By the the time my boots were clicking along the sidewalk again, the delicate piles of snow had melted from the cars parked along the street. The doorman of the building I can’t afford to live in swept fallen leaves from the building’s entrance to the curb. They crunched defiantly. “I’m sorry,” he said when I passed. I don’t know why - perhaps he realizes that I wish I could afford to have him ring up my guests and accept my packages. “But happy Thanksgiving!”
I walked all the way down Broadway in search of milk and cereal. The streets were quiet and cold. I wondered if everyone was inside still celebrating the holiday or if people were simply trying to keep warm. Gristedes was closed. I noticed “Open 24 Hours” etched on the door, but alas, it was closed. A man stood in the middle of Broadway screaming, “And you will all burn in hell - you who do not believe in Jehovah!” I’ve always thought hell would probably be bitter cold, rather than hot. Otherwise, it would be more Texas than hell, and Texas isn’t so bad.
I bought milk and cereal for $7.50. I didn’t know if I should slap myself or the guy at the bodega. I knew I’d spend the next few mornings rationalizing about my Frosted Mini-Wheats: “I do believe that these are the BEST Frosted Mini-Wheats I’ve ever eaten!” (Not just the most expensive).
The Witness yelled when I crossed the street and headed back to the apartment. He scanned the congregation - zipping cabs and small family cars packed with triptophaned drivers and passengers - and flailed his arms. On the other side of the street, a boy dragged a drunken man down the sidewalk. Passersby watched suspiciously in order to find out if the kid had killed the guy and was now making a shuffling getaway. He hadn’t and wasn’t.
My heels clicked down the street one last time. Icy winds found their way to the tips of my ears and fingers. You couldn’t tell it had snowed at all. Or that burning in a fiery hell would be a bad thing.
