In a Pickle

One of the best things about being a professional Wandering Jew is that I get to go on all sorts of seemingly frivolous jaunts about town in order to gather material for my project. Because I’m not shackled to a desk job, and because my two-year-old son is responsible enough now to take care of himself at home for a few hours without supervision, I’m free to do whatever my little spleen desires whenever it desires it.
So the other day I took the F train down to the Second Avenue stop, exited at First Avenue, and made my way south en route to my destination. A friend of mine had raved about the product, and I happily skipped south in search of the perfect pickle, preferably proferred by Peter Riegert just beyond this particular point.
Alas, the young man who manned the pickle buckets bore no resemblance to Peter Riegert, but he was nice enough to let me come around back so that I could get a better view. I bought three, but didn’t devour them right away, because I thought they deserved to be photographed in a more flattering pose and in a prettier setting.
cool as cucumbers

They were so accommodating. So jocular. Not once did they make any off-color jokes about alternative uses. And not once did any of them leer at me and say, “Eat me!” So when it came time to actually do so, I felt a little sad. But I couldn’t have just put them in a jar, like a medical oddity, and observed them, could I?
P.S. In case you’re wondering (and I know you are), I got two “half-done” and one “spicy”.