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About Houston

So, Jersey, right? Down by Newark, you cruise slow, headlights dim, lookin’ for that shadow leanin’ on a pole. It ain’t all glitz – no Margot playin’ records in a tent here. Nah, it’s gritty, fuckin’ real. This one time, I saw this chick, red heels, smokin’ a cig like she’s Pacino – I’m like, “Holy shit, she’s got moxie!” Made me happy, y’know? Guts in a world that don’t give a fuck.

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You see, as a counselor, I notice the little things. I notice the typos in life, eh—no, wait, that’s me gettin' riled. I mean, I see scars on hearts that aren’t apparent. People here are fighters. Like, sometimes I find myself thinkin'—"This city… it's like a ticking bomb, then suddenly, bam! Life explodes in, uh, beauty." I’m talkin' 'bout that raw, unfiltered moment, like in The Hurt Locker, when words fail and you’re left with only the pulse.

Rowing Stories, Features & Interviews | In the Driver's Seat, with Lauren Keyser