I see all kinds of things, in the early morning, to make mental note of.
Today, for instance, en route home from my run, there’s a man, a superintendent of a building along 86th Street, dancing along the curb while hosing down the sidewalk.
Entranced, I slowed up, to watch.
He was doing what looked like, the cha-cha, for those of you who may not know, a ballroom dance with small steps and swaying hip movements, performed to a Latin American rhythm.
He caught me watching that, rather than embarrass, seemed to urge him on.
“That’s pretty good,” I said, smiling, “you really are some dancer.”
He positively glowed in the compliment, as he turned off the water, wrapping the hose like a lariat around his meaty forearm.
“Me and my wife, we’re takin lessons. That’s what we learned last night. Pretty good, right?”
“Yeah, pretty good indeed.”
He then picked up a table lamp he had put out for trash pick-up and said,” You need a lamp? It has a crack in the base, but it still works.”
I said, no thanks, but thanks, while he continued practicing his cha.
Only in New York.