New York City is famous for concentrating extreme wealth and extreme poverty in a confined square footage, and I work in a neighborhood where there's plenty of the former. When I walk the last blocks from the subway I spend lots of time dodging water hoses, because the sidewalks that the locals deign to tread upon must be rinsed constantly, every microbe of evil filth flushed into the icky, pooky street where it belongs. Maybe because many people are on their way back from the local Couteur Cobbler, who will happily take $1,500 (no joke) to sculpt you a pair of leather wingtips for your pedicured, pumiced feet.
Our local coffee place also makes for great theater. While you're waiting for your $2 cup to go, you can watch the gentlemen in teal ascots trade bon mots with the ladies wearing diamonds big enough to have "Titleist" written on them. It's easy to feel like you're looking at life from the outside, face flattened against the window, until you realize that 99.9% of the world is right there with you, snotting up the glass.
Which brings me, prince of the segue, to this morning's anecdote.
As I was dodging hoses this morning, I saw a delivery man ferrying several bags of food from a high-end grocery store. While he was waiting for the light to change, he was suddenly hit with a sneezing fit. Over and over again, he sneezed and horked and spit all over this poor person's food bags -- especially the fresh produce, which had been very thoughtfully been placed on top to avoid crushing. I just stood there, aghast, as this spectacle went on for at least 30 seconds. Then he punctuated the event with a huge gob into a trash can.
Over the weekend, I bet someone will head to Ye Olde Apothecarie for a $27 bottle of DayQuil.