In the current year of our lord, if one were to teleport a random street corner of Bushwick, NYC on an August evening, one might find many a person who looks, talks, acts, banters, sloganeers, gatekeeps, and info-dumps in a roughly similar way to Lucinda Greer, our beloved friend and protagonist. Lucinda Greer loves myspace revival aesthetic, mincecore, etsy, and tarot. She’s supportive of straight edge and vegan hardcore but not quite one herself; she’s open to non-western forms of spiritual practices but as of yet an un-initiate. She is raw potential, having made her debut on the instagram stories at DIY shows no more than nine months prior. Her mind navigates the slippery pavement of the Brooklyn alt-world according to scenes, cores, vibes, pop-ups, and happenings.
On this particularly sweaty evening of August 10th, Lucinda stands on a corner of Myrtle Avenue, waiting for a date. Her left hand fidgets inside her thrifted BMW jacket. The sound of cars passing nearly masks the buzz of her iPhone 15. my bad running late. Lucinda’s roommate told her that men who typed with auto-capitalization off were usually male manipulators. She crushes the memory as soon as it enters her head. She has access to the Bushwick alt-scene predators bulletin anyway (a list she periodically scanned after swiping right on Nash).
“Anybody can help me with some change to get sumn’ to eat?”
Lucinda looks as casual as possible as a homeless man in a Bills cap passes behind her, talking to nobody in particular. Lucinda wishes she knew his name so she could dap him up in front of the passerby. Who carries change these days? She does, but she needs it.
Just as Lucinda feels the urge to pull out her pack of Newports, Nash arrives on the corner. Unexpectedly, he hops out of the back of an Uber, waves off the driver speedily, and looks around. When his gaze meets hers, he jumps a little bit, recomposes himself, and cocks a smile.
“Lucinda, right?”
They settle on an ironic dap. Nash already knew her pronouns from Tinder but thought affirming her masc style would be a good first move. Lucinda counters by offering him a Lucky Strike. He declines and pulls out a European cigarette brand she can’t identify.
They amble towards their stated destination:  a DIY rooftop venue called  “Rhizome.” Lucinda can’t take her mind off his uber.
“Is it cliche if I ask what you do for a living?”
“Part-time barista, part-time organizer.”
“Smash capitalism n’alldat…” Nash dips into a British accent. An awkward silence hangs for just a moment too long before breaking. They side-eye each other and smile as two girls in lululemon saunter by. They pass a steaming subway vent (So Brooklyn…) and Lucinda wipes the lenses of her glasses clean.
“Are those real?”
“Unfortunately yes.”
Her heart palpitates for just a moment. They pass a heavily graffitied alleyway. Toy! Lucinda thinks, pleased with herself. Did I see that tag on @bklyngraff? Just as their preliminary remarks seem to be losing steam, they arrive at the building: a skinny, twice-renovated looking brick building wedged between a greek-owned diner and PNC bank. They take the stairs up to a vestibule with roof access.
“Todd!” Lucinda shouts before dapping up a masc-presenting non-binary bouncer in an 4xl Dystopia hoodie. They part their dap and Nash’s wave says wasgood in the most casual way. Todd nods. Everything goes according to plan until Nash sees Lucinda pull out two crumpled $5 bills.
	“Oh shit, do you guys take venmo?” Nash asks, rubbing his neck. Todd’s face falters.
“We’re cash only.”
The spotlights all turn on Nash. He feels the stairwells suck him backward. Behind the sticker plastered metal door he hears an Emoviolence band soundchecking. Courage is crucial. There’s definitely an ATM next store.
Just as he starts to mouth I’ll be right back.
“Oh I have an extra ten.” Lucinda says, smiling. Relief and frustration. He laughs at himself and accepts. All is well.
They emerge through the door into a vivid whirlwind of Brooklyn grime. For a moment, Nash and Lucinda are in fantasyland, comfortable beneath their masks. Before them: a menagerie of alt pockets. They pass a few metalhead teens trying to out-tough their BMIs and settle into a corner made of plywood. Nash lights up another cig and shows Lucinda a video of a bunch of TikTok kids at a HC show throwing a severed deer head into the pit. The online reactions range from supportive to horrified.
“Yeah I don’t know, I try to stay out of discourse like that.” Lucinda says, recalling the vitriolic IG story crusade she scrolled through over coffee this morning. The band looks to be on soon. Emoviolence from Albany. Lucinda skimmed through their top five on Spotify in bed this morning before promptly forgetting every song.
