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Slice: A Question of Style

“Oh, yuck,” the guy said.


“What?” I replied frantically, as I tried to serve him a drink.


“It’s them,” he sneered.


“C’mon, I’m busy, just tell me what,” I pleaded.


“Ok, well, it’s your sideburns,” he said disdainfully.


“What about ‘em?” I asked, with a half-laugh.


The customers around him fidgeted, and mumbled incoherently.


“They’re so, so….” he took a deep breath.


“Just say it, “ I demanded.


Lip upturned, he announced, “They’re so ’91.”


A couple of fellow scenesters around him snickered.


Startled, I replied, “Well, then I guess I am, too.”


“Yes, you are,” he said, eyes rolling.


Barely able to contain my rage, I asked, “And you’re having?”


“A pilsner,” he snipped.


I handed it to him, and he walked away, reaching for his cellphone. Desperately, I needed to fire back.


“No Blood for Oil,” I shouted across the crowded space.


All I could see through the mass was the back of his hand through the air, waving dismissively.


Josh Franklin

Josh Franklin is a writer living in Williamsburg.


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