The trumpets blared when I stepped into the crisp air. My feet barely touched Liberty Avenue.
I was ready. Was Brooklyn?
They didn’t know what was coming and wouldn’t know what hit them. They would know that la Boricua had arrived.
Was the Brooklyn Book Festival ready?
I had my kinkies coiffed, my pants pressed, and business cards for the asking. And everyone would be asking.
“Mighty Boricua, may we publish one of your stories?’
I’d just smile coyly at Tin House and make them sweat a bit.
“Nancy! Nancy! May we interview you, please, Nancy?”
The Paris Review would just have to take a card and get their undies twisted, agonizing and wondering if they should call.
That day, publishers, journals, and presses would pursue me. Hell, they were waiting for me across that bridge, had been waiting for days.
I kept them in suspense, sat in Cadman Plaza and rested my feet, and repeated to myself, over and over, “Si Boricua, go right on in there. They’re waiting for you. Si si, Boricua…”