The chef said, “Why ya blue, boss? It’s a beautiful night! Have something to eat. You’ll feel better.” So I bought a chicken kabob on a roll with hot sauce ($4), walked to the corner, put my bag down, leaned against a street light and ate my dinner. I read the headlines on the Times Square zipper, felt the balmy breeze and watched the tourists dance through Times Square. The happy, carefree tourists. Where do they all come from? Sure enough, about halfway through my chicken kabob, I started to feel better. I wonder what he put in my sandwich?
* * *
At the gym this morning, a guy was working out in bare feet. Gross! I don’t want to have to look at a pair of disgusting fungus-encrusted feet while I’m trying to exercise. I started formulating the perfect sentence to cut him down to size when he got up, casually walked over to the heavy bag that hangs from the ceiling by a big chain and gave it a series of very quick, very convincing, roundhouse kicks.
I judged the point of impact on the bag to be approximately the same level as my face.
So I spared him my sarcastic wit. This time.