How to Find a Suitable Subculture

Ever since I moved to New York I’ve been on the lookout for a subculture that would accept me and eventually, after years of devotion, come to think me as their leader. I tried rock climbing, but those dudes are way too into wheat grass and group sex. I tried the Union Square Marxist revolutionaries, but I couldn’t bring myself to yell “Truth! Truth! Truth!” into the megaphone while decent people shopped for heirloom tomatoes at the farmers’ market. So I tried the farmers’ market and they were all like, “Are you a farmer?” to which I responded, “I could be. Give me a chance.” They drove me to an alfalfa orchard in Staten and told me to start farming. I’d forgotten my chapstick and all the picking and pulling hurt my fingertips. I lasted an hour. I tried NY1, the local TV station. They kept saying, “Hey, man, we’re not a subculture. We’re a TV station.” I stuck around for a week in case they changed their minds about not being a subculture. They didn’t change their minds. I joined up with these dudes who steal jewelry and laptops from wealthy families, but after each “job” we would never hang out together and drink and discuss our broken homes. Not much of a subculture, if you ask me. More like a band of thieves.

While buying some live guinea hens at the poultry wholesaler on Humboldt yesterday I overheard the owner talking about his fighting pollos and how one specific pollo was going to make him a lot of money later that night. I stuck around all day and after closing time followed him to a warehouse down the street. There were cocks there. Fighting cocks. I won $25 and danced with a lovely Hispanic woman named Lupa. I can’t say much more about it; unlike those blabbermouth rock climbers, us cock fighting enthusiasts keep shit discreet. But I will say this: I’m finally home.