Hairy Man

When I was a kid, I mostly loved the X-Men cartoon. I say mostly because I hated that Morph died (in like the third episode) and I lost interest around the time Jean Grey became Phoenix and it got complicated and weird.

But what I remember most was an episode where people turn against mutants. I don’t remember specifically what happened but normal people hit the streets looking to beat up mutants.

I thought this was crazy, considering they were about to get frozen or blown away or whatever, but they did find one. He was a homeless man with hair all over his body, and when they grabbed him, he went, “I’m a mutant but my only power is that I’m hairy!”

Everything about that scene was so crazy that my brain nearly collapsed on itself.

Firstly, this mob, without weapons, is upset that mutants are dangerous. So what do they do? They go out and try to beat one up?! Can you imagine if they ran into the Juggernaut? He’d murder 500 of them with one jog.

Then I thought about this poor hairy guy. He’s just hairy! Does that make him a mutant? And he’s homeless. Come on, guys.

Anyway, I just remembered that this morning and I thought I’d write about it.

The Staff

The Staff

by Alexis Pereira

The following is a true story.

She was rich. He was not.

She was a multi-millionaire. And he acted like those millions were his.

He’d order the food for everybody at the table at the finest restaurants. The most expensive bottles of wine he could get his hands on. He had his personally tailored clothes flown in from around the world. She didn’t, though, claiming she wasn’t interested in it, though there were rumors that he didn’t allow her to.

There were rumors that he wanted to leave, too. That a few years into their marriage he felt small, useless. He had some money. She wouldn’t have married a guy with no money. He was also very handsome.

He could be a news anchor, the Spanish-speaking staff would all agree.

But she wouldn’t have it. Not that she was SO in love with him, but she was too prideful to be divorced. She told him it wasn’t an option.

"Of course it’s an option, what are you gonna do?" he asked.

"What if I gave you all my money?"

That stopped him in his tracks. They went to a lawyer and worked out a new nuptial agreement, wherein he was now in charge of her millions. He started sleeping in the main bedroom again shortly afterwards.

A few years later, there were new rumors. He wasn’t coming home with lipstick on his collar, but a staff that dotes on you 24/7 notices everything. 

"El tiene otra," they started whispering to each other. "He has another."

They wondered if she knew. She certainly didn’t act any different. She didn’t seem upset or suspicious. 

But one day, during one of their arguments, she stopped talking mid-sentence. And she just stared at him. He looked at her, flummoxed. His anger turned to worry.

And she started laughing.

She laughed for almost a minute, while he stared at her wide-eyed and confused.

"I’m just imagining what kind of an asshole you are to her. The shit she probably has to deal with."

He bristled at the comment, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She smiled, “You think I’m an idiot?”

She then gathered herself and walked away. The staff talked about it for months. He also quickly cut off the affair.

At least that’s what the staff noticed. They notice everything.

Deep Down

I was on a crowded N at 59th St. when I heard a few gasps and a thud. A few yards to my left, a young Indian man had just collapsed on the floor.

He was immediately alert, if not a little dazed, and his friends picked up him and brought him over to a newly vacated seat. They were all wearing jeans and t-shirts, but gave the impression that they all had just worked together somewhere.

As the man sat down, I felt another commotion coming the other way. Another Indian man, this one in his late 50’s wearing a suit and tie, was squeezing his way through people on his way over to the group.

"Excuse me, excuse me," he said hurriedly.

He finally got over to them and wordlessly pushed them out of the way. He then got face to face with the dazed man and literally yelled:

"Are you ok?!?"

The dazed man nodded quietly, but this was not enough for the older man.

"Don’t bullshit me! I will take you to hospital!"

The dazed young man again nodded his head, but now said, “I’m ok.”

His friends just watched silently, but the older suited man stood up and now yelled at them:

"Don’t play with his life! If he is sick, take him to hospital!"

They nodded and mumbled “ok,” and the older man stood there until the next stop and got off.

When I was 19, my dad called me at a party at 1 am and we got in an argument about what time I’d be home. After hanging up, I saw my restaurant manager smiling at me. I went crimson, but he tapped me on the shoulder and went, “As you get older, you’ll think of the people who cared about you so much that they got upset, and you’ll wish they were still around.”

I was drinking a Mike’s Hard Lemonade and had no idea what he meant.