“I think this is True Grxme.” She shouts in his ear. Nash nods like he knows what she's talking about, or perhaps knows what she said at all. The second song begins; an ironically heartfelt Superbad sample cuts across the raw guitar intro. They look at each with glances that say touché. Nash tries to think of something he can say to Lucinda when this song ends, something complimentary but measured. A baby pit breaks out in the middle of the rooftop, populated chiefly by a skinny 30-something swinging his arms with reckless abandon.
Todd suddenly excuses himself and makes for the bathroom (a green port-a-john wedged in the corner). He squeezes himself between two fat trad punks. Lucinda excuses herself in turn to check out the merch tables, lined up in a row. She scans the scenery, eyeing shirts from True Grxme, Built 4 Violence. Her eyes shuffle over patches for Class Warfare, a crust-ish band, apparently the next set or the one after. She tries to give each band fair interest with her eyes, hoping the bassist standing behind Built 4 Violence’s section will give her a knowing nod.
Two fingers tap the back of Lucinda’s shoulder.
“Excuse me, miss.”
She shrugs it off. Nash has started a new form of banter. What will her answer be?
“Lucinda Rockwell.”
Her eyes freeze on the 2xl t-shirt below her. The emoviolence cuts to a whisper. Lucinda looks for an excuse not to hear. She reaches for her iPhone 15 then lets her hand fall limp. Her glasses hang low on her nose and she pushes them up.
“What’s good?” Lucinda says, turning around with a confused stare. A plump young man wearing a Megadeth tee smiles at her. His hair is damp from either pit sweat or meticulous gelling. His doughy lips verge on syllables. In his eyes, Lucinda recalls a very old time and place, one she can’t quite remember. Where is Nash?
The man doesn’t shout but she can hear his words over the music effortlessly.
“You’re Lucinda Rockwell. Your father is Mortimer Rockwell, executive vice president of Honeywell Industries.”
Lucinda can’t move. The plump young man holds out his arm, his thick hand opened limply for a dap that he expects not to come. She recomposes herself with great effort.
“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
The young man’s face remains static for a moment too long. He eyes her up and down, smirks, and walks away. Lucinda can feel the bassist’s eyes on her neck behind her. A thrashing breakdown resolves itself into feedback just as Lucinda regains the ability to move. She dashes back to the corner her and Nash had placed themselves in before and crosses her arms. Without thinking, she scans the crowd for the man, trying to catch a glimpse of his double-wide figure in the sea of dyed hair and baggy shirts. As the next song starts, she catches him in the pit windmilling next to a tiny girl in fishnets.
She went by Lucinda Greer but her real name was Lucinda Rockwell. None of her work friends knew that name, none of her scene friends knew that name. The only people who knew that name outside of her family and those who knew here in years past were her roommates who thought that Rockwell was a kind of deadname, one she had replaced with Greer (her middle name) due to her abusive, good-for-nothing father.
Lucinda compulsively grabs a Lucky Strike and stares out at the snaking rooftops along Myrtle Ave. A final convulsion of feedback blares through the fading evening and it seems True Grxme’s set is over. Lucinda puffs away, playing with her glasses. She turns back to the flowing mass of Rhizome and freezes again.
Nash and the plump young man exchange banter as they close the distance to her. The young man looks up and waves at Lucinda.
“Lucinda!” he shouts, a perfect smile on his face. Nash looks at her awkwardly, perhaps sorry for abandoning her to banter with another man. Lucinda eyes the sticker plastered metal door, obscured by three queer elders making casual conversation.
“Have you met Matthew?” Nash chokes out, trying his best to maintain a smile.
Before Lucinda can reply:
“No, no. I don’t think we’ve met. Nash told me you two were on a date.” Matthew says.
Lucinda does her best to nod. “Nash and I are old school friends. Not sure if he’s gotten the chance to tell you about me yet. I was integral to his development as a young man.”
	Matthew and Nash chuckle, sharing untold memories in a split second. Nash’s neck vein bulges as he seems to put great effort into saying something.
	“Well, it was really great running into you, Matt. I’ll see you around.”
	Nash reaches to shake Matthew’s hand, only to be met with empty air. Matthew and Lucinda’s eyes are locked to one another. Nash has barely time for a double take before:
	“Lucinda, girl, I love your glasses. They’re so chic!” Matthew pelts out like a veteran Bushwick fashionista. “Where did you get them?”
	“Oh… GlassesUSA.”
	“Interesting. May I see them?”
	Lucinda hands Matthew the glasses. He takes a photo of them before scrolling through his photos. He swipes past his photos to reveal a screenshot of the very same model of glasses. Oliver Peoples. $500. Luxury brand. Lucinda can’t see. The blur of faces and tuning of the next band send her into a frenzy. She stumbles through the crowd, squeezes through the metal door and falls down the stairs. \

Unfortunately, gentlemen of the jury, I have run out of time.