I
had just reached the bus stop on 42nd Street and Bryant Park when a
cacophonous throng of high school kids marched by. Then there seemed to
be two groups—the first headed east, the other west. Maybe a larger
group had just divided. They were laughing, jostling each other,
gossiping without restraint—it was a parade of raw, exuberant youth;
beautiful, unself-aware. I peered at them, trying to understand where
they came from and where they might be going.
A
thick-set man in his late forties paced jerkily at the stop. His
patchy, long, blond curls were matted to the side of his head. He wore a
multicolored leather jacket.
“Pack a fuckin’ assholes!” he shouted.
The
boys and girls continued to stream by, oblivious. The man turned on his
heels and stomped around by the curb, looking over his shoulder.
“That’s a pack a fuckin’ assholes!”