Two Girls, One Up

Having forgotten my Morrissey autobiography at home, I just stared straight ahead at the subway map on my way home, when I heard a girl who was standing in front of me blurt out:

"You’re so pretty."

I looked up and there was a very striking 25-year-old brunette smiling abashedly at the the girl sitting next to me, a blush slowly growing on her cheeks. She looked like she was coming from work, wearing the requisite pencil cut grey miniskirt and white blouse. The girl next to me, a blonde I didn’t dare look at, was obviously stunned but managed to slightly laugh and respond:

"Oh, God, thank you - you’re so pretty. I love your hair."

The brunette, now with perhaps 20 pairs of eyes looking at her and in full blush, refused to believe the veracity of this returned compliment, and just shook her head and looked down and muttered:

"Aw, thanks…it’s…thanks."

A few stops later, without another word to each other, the brunette got off the train. 

Carpe diem, young lady. Carpe diem.

It's Not Nice To Be Nice

My bank constantly makes me uncomfortable and I’ve recently learned it’s all for naught.

Whenever I walk into my bank, some manager/greeter in a suit sorta walks up to me and says, “Hey, welcome to Capital One! How are you? Can I do anything for you?”

I hate this.

I just want to walk into my bank and use the ATM or make a deposit like an old man by dealing with as few people as possible. Maybe there are middle-aged idiots who enjoy this “service,” but it is not a service, as they’re just gonna pass you off anyway.

So anyway I walked into my bank to deposit my coins when I was accosted as usual. However, as I tried I ignore him, I noticed they got rid of their coin machine.

For the first time, I accepted bank manager/greeter’s offer.

"Uh, I need to deposit coins, where’s the machine?"

"Oh we got rid of it," he answered.

"So I gotta pack the coins?"

"Yep."

"Do you have any packing slips?"

"Yep! You can just wait in line and ask the teller for some slips!"

Thanks, asshole!

I waited in line for 15 minutes, got the slips, and then sat at a table for an hour filling slips. These times are underestimations.

By the time I finished, the line was enormous. There were about 20-25 people waiting, and tellers were clocking out, with two tellers left. I unfortunately had to give up, and I started walking out.

"How was everything today?!" asked the manager/greeter.

In a last ditch effort, I again said something.

"It took too long to pack the coins and now the line is gigantic."

He gave me a big smile and said, “All right. Have a great day.”

We often speak with trepidation about the day robots will take over every job, turning humans into gelatinous husks. However, if my bank were run by robots, and I had this exact same experience, people would be up in arms and force everything about it to be reprogrammed.

Robot bothering you when you enter? No.

Robot finding a way to actually assist you? Yes.

Programming is easy!

Instead, I have to battle my social anxiety while entering and leaving the bank. And what do I get for it?

Jack shit.

It’s not nice to be nice. Sometimes it’s just annoying.

Subway Boyfriend

"Do you have a dollar?" 

She was rifling through her purse as a man on the subway train played a zampoña, an Andean pan flute which served as decoration for every Latino-American household. It’s an Inca instrument, and my uncle once yelled at me for confusedly thinking the Incas may have also lived in Colombia.

"WHAT? No! They lived in Peru!"

"What about the Mayas?"

"THE MAYAS!? What the hell are they teaching you at this school?!"

I continued reading, imagining she was talking to somebody on her left side. But now she looked up at me, catching my eye as I looked up from my book, and asked again:

"Do you have anything? I wanna give him something."

She was a pretty young Latina, possibly Dominican. We had been sitting next to each other since I first got on the train and now I was apparently her boyfriend.

"Sorry," I muttered, and it was true. Though my innate NYC defense protocol warned me not to pull out my wallet to a stranger, no matter how many stops we sat next to each other.

"Oh wait, I got something. Here!" she called out to the man in the poncho as he collected money. I went back to my book and we ignored each other the rest of the way.

However, I couldn’t stop turning the incident over in my mind. Is she crazy? Should I just chalk it up to her being Dominican?

But then I had a new idea. Perhaps there was a slimy dude on the train making eye contact with her, and she wanted him to think I was her boyfriend. I had been wearing my jacket, making me seem more menacing than usual. This wasn’t an act of hubris or insanity, but a smart move on her part.

I liked that explanation, and I’m glad I started my day with a good deed.

...to a Hero

A large man with a cane got on the train yesterday morning in a particularly foul mood. 

"Where are the trains today?!" he asked. "I gotta be wet AND wait for this damn train?!"

