It’s 5 a.m. on a rainy Monday morning. I’m hurrying to the subway having to meet a van downtown at 6.
You’re all probably wondering how safe the train is at this hour. Very safe, since so many people in the hotel and restaurant business are headed for work. And I’m very careful to walk on the doormen side of Park Avenue on my way there.
As I round the corner of 78th Street, in front of the florist not yet open, I see three teenage girls that clearly have been out all night.
Stringy hairdos against streaked mascaraed faces give them away.
As I hurry by I hear, “Excuse me, excuse me, hull-ooo.” I turn around.
The one staggering a bit says, “Da-ya know where we could get somethin?”
“Like what, another drink?” I shouldn’t have said this but found her slur challenging.
“Noooo…fa-ood sil-lee.” I can’t begin to tell you how angry seeing her makes me. Where the hell are her parents, and why is she standing there with her teenage tits hanging out at such an hour asking me where to go eat?
Then the second of the three said, “Ya know if a pizza place is open?” She at least didn’t slur or wobble despite her stupid question.
“It’s 5 in the morning, ” I say, trying to change my tone. “If you go up six blocks there’s a Starbucks open, but it’s too early for anyplace else.”
“A-kay,” said bachelorette number three.
I watch them hold each other up on shaky stilettos, swaying up Lex like drunken sailors.
It bothers me all the way downtown. This is New York, not Idaho. Three girls prey to all that is evil.
They are young, pretty and clearly stupid hailing from the Upper East Side so they’re also privileged assuming, nothing bad could ever happen to them.
And if it did, Daddy will fix it.
Not if you’re dead in a hallway he can’t there Muffy.
I’ll never understand parents in regards to their kids. Why were these three out all night at barely sixteen?
Every parent should be made to watch the Liam Neeson film Taken. It’s not a great movie by any means, but the subject matter…stealing kids to sell…will smack them right across their snooty, entitled faces.
You pick up the paper. The stories are hellish. How can you not keep track of where your children are?
A mystery to this childless woman who would kill to have a son or daughter to raise, worry about and ground till they’re thirty.