It’s 6 A.M. and I’m en route to the train, my neighborhood slowly waking up. Starbucks has just opened, Jose is at his cart busy arranging his donuts, and there’s a short, chubby Latino fellow standing beside a taco truck that’s being replenished with supplies.
It’s hot. Sweat is pouring off his face he mops with what looks like a dish towel.
I notice the tag to his polo shirt is sticking out, a little peccadillo of mine, so unable to stop myself, shimmy over to tell him.
Turns out his shirt is inside out. He laughs, before peeling it off like a banana skin, brandishing a buddha belly in all its bouncy glory.
Imagine a dolphin, in pants.
“Gracias Meez,” he says, still smiling.
And Meez thinks, boy, does she need a life.