And it was true, the express was 13 minutes away and so everybody piled into the local. Unfortunately that meant a crowded train.

"Oh God, only one train for everybody!" he yelled again.

I could see everybody was a little perturbed by the man, especially as he made his way to the center of the car to get to a seat. The passengers quietly got out of his way. However, as he tried to sit, he slipped and fell onto his seat.

"How are people supposed to sit down?! There’s no bar and I’m breaking my damn ass here!"

I could see several people glancing over to see who was this man yelling out loud. But he just closed his eyes. 

That is until a woman started belting the first few notes of a gospel song.

Everybody’s eyes went from the man to the woman a few yards away. It was one of those NY moments where everybody in unison drops their shoulders, shakes their heads, and mouths, “now what?” But after a few lines of her song, the large man spoke up:

"NO! NO! SORRY! NOT TODAY! YOU NOT SINGING THAT SHIT IN HERE! NOPE!"

The woman stopped singing and angrily looked over at the man, but he stared her down. She then just walked through the doors into the next train car. He again closed his eyes as everybody now gave him an appreciative smile.

That man was a hero.

An American Easter

When I was seven, my aunt brought a giant chocolate rabbit to our family’s Easter get-together.

Easter is pretty straightforward in my family. They’re deeply religious, and so all they focus on is the fact that Jesus is back. In fact, they were just downright confused about why my aunt brought a giant chocolate rabbit, having never before seen one.

"Y eso pa que?" my mom wondered aloud before she took it and placed it above the fridge. 

My aunt tried to explain that Americans ate chocolate on Easter, and that they also celebrated rabbits and eggs. We surmised that it’s because Americans like to farm, though nobody was entirely placated by that answer.

My aunt also said that we could all share the giant rabbit, which was about a foot and a half tall, but everybody was grossed out by it. My family hates American candy, especially chocolate, and instead prefer to eat arroz con leche, which I find disgusting.

Being the only kid who liked American candy, it was agreed that they would just give it to me. And boy was I excited - a whole chocolate rabbit all to myself! We talked about it all day and made jokes about how fat I would get after I ate it. I walked by it every chance I got and made lusty eyes at it like a husband before his wedding night.

Finally, as we ate dessert, my mom handed me the rabbit. I took it out of its clear plastic box and held it in my arms like a baby. I then took a bite out of it and it broke into several pieces.

We all stood there stunned before I whined, “It’s completely hollow!” 

We agreed that it was misleading to sell a giant hollow chocolate rabbit. My uncle checked, and it didn’t say “hollow” anywhere on the box.

Also, it tasted like shit, but we again agreed that a nearly 2 foot rabbit that cost $4 was probably not going to be the best quality chocolate. We threw it in the garbage and I steamed quietly while my family happily enjoyed some arroz con leche.

Cinder-ella

My girlfriend needed me to stop by her job on my way home and pick up her things. I was excited to find that topping this bag were several pairs of women’s shoes. The Latina girls sitting across from me on the train were also excited about it.

As I perused my phone, they started theorizing in Spanish about why I had a tote bag full of women’s shoes. 

"You think he wears them?" one asked to laughter.

"You’re terrible!" answered another. 

"Oh, maybe he and his girlfriend broke up and he’s bringing back her shoes…" said another one sadly. 

Finally they surmised that the shoes are my wife’s shoes and that she perished in a fire. This is due to the sad look I have on my face.

I always knew I had a sad face, but I didn’t know it was, “wife perished in a fire” sad.

Or at least I didn’t think it was, “carry my late wife’s shoes in a bag wherever I go” sad.

But I had warned her countless times not to keep her cigarettes near the toaster.

Doggone

I was having lunch at Whole Foods while four older Latinas next to me talked and laughed loudly after finishing their own lunch. They were sharing stories about raising their kids, and their ages ranged from about 30 to probably around 55. Finally, the oldest woman spoke up.

"Oh I think I have the topper!" she announced.

The other three ladies “oh’d” excitedly as the matriarch began her story.

"My son had this dog. This chandoso, and he was just so obsessed with it!”

The other ladies shook their heads while sighing disapprovingly.

"Nuh uh, I would never let an animal into my home," one added to approving ‘mm-hmms.’

The older woman continued.

"And his grades were bad, and so I told him, ‘mira, if you don’t get your grades up, I’m taking this damn dog to the pound!”

