1 min read

A Slice of NY

A Slice of NY
In NYC, the paper plates float in front of your face and feed you pizza hands-free

I'm buffeted along by icy winds as I head home from the subway stop. It's 4:34 PM, the goddamn sun is about to set, and Zephyrus himself has come down from Olympus to slap me in the face. Grumble grumble California wouldn't grumble grumble.

I peek out from behind my jacket collar to check for trouble. Hangers-on loiter on stoops. The LIRR roars overhead on its way to Jamaica Station. And the good residents of Crown Heights are jaywalking like they're being paid to break the law.

I join a horde of them fording a river of oncoming traffic. I twist my head to meet my perpendicular adversaries, challenging them, goading them. Try and run me down buddy, I don't care if it's a green light, buddy, test me, buddy. Only in this city, where the subways reign supreme, will I telepathically challenge the twenty-ton vehicle about to flatten me into a novel set of pavement markings.

My stoop finally approaches. My home stoop. I approach my stoop, then begin to ascend. With every step I ascend, I feel more and more successful. At the top of my stoop I give myself a little pat. Nice job getting up your stoop. I badge the door and walk inside, beaming.

Hold up guys, I'm getting an email. It's the real estate agent for the apartment I applied for yesterday. We couldn't verify your income from your paystubs, bank account statements, and stock certificates, it reads. Can you also send the most embarrassing picture on your phone, a globule of spittle for DNA analysis, and your firstborn child? We just want to be sure. I sigh and send everything in a PDF before retiring to my bedroom.

I slither under the covers. As my eyes begin to droop, a cacophony of ambulance sirens and gangster rap blasting from open car windows lull me to sleep.

Another day awaits.