Sometimes when I leave the apartment I feel like I just don't know what's wrong with me. Why am I consistently leaving for work later than I would like to?
On 186th street, I walk on the right side of the sidewalk, hugging the building next to me. A woman streams past me on the right, squeezing between me and the building and almost knocking into me. I ask why she couldn't pass me on the other side, where there is plenty of room, and she responds that she “always walks on the right.” For a moment I consider informing her that only cars need drive on the right side of the road and that even if she were, in fact, a car, passing is done on the left, but I decide to let it go. She doesn’t, and after a few more steps she turns around and asks “what, are you always going to tell me what to?” No, I’m not your spectacularly insane boss, your abusive boyfriend, or any other reckless person in your life. “Just don’t run me over,” I say in as calm a voice as I can muster.
Zev S. walks by and, having witnessed the prior exchange of some words, asks what was going on. I recount the story and Zev asks if I realize that the woman is but ten feet ahead, staring unkindly upon us.
At the tunnel in the train stations, I see Estie K. for the second time this week. The train is heard screeching onto the platform and everyone makes a run for the turnstiles. I make it on board and squeeze into a middle seat.
At 59th, I run into Sara S. and tell her that last night I went to Café K. and, since Sara and I frequent there so often together, the waitress was shocked to see me with someone else. We laugh.
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