A roar of laughter. Claps. 

"That’s right!" said one.

"You shoulda just taken it," said another.

"Take him to the woods and let him go!" said the last one.

The old woman waited for them to calm down and continued:

"And so one day while he was at school, I did!"

To say the air got sucked out of the room would be an understatement. The permanent smiles on the three younger Latinas were ripped off, and two of them grabbed their hearts. This is something with which I’m familiar having been around Latina mothers my whole life. When they hear something horrible happen to another child, they immediately imagine it happening to their own child and have a stroke.

The only cure is a novena.

After a few seconds of silence (and confusion from the older woman), one of the ladies spoke.

"Helen you can’t do that," she whispered.

"Do what? I hated that dog," answered Helen.

The two other women were still too shocked to speak, so the woman continued, “he coulda been messed up by that.”

"I warned him!" said Helen, laughingly, trying to recapture the magic that had left the room one minute ago.

Finally another woman spoke:

"Did you get the dog back?"

Helen shrugged, “We tried, but when we got to the pound they had already given it away.”

The grief moved onto its next stage, anger.

"HELEN, HOW COULD YOU?!" yelled one woman.

"Oh my God!" moaned the other.

"You can’t throw away a boy’s dog!" yelled the last woman.

"Oh my God!" again moaned the second. 

Helen wouldn’t budge.

"I told him, get your grades up. He didn’t! This was like 15 years ago anyway."

The women stood up and started walking away, but the conversation continued in hush tones as they walked through the Whole Foods dining area.

There are three lessons to be had here: first, know your audience. Second, don’t give away your son’s dog because of his grades. And finally, listen to your mother.

I’ve been following all three my whole life.

The Dog Whisperer

I was walking home from the subway last night when a chihuahua without a leash but in a big dog coat walked out from behind a parked car and slowly ambled towards me. I immediately crouched down and hugged it so it didn’t run back into traffic.

"Hey cutie! What happened? Are you lost?" I asked.

The dog just stood there and looked me in the eye as I wondered what I should do. Am I bringing this dog home? Do I need to make posters? I started thinking about those fliers with the phone number on the bottom 10 times but realized that I wasn’t selling this little guy and that was unnecessary. The dog stood near me even as I let it go and I looked around my block.

"Where are you from cutie? Did you get out?"

The dog continued to look me in the eye as I pet it and looked around the dark street. Finally, I heard a voice behind me:

"Hesper, come here."

I turned around to see the middle-aged Greek woman who lives on my block smoking a few yards behind me. I suddenly recognized her as the lady who walks her three dogs without a leash. 

"Oh, I’m sorry, I thought he was lost," I explained.

She took a drag of her cigarette and threw me a half-interested gaze.

"She likes to listen to people. I let her listen to you for a little bit."

I nodded.

"Oh."

I turned back to Hesper as it waited to see if I had anything else to say. I didn’t, and the woman called her again:

"Hesper, come here!" 

Hesper slowly ambled towards her, and I got up and walked away without another word. No shame in talking if someone’s willing to listen, as I always say.

If You See Something...

A few months ago, I was shaken awake by my girlfriend at about 3 in the morning. I was groggy, and there was a loud banging in the background. I looked over at her and asked what was up. Her words made my blood run cold:

"Somebody’s trying to get in…"

Fear does wonders for you when you’re sleepy. We live in a pretty safe area with a lot of people in the building, so I didn’t think we were dead. But I was frozen for a moment. I then composed myself and thought about grabbing the softball bat that sat in the back of my closet. I got up and walked out of the bedroom and realized that the banging was too far away.

"That’s not our door," I told her.

I walked over to the front door and looked out the peephole. Our neighbor was desperately banging against her apartment door with two hands, screaming “let me in!” over and over. She banged and screamed for about 2 minutes (a long time) before the door finally opened and she flew in. And it was silent again.

I told this anecdote a few nights ago to a girl I know and her boyfriend. He was from Tennessee - very polite with a firm handshake. After I told them the story, he looked at me like I was insane.

"She sounded like she was in trouble," he said in his folksy accent.

"Uh, yeah, idunno."

"You shoulda walked out and found out what the heck was goin’ on. Or at least open your door and ask if she was all right."

I shrugged.

"She looked ok. It felt like a lover’s quarrel."

He was not amused.

"At 3 am with her bangin’ on a door like she’s being hunted by a murderer?"

