The
Super Bowl had just taken place and there was that Monday-after-it
feeling around town. People were talking about how the winning
quarterback—I think it was Tom Brady—had done or said something
regarding Nike. The events of the game had perhaps become mixed up with
the ads somehow.
I
was running to catch an MTA bus, except that it wasn’t New York City,
it was more like Paris. The bus came at the top of a hill and went down
toward a river, like the Left Bank goes down toward the Seine. As I rode
it I realized I was hungry, and could eat anywhere I liked; I wondered
where I could find great food; probably not along the big boulevards, I
thought, but more likely in the side streets somewhere.
My
bags were in the aisle. Three waiters who worked for the bus in some
capacity got up and walked to the front, stepping over or around the
obstacles. They leaned out the bus door and picked up glasses and
bottles from tables on the street outside, and did so with acrobatic
flair, like those showoff bartenders. Then I was sitting at a table with
the waiters, and Jake and Kevin were there, and we talked to them about
having gone to school in London back when there were riots in the
streets.