As I was crossing Fifth Avenue early in the morning, I almost collided with a Fresh Direct man and his massive cart of deliveries while he was obliviously texting. If I hadn’t jumped out of the way, I would have been up to my ass, not to mention on it, in groceries.
“Hey, you almost hit me you know,” I said, my nostrils flaring like an irate bull.
“Oh lady, I’m sorry. I didn’t see ya.”
“Well how could you with your nose buried in your phone?” He was a nice looking, clean-cut Latino fellow no more than 25 wearing a very spiffy sports watch ( Hey, she misses nothing).
“What could be that important at 6:30 in the morning?”
“It’s my girl. If I don’t answer right away, she thinks I’m not workin.”
“Well maybe it’s time you switch to someone who trusts you.”
For those of you who don’t know, Fresh Direct is like the A&P online. You open an account, shop and they deliver. Very big business on the Upper East Side where I live. Of course, all these people have live-in help that can be there at that hour, or any for that matter, to put it all away. It was never a convenient service for me since I hate waiting for anything, plus it’s gotten very expensive…the Tiffany of produce.
“Here’s something you should think about,” I said, suddenly becoming motherly.
“It’s still not totally light out. Someone could run you over as you’re crossing the street.”
He nodded with his head down like a naughty puppy.
“Okay lady, I mean, ma’am, I’m sorry again.” (could have done without the ma’am since now I felt like Aunt Bee).
“Alright then, ” I said, heading towards the park. Don’t you know when I looked back, he was texting again.
Ay yi yi yi yi