I was now embarrassed and annoyed.

"If somebody came up behind her or something I would definitely do something," I answered, "I was watching."

He sniffed.

"You sure were."

Even though I was right in that it was a lover’s quarrel, he was right in that I couldn’t be sure. I should have asked if she was ok. But I’d like to somehow blame my actions that day on being a lifelong New Yorker.

Find the Usual

"The usual?!" cheerfully asked the barista as the woman behind me entered the cramped but trendy Tribeca coffee shop. I started going there every afternoon for either a small coffee or a flat white, but I’d never received such a reception from any of the counter people.

"You got it!" answered the customer just as buoyantly.

The barista began crafting whatever beverage it was, but after a moment the customer chimed in:

"Iced though."

The barista stopped but didn’t drop her smile:

"Oh iced? Sure."

She dumped the cup’s contents into the sink, grabbed a plastic cup, and scooped some ice. The customer chimed in again:

"And large."

I was just putting a cover on my coffee and grabbing a napkin, but I slowed down to listen to this exchange. The barista now labored to keep her initial exuberance:

"So, a large iced cappuccino right?"

The customer nodded with a smile, but then added:

"Yes, but just a coffee today."

"OK large iced coffee coming up!" said the barista, and she impressively set off on the drink without missing a beat or even a sigh.

As I walked out, I got a good look at the customer - a smiling, well-dressed 60-year-old who was too caught up in the excitement of being remembered and celebrated to realize she wasn’t getting what she really wanted.

We’ll all be there one day.

City Bike

“I really like your bike.”

I was at a red light before the Williamsburg Bridge on my way home from work when a handsome couple on Citibikes pulled up next to me. The woman looked a few years older than I am, though I’m terrible at guessing ages since I’ve felt 25 for the past 4 years. Her boyfriend checked his phone next to her. I paused my podcast and turned my head:

“Thanks, I really like your bike, too.”

Now her boyfriend looked up and quietly studied me. The woman laughed and then put on a sarcastic voice:

“Uh, thanks, but it’s not mine. I borrowed it from a friend.”

The cars slowed down to our left. I turned on my podcast, and as I put my right foot on the pedal, I put on my most amiable smile and voice and said:

“New York City is not your friend.”

I meant it to be kinda funny but I’m probably an asshole though.

Rare Tissue

When I first started working in my office, tissues were provided by the company. A few months in, it was cut out of the budget, and I happily bought my own boxes of tissues. (I have this weird thing where I have a runny nose when I either step inside or outside a building.) I kept the tissue box on the left side of my desk where anybody could get them.

Soon, however, I started to get really annoyed when I’d run out of tissues. Pulling out the last tissue would oddly really stress me out, as I now would have to drag myself down to the pharmacy and buy a few more boxes. Also, that meant no more tissues for the rest of the day.

Curse my parents for being from equatorial climates!

One day, an incident really set me off. People I don’t work with were using our conference room, and one of them walked out straight to my tissue box and grabbed three tissues in quick succession. He then lightly wiped his nose and threw them out. That’s right - no blow, just an easy wipe, and into the garbage they all went. I was a little annoyed, and then HE DID IT AGAIN! Three tissues 1-2-3, scratch his nose, and into the trash! To top it all off, he finished the box! He then walked back in the conference room without even a word to me. 

I was SO ANNOYED. I’m sorry your highness, you need three tissues just to wipe your nose? Three tissues is for a nosebleed, and it better have come after a right hook. Well, anyway, I then moved my tissue box from where anybody could get them on my left side, to my right side, behind my computer monitor.

I became that guy.

A few days ago, another person who I don’t work with was in our conference room, and she saw me blow my nose and set up a sting operation to see where I was getting my supply. She then walked over to me:

"I’m so sorry, but may I have a tissue?"

I put the box out and let her grab a tissue. Just one, I thought to myself.

She walked away, but then she embarrassedly skulked back and asked if she could have a couple more. She apologized greatly. 

"Please, take as many as you need," I offered, as I again pulled the tissues out from behind the monitor.

She took a few, put them neatly in her pockets, and walked away.

I was off the next day. I arrived at my desk the day after to a fresh pack of travel tissues sitting on my keyboard. I turned crimson.

I now have a better idea of the face I was making as I offered that poor woman my box of tissues.

Mental Floss

"Excuse me, do you have any travel-sized floss?" I asked the pharmacy employee. 

