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2001-09-10 - 2:25 a.m. On my way to work yesterday I was formally introduced to the figurehead of the neighborhood I’ve moved into. At 8AM I was in a cab headed to work – I was supposed to BE there at 8, so I had opted for a cab instead of running to work and ending up sweaty, out of breath and no orgasm to show for it. “86th between 2nd and 3rd please, as fast as you can.” I knew full well that the cabbie couldn’t really mess with my route, since my destination was only 6-7 blocks away, but I wanted to give him permission to run yellow lights. At the corner of 2nd Avenue and 90th street, while sitting at a light that my dear driver chose not to try for, I noticed a representative from the Ready Willing and Able crew – the rehabilitated drug addicts who are paid to keep the city trash cans as empty as possible. Then I met HER. “Why do you have to throw the bag of bottles down like that? Why do you have to make so much noise?” This strange woman, just a bit older than I, who most likely doesn’t know—or care—about what this man has been through in his life to that point. Instead of thanking him for emptying the overflowing trash on her corner, or congratulating him for starting to make something out of his life. No. I highly doubt that this man would ever try to give her advice at whatever job she does, or show up in her apartment to instruct her on the best way to defrost her freezer. This is the type of woman who comes up to me at work and lets her kid pull books from the shelves and leave them there for me to eventually put them back in their place.
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