I was in Brooklyn, New York the other day and walked my kid’s dog to the bodega to get a sandwich. If you’re not familiar, a bodega is a corner convenience store/delicatessen crammed into the smallest space imaginable. They offer one of everything in a hallway-sized store and stay open all night. They’re one of my favorite things about New York.
You need a roll of toilet paper and a bagel with egg and cheese at seven o’clock on a Monday morning? That’s cool. It’s there on the corner.
It’s ten-thirty at night and you need a plunger, some index cards, a tuna on rye, and dairy-free ice cream? Pop down and have a look. If the bodega on your corner fresh out of dairy-free, the one two blocks down probably will have it stocked in the back freezer with the plantain chips on top.
Bodegas are on every other street corner because the housing is so dense you have that many people needing things. Yeah, the shop’s prices are a little steep, but the convenience is off the chart. And, as a no-charge bonus, there’s always some guy sitting on a milk crate just outside the door.
The Guy Outside the Door
I waited outside for my sandwich because space is too tight inside a bodega to stand around with a dog, especially if your dog is cute and friendly, like my kid’s dog. Bodega cat’s don’t put up with cute dog’s fawning for attention.
The guy sitting outside the bodega complimented me on the dog and launched into telling me about his dog, a Rottweiler, who is scary looking but as loving as Jesus giving out free popcorn at a movie theatre.
He took a swipe at people who push their precious little dogs around in baby strollers. I agree with him in principle, but I think it’s pretty cute and funny to push a dog in a baby stroller so I’m fine with it. In a moment of synchronicity, a guy with a dog in his backpack stepped out of the bodega and waved to the guy sitting outside. I’m thinking dogs in backpacks were okay to the guy sitting outside, but he was lighting his joint at the moment so maybe it didn’t register that there was a tiny dog in a backpack.
Sometimes in Brooklyn, it’s best to not quite register what is plain before your eyes.
The Rest of the Story
When my sandwich was ready, I bid farewell to the guy and, like a good Midwesterner, told him to keep cool on this very hot day. He nodded as he took a drag on his joint. “I’m going to sleep for two days,” he said. “I spent the weekend in Bookings. Just waiting here for my lady.”
That sounded simple enough. He was a guy getting high waiting for a ride. Cool. Being a good Midwesterner, I smiled and nodded. Anyone from anywhere on the east coast wouldn’t have wasted the energy on a nod, let alone a smile.
What I came to understand is that ‘Bookings’ refers to the police central booking station.
“I got picked up on a warrant from thirteen years ago,” he said. “These guys on the subway disrespected my wife. She’s Brazilian, so I broke one guy’s jaw. Fucked them up pretty bad.” I got the disrespect part—my father picked fights if someone honked the horn at a traffic light—but I wasn’t quite sure why her Brazilian heritage required this level of violence.
He shrugged and looked at his joint.
“Have a nice day,” I said, and finally moved on.
Meanwhile, at My Writing Desk…
That humor piece I wrote a couple of weeks ago was rejected by one publication but picked up by another. I’m really tickled because ten minutes after the rejection came in I submitted to the other. It somehow caught the editor’s eye and he emailed me the good news a few hours later.
Check it out: Adobe Hypnotizes You with their Updated Terms of Service for A.I.
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Thanks for reading the Mickey Picayune. All the best,
Mickey