"Travel-sized?!"

I keep travel-sized floss in my desk to floss after lunch. I usually get it from Duane Reade, but after running out a few days ago, I went to a small independent pharmacy near my job. Ugh, they don’t even know what travel-sized means, I thought.

"Yeah, the small ones."

"Why do you need travel-sized floss?" he asked incredulously.

"To keep in my desk at work."

The employee shook his head.

"How small is your desk, bro?!"

I laughed and said, “you’re right,” before quickly turning back to the floss to hide my reddening face.

I’ve recently come to terms with the fact that I’m not very intelligent. Sure there are hurdles, but life is just that much more exciting.

Slippery Old Man

Today as I was sitting on a park bench near my job while enjoying my lunch coffee, a 4 or 5 year old boy slipped and tumbled to the ground while chasing after his older brother.

As the only adult around, he looked at me. I smiled at him, and he smiled back. He then put on a weary voice and said:

"I slipped. I’m an old mannnnnn."

I laughed and went back to my phone. The boy continued:

"I’m an old man. Life gets harderrrrr."

I laughed and again looked back at my phone, but then the boy stood up and looked at me for a second. I met his gaze, and he asked plainly:

"Does life get harder?"

Last night at 5 am, I woke up from a nightmare that I was lost in a darkening woods and then had a panic attack for 20 minutes. 

"Uh," I answered the boy, "I think it’s good."

He wiped dirt off his pants and ran to his brother. I probably dodged his question, but I just wanted the word “good” to be in there somewhere when he thinks about getting older.

These Colors Don't Run

Today during my lunch break I spied an old white man painting a picture at a park that faces the World Trade Center.

As the Freedom Tower is nearly complete, I wondered whether he was painting the tower as it is or what it may look like when it’s done.

However, as I approached him, I was surprised to see that he was not painting the Freedom Tower but the Twin Towers, specifically with smoke billowing from them on 9/11.

I thought about taking out my phone and taking a picture, but before I could do so, a steroid-addled, 30-year-old Wall Street type walked by with his two buddies and yelled sternly to the old man, “already been done, bro!”

I now wonder if he meant the painting or the attack.

Another Man, But Also Another Woman

When I walked into Whole Foods for lunch today, I noticed a woman give me a sharp look. I’m not sure how to explain it, but having grown up in a somewhat bad neighborhood, I’ve picked up a sense for when people size me up. However, being in a Whole Foods in Tribeca, I felt safe enough to ignore her and continued on my way towards the buffet.

As I perused today’s food offerings, I again felt a presence behind me. Out of the corner of my eye I could see it was the woman again, and when I jumped over to the next buffet table, she stayed behind me. I decided to just ignore her and I started scooping chickpea salad into my brown to-go box. The woman spoke:

“Honey?! What are you doing here?!” she asked accusingly.

I ignored her for a few seconds, hoping that her husband was actually somewhere in the vicinity. But I felt her eyes burning into the back of my skull, and I turned around.

“Oh my God…I thought you were my husband!” she gasped.

“Oh…” I muttered before she quickly left the buffet section.

I for some reason imagine that she was afraid her husband was having an affair. Maybe her husband had just had the affair and was appeasing his post-coital hunger, or perhaps he was meeting his mistress at the Whole Foods cafeteria.

Either way, I’m glad the affair is over.

Wall Street vs. Lame Street

I was in a packed subway car when two large white gentlemen in nice suits started yelling at each other.

"I said, excuse me!" angrily yelled the first man.

"Don't fucking try to knock me over!" answered the second.

I surmised that one of them said "excuse me" to the other, tried to get by him, and then "knocked him over."

Eventually, one of them walked away from the other with this parting shot, "You Wall Street fuck!"

Just as my mind was wrapping around that idea, the other man answered with, "Go design a dick!"

Yes, two strangers on a subway were able to deduce each other's jobs from the suits they wear, specifically stock broker and architect.

I was crestfallen. I wear a suit every day to Wall Street, too, but now I know that other people in suits know that I am not a broker/architect/FBI sharpshooter/mayor's aide. It made me so upset that one of the men ended up standing next to me, and I pulled out my phone's Notepad and typed:

"Difference between Republican realignment from 08-10 and 10-12? Independent backlash?"

I hoped that by writing that, the "designer of dicks" would think I was a political writer for Slate.

In spite of my suit.