Judging by my stuttered performance on the way to the office this morning, today must be Whack-Into-People Day. Either I woke up with my good sense drained out – likely enough – or everyone else, exhausted by a crisp cold full moon last night, has the radar powered down for a maintenance cycle. Cutting around the corner at Court and Joralemon: thump, whoops. The Gothamic columns at Borough Hall loomed like dodge-’em set dressing in Doom, admittedly with fewer deadly red nubbly fire-breathing eyeballs. The escalator at Bowling Green? Let’s not even go there. No permanent damage was done to anyone, though a guy on the adjacent steps dropped his luggage carrier and it promptly shuddered apart into its component smithereens. I had nothing to do with that, apart from being in the general area.
It’s been that kind of morning. But even on days like this I’m not the sort to stop at the top of the stairs for a quick mental scratch. At least there’s that.
A cute little girl with cute pink toy eyeglasses beamed at me down in the Court Street station. “Look Mom!” she gasped. “Look at the man’s hat.” “Yes dear,” said Mom, rummaging for change. Thing is, I’m not wearing a hat.