Simon Moya-Smith: The Native guy who dates white women

He limped into town in the middle of the night, beaten and bitter. He’s an asshole, really, and a good person.

We need people like Andrew. He’s the kind of mouth and muscle you need in Little Italy, New York, in December when some sour grifter attempts to fleece you for the cost of a cheap “I (Heart) New York” sweater. Or when a used car salesman tries to sell you a hoopty hidden under a coat of fresh paint. Yes, that’s when Andrew’s kind comes in handy. His tongue pierces and his eyes burn, and he knows when to turn it on. But he’s also the kind to crawl into town unannounced with hardly a dollar to his name and a heart so obviously broken that all he can talk about is how good things are for him lately. Which is, of course, a lie. Yes, Andrew—he’s an asshole, and a good person.

So it was recently that I’d received a text from the drifter, the rolling stone, late in the night as I slept lightly, listening to the clacking of naked tree branches violently snapping against one another just outside my window during a windstorm. “I’m in town, man,” he wrote. “Where are you? Come out. Play.” It was 2 a.m., so I ignored him, rolled over and listened to more branches breaking until the sun bled through the blinds.

6 PM, FOLLOWING DAY: Al Sharpton goes off like a grandfather clock, booming and bellowing about 20 yards away from my desk at the other end of this studio in Rock Center. He’s at it again, reeling about the bigotry and arrogance of the GOP, of Boehner and Ryan and other tea-type tarts. He cut short his didactic screed today to shamelessly pitch his latest book. I scan the newsroom to see if anyone else can mouth his scripted sermon, which has, at this point, grew so hackneyed that it’s like a good song gone bad with repetition.