It’s strange how I’ve called in late this morning, so that I can attend the bris of my friends’ newborn son, and yet I’ll probably arrive at work earlier than usual. When I leave the bris, which is at the synagogue just across the street from my building, I run into Eric B. who is walking outside. He nods when he sees me and I wave hello in response. Further on, at 186th, I see another familiar face. I don’t know his name, but I met him a few years ago at my friend Talia’s dinner table, and he is a certified lunatic. I don’t bother to say hi and keep walking towards the train station.
Normally, I don’t mind signs posted along the street on lampposts or the big blue mailboxes. They are there to relay information which is, presumably, of interest to someone, if not to me. What I can’t stand, however, are the long forgotten, long irrelevant adverts. Case in point: a flyer about garage sale that took place last week, a poster describing an open house two weeks ago, and a giant placard asking me to vote for a such-and-such candidates, months after the election. Doesn’t the Department of Sanitation employ individuals to clean up this mess of expiration? I enter the station, quickly realizing this could be my last opportunity to moonlight as a masked vigilante, keeping Manhattan streets safe from aging signs while the rest of the city sleeps.
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