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.