Ftrain, by Paul Ford

I went to a bar in the village for a friend's 40th birthday. One of the bartenders was a big, busty woman in plaid shorts and a shirt with suspenders. It was so crowded that many of us drifted outside; she came out later and sat on a large flowerpot and pulled out a pipe, which she began to smoke. Everything discordant but all-American, like Samuel Barber blowing Getrude Stein. Fuck yeah, I thought. Living the dream. There's a kind of awesome more potent than beauty, for it lasts much longer; it lasts after death; Leigh Bowery had it; and so did she.