My boss Manny hates me. I don't fear him or his threats to fire me. I'm not indispensable. Merely very cost-effective as well as one of his son's best friends. That be said I know blood is thicker than thieves and regard this run in the diamond exchange as a temporary distraction from my life of leisure.
"You haven't done a day of work since you came here."
"The same could be said about you. All you do is shift papers from one side of your desk to the other and insult customers." Only this morning he called my main diamond broker a 'gonnif'. I couldn't put up with his kvetching and got my coat from the closet.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"To get my lunch." I waved to Eliza Randolph. She was Richie Boy's partner. "Eliza, you want some chowdah."
"Chowdah from where?" Eliza attended UMASS-Amherst. We were good friends. Richie Boy had once hoped that the two of us became serious. Her father was glad that nothing came of our flirtation and in many ways so were we.
"The Oyster Bar where else?" The Grand Central Terminal institution had the best clam chowder this side of Boston's Route 128. Manny made a face. His mind had calculated the distance between our store and the Oyster Bar. "Don't worry, Manny, you don't have to pay for a thing."
"Don't get me nothing either."
"Who said I was in the first place?"
I left the store muttering under my breath. Our hourly tete-a-tetes were wearing on us. Manny was 80. I was going to be 58. Neither of us were young dogs. He was deaf and I was grumpy. His present state was my future destination, although my version of his age was set in Thailand at my teakwood farm. I indulged in this delusion on the 10 minute walk to Gran Central, ignoring the slow-moving tourists. Without them the city would be as empty as the New York of I AM LEGEND.
I turned off Madison onto 43rd Street. The syringe spire of Chrysler Building gleamed int he winter sun. I was used to the sounds of the city, but not dogs' barking. More than one. More than a dozen. The MTA cops had gathered their explosive and drug sniffing hounds to the Metro-North terminal to guard against a terrorist attack. Only the other day a Nigerian extremist attempted to down a NYC-bound flight by lighting his underwear on fire. He succeeded in setting himself on fire and complicating the travel plans of everyone going somewhere over the New Year's holiday.
The shepherd at the entrance to the terminal eyed me with suspicion. I had a half-joint in my pocket. A contribution to the cause by my fellow worker Hank. The dog growled and his master clocked me as harmless.
"Nice doggie."
"He ain't a doggie."
"Doggies are cows, right?" Same as all these cops. All wanting to be a hero. All wanting to stop someone from doing that something stupid. I smiled and descended into the terminal. Passengers were hurrying through awe-struck tourists from Schawillagah, PA. I might be older than most of them, but I still was impressed by that great open place and surveyed the crowds for anyone who might damaged it or the people within the terminal. My inspection gave GCT an all-clear visa from the danger of terrorism. I entered the Oyster Bar and sat at the counter. I called Eliza.
"Anything other than Chowdah?"
"Chowdah be just fine." Eliza sounded hungry. I ate my chowdah with haste. My counter mates were from the UK. They loved New York and loved the Oyster Bar. They said they felt safer here than in London.
"I got robbed in Soho last time I was in the Smoke." He and his family came from Plymouth. That port was on the way to Cornwall. I had friends up west. They didn't know them. I sopped up the last traces of chowder with a small roll and hurried back to the diamond exchange through the underground passages of Grand Central Terminal. They were no dogs at the exit onto 45th Street. Eliza was so happy to receive her chowdah that she kissed both my cheeks. Manny looked at me with disappointment. He was Jewish, but liked tref too. Maybe next time he would get lucky. Their chowder is damn good. No wicked good and you might as well enjoy your life as much as you can without worrying about another man's underwear.
They never taste good.
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