It’s early Thanksgiving morning and I can’t sleep, deciding to take a long, loll down Lex to catch a glimpse of the Chrysler Building, the Grace Kelly of Architecture, lit up like she’s coming home from a fancy ball.
It’s freezing, which can account for the streets being empty, not even a can man in sight, when what’s turtling down the block, but a garbage truck with three men, manning it like a smelly ship.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Pollyanna sings, looking a little like them in my jeans and hoodie though perhaps, smelling a bit better.
One guy nods, another yawns. The third one, driving, smiles and says, “Why you up this earla’ it bein’a holidays’ and all?”
“You’re up,” I say, teasing.
“Yea but, wes’ got no choice.”
My heart opened knowing how true this must be for them, paying the rent by picking up rich people’s trash in this cold, no less.
“Don’t you get time-and-a-half since it’s a holiday?”
“Yeah, we’s get a little mo, but we’d ratha’ be home with ah’ wives and keeds.’.”
Suddenly Pollyanna’s pilot light goes on and remembers there’s a 24 Hour Dunkin Donuts nearby and says, “Would it be okay, if I treated us all to coffee?”
Well, you never saw three men in gloves, perk up so fast.
“It’s right on the corner,” I say, pulling out my trusty 20.
So, after two light and sweets, one regular and a black, and 4 glazed donuts to go, Grace Kelly, gleaming in the distance, Pollyanna, with a little change to spare, heads home to the sweet sound of…
“Happa Thanksgivin’ Miss, and thanks…thanks a whole lot.”