At the age of 28, I moved to North Carolina. I felt like I had moved to a foreign country. I wanted edgy, and all I saw was warm and fuzzy. After living in Brooklyn, Winston-Salem seemed impossibly tame.
After I had been here for a few months, I went to a post-concert reception at a friend’s apartment. I was doing my best to fit in, sipping the wine and taking little stabs at conversation.
I happened to glance out the window for a moment – then I did a major double-take.
Across the street, in a second-story window, there was a naked man with a hacksaw, patiently sawing the limbs off of a dozen-or-so mannequins.
“Hmm,” I thought, returning to the party. “I may have underestimated this place.”