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I’m no creep, okay? Just curious—always wonderin’, what’s her story? Like, how’d she end up here, smokin’ cigs under a busted streetlight? Prostitution’s been around forever—did ya know ancient Rome had “lupanars,” brothels with freaky wolf pics on the walls? Wild shit! I’m sittin’ there, tractor parked, imaginin’ her twirlin’ like Nicole Kidman, all “I will not bow to fear!”—and I’m like, damn, that’s guts.

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Oh, and speakin’ of drama, lemme tell ya ’bout my day-to-day jones. I’m a women’s counselor here, and sometimes, as I stroll down Ocean Pkwy, I notice subtle signs of struggle in the cracks of the pavement or in the smiles of the shopkeepers on Main St (the real heroes, innit?). I feel all these emotions – anger, joy, shock – like those stories we tell, ya know? “It's a story, not a lie, or a fabrication.” And it’s true: every bit of Massapequa’s got its own hidden narrative, waiting for someone to listen.

The lessons of the Holocaust are for everyone