I told myself that if, when I emerged from the subway at the southeast corner of 35th and Eighth, there wasn't a line at Starbucks, I would treat myself to an over-priced, and overly precisely ordered (non-fat, half-caf, blah blah blah) iced coffee. There was a line, which, according to my prior agreement with myself, meant I should have just walked on by, but a man sitting in the window caught my eye. He wasn't so much sitting as shlumped, face down into the cup of granola and yogurt set in front of him. Was he dead? It was my responsibility to find out.
I paused for a few seconds inside the doorway; he took a breath. Not dead. But at least three-quarters of his nose was in the yogurt. If he hadn't been sitting in a Starbucks with a six dollar cup of yogurt in front of him, I would have said he looked homeless. I got on line, over precisely ordered, keeping half an eye on the man as I waited. No movement. Maybe he'd had a heart attack? A stroke?
As I was about to leave, I shook the man on the shoulder. He startled, lifted his head about an inch, cocked it my way, gave me a look that said, "ehhhh, leave me alone," then turned and dropped back into the yogurt. No one else seemed to notice.
Labels: city life, wack
