody was looking, he blasted “I Want You Back” and enjoyed the company of his record shop euphoria. He continued to take great pride as “The East Village Cowboy,” a local celebrity.

– Anthony Alas