Got off the 6 train and exited on Park between 26th and 27th.
I’m doing the regular high-speed slalom through pedestrians when I feel a whack in the middle of my back (technically, my knapsack).
I assume it’s a co-worker, because that’s what you do to a friendly co-worker when he flies by you on the sidewalk. You whack him on the back. Sometimes you say, “Wassup, dude?”
I whip around and see what looks like a dandy version of Uncle Junior: 75-year-old guy wrapped in a form-fitting gray and black herringbone overcoat, face tensed into an angry scowl. Like an old man trying to return soup at the deli, as George Costanza once said.
“What the f*** is the problem?” I ask.
Now we’re walking side by side. Dandy Uncle Junior doesn’t answer.
“Seriously, what the f*** is the problem?”
I’m about to let it go. I mean, how hard do you go after a septuagenarian in a form-fitted overcoat?
Dandy Junior flings a hand skyward and blurts out, “You cut in front of me!”
He then bolts a quick right onto 26th.
I stay on Park, comforted by the knowledge that I could’ve taken him.
[photo: hbo.com]
When encountering one of these “chosen” people, I’ve always wanted to blurt out “God just spoke to me!!, he said “shut the f%^& up and leave everyone in peace, AMEN!”