Four or five men are carrying a huge sheet of rectangular glass across the sidewalk, from the curb to the open door of a building. The glass is not framed or contained in anything except the eight or ten hands struggling to keep it upright and unshattered and inched to its destination. “Now, that’s something you just don’t see anymore,” I think. “It would be nice if they were wearing workmen’s jumpsuits, like Texaco Service Men or the Pep Boys, though.”
I wait for a speeding car driven by a bandit with a stocking pulled over his head, his features smashed into Downs Syndromey unrecognizability, to careen off the street, onto the sidewalk, and through the glass, followed immediately by a siren-squealing black and white police car. An errant old-fashioned baby carriage, followed in teary pursuit by a frantic nanny in a cape, to roll straight for the glass, its screams Dopplered to greatest effect and rivalling the whines of any police car siren.
“You just don’t see that anymore,” I think, hoping for the high-speed chase and the nanny frenzy.
I sigh, and then one of my feet lands on a banana peel, the other on a rollerskate, and I trip-slide head-first into a three-tier wedding cake! But I have to laugh, and heave a huge sigh of relief, because if the cake hadn’t stopped me, I would’ve been crushed beneath the big black safe that crashed to the sidewalk moments later.
And then people would have said, of me, “You just don’t see her anymore.”
A baby with a big bowl of spaghetti upturned on its head laughs at me, though. So at least there’s that.