Meatballs and Sewage

It’s always difficult going back to work after a three day weekend. It’s cloudy when I get downstairs, and I think of “Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs,” which I saw last night. If meatballs really rained down from the sky, would they be kosher?

A biker passes me on Bennett Avenue, huffing as she races up the hill. I realize that my bike to work once-a-week initiative has fallen to once-every-two-months and resolve to get back on track, literally. I drop a few letters at the mailbox on 186th and Overlook, and notice a kid with a Mohawk haircut nearby. He is about 14 years old, with a blue shirt, white pants, and a black jacket, and enters the station behind me.

On the platform I see Moshe L. He is reading and does not look up to say hello. I board the train, watch TV most of the way, and when I get off at 59th there is a putrid smell of sewage that makes me gag. I rush to get onto the D train as soon as it arrives on the platform and vow to leave New York City once and for all. Soon.