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Over the Pulaski Skyway and down through the Holland Tunnel, Conner barreles his way to the City in his old Ford Pickup. He’s in search of something. What, he’s not sure of. He’s tired of dealing with the illegals and the low-lifes at his construction site. Tired of the dry bologna sandwiches he eats for lunch and the inane conversations about the Jets, and guys that are still blaming Chad Pennington for their personal problems. The coffee is too weak and he’s looking for something stronger. He made a quick phone call to a friend of a friend. “Hey Conner, I don’t know my plans yet, but I’ll call you when I know what I’m doing,” the guy bullshitted, hoping that Conner would lose his number.

Newark might only be ten miles from the center of the world, but it might as well be a million miles away. The faux pas of white-washed jeans and dirty high-top sneakers fly as high above Conner’s head as the international flights coming in to and out of EWR. He’s seen enough television and movies to know that dreams come true in New York City. You could be drinking a Budweiser alone at a bar and the next thing you know, you’re talking music with Sly Stallone and doing shots of Jagermeister with Cougar Mellancamp. If for only one night, Conner was going to New York.

Nearing 1 o’clock in the morning, Conner still had his jacket on and was good and drunk with no one to talk to. The few girls he did speak with, wanted nothing to do with him. And he was too scared to talk to men, for fear they were fags, that would end up spiking his drink, dragging him to the back of a dumpster and raping him. Near the dart board, he struck up a conversation with a girl with tight leather shorts and a black lace top. “Just my type,” his hazy mind told himself. When his advancements and groping weren’t appreciated, all he could think of was tossing the rest of his beer in her face. Unfortunately her biker friends were but a stones throw away, sitting at the end of the bar. So next door, they pulled Conner, cursing and screaming behind a dumpster to pound his face into the concrete.

He came to New York to make his mark on the world and he succeeded; his ripped leather jacket made it onto a photoblog.

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