“That’s funny,” said my mother as the man ran past. “He usually wears fishnets under his thong.”
Sure, Fifth Avenue boasts the Met, the Park. But farther east we’ve got the Intrepid Running Tranny, and of that I am proud.
After years of going up and down Second Ave, his butt-cheek-showing, speedy running habit has rendered him a fixture — a mascot, if I may. As he dashed by tonight, we sat outside our favorite Chinese place savoring brown sauce and greens. Always fast, never sporting shorts, usually sporting sweaty eyeliner and a small black ponytail, the only difference this time was his lack of string stockings. This is what my mother noticed.
“His cheeks are really flapping,” she said, as we watched his rear race toward 80th. Not that fishnets are ever concealing, of course, but I suppose they can hold you in.
“. . .and we were just talking about him this afternoon,” said the woman at the next table over. Her boyfriend nodded, reached for the General Tso’s. I felt a bit of unexpected cameraderie — a sentiment I don’t tend to feel toward Upper East Siders on a typical Saturday night.
A few years ago we were dining at another local spot, a burrito joint with outdoor seating, decent guac. Next to us was a bunch of friends, digging into black beans and chicken and watching passersby. When our beloved I.R.T. shot past, my parents and I barely flinched. He was wearing fishnets, after all; nothing seemed out of place. The next table, however, erupted.
“Whaaatttttttt?!?!” approximates the reaction of one man. “Was that a group hallucination?!?” said his wide-eyed pal.
In true you-must-not-be-from-these-parts style, I turned to coolly explain. “Nah,” I said. “He always wears that.”
The men went back to their Mexican food, chuckling but visibly shaken. To some of us, anyhow, the Intrepid Running Tranny merely signals that we’re home.
