Bond Street and the Evolution of Treachery

New York 1989/2015

Twenty five years apart, Bond Street steals my dignity.

In 1989, while traversing an ice-covered manhole cover, I fell off my bike at Lafayette and Bond. I crashed down on the crossbars and landed flat on my back.

A NYU coed leaned over me, her face blocking out the bright winter sun just like in the movies, brushed her hair back over her ear and asked if I was all right.

I whispered, “Are you an angel?”

Her look of concern turned into a sunlit glare and I was left alone to pick myself up.

Last night I tripped on the cobblestones on Bond and Broadway and went sprawling.

No angel this time — just commuters smirking at the geezer on his knees.

I sprang to my feet and loudly quoted Pee-wee Herman: “I meant to do that.”

Nobody cared so I went on my way.

Stupid Bond Street.