“Manhattan is over. No one wants to live there anymore. It’s all about Brooklyn now,” Stan declared. What a pretentious prick, thought Mark. He put his earbuds in, trying to zone out with music while kicking salt off his boots. Damn weather, he mumbled to himself. He thought about his day and the Epic Fail it had been. His boss had reamed him in front of the whole team. Then at lunch his usual sandwich guy had been out of pastrami, so he’d had to get a chicken wrap. A freakin chicken wrap. He hated wraps. Only pussies ate wraps.
“Brooklyn is where all the artists live, the techies, the movers and shakers. Manhattan is just the old guard now. It’s over,” Stan droned on. Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Mark thought. What had he ever done in his life to deserve sitting next to Stan Kolonsky every night on the subway? God had a twisted sense of humor. He closed his eyes and thought about his mom’s meatloaf that he’d be eating soon. She served it with a spicy red sauce. It was a Saracino secret family recipe. He loved his mom. His mom rocked. He saw Stan’s mouth moving but he couldn’t hear him. The Guess Who flooded his eardrums. Searching his left pocket he found a PAM and popped it in his mouth like a tic-tac. He thought about texting Sally to see if she wanted to hook up this weekend. She was kind of dim, but she was hot. His mom was on his case about asking out Carla Rota, the young widow down the street. Carla was good-looking, but there was no way he was dating a widow. With a widow you’re never their #1 man. Their #1 man is always their dead husband. Of that Mark was sure. He started to PAM-out and it felt good. He felt the sharp edges starting to melt away like he was a piece of plywood that had just been sanded down. He smiled at Stan. Three more stops and he’d be home.