What Am I Looking At

May

piddlebucket:

face-down-asgard-up:

how-to-kiss-distinctly-american:

librarianpirate:

adamiss:

And that’s why I love this town…
This story takes place about four Sundays ago. It was the first really nice weekend of the season, and the brunchers were out in full force. Sundresses mingled with aviators as thick editions of The Gray Lady lay unread on tables and under seats. It was a red letter day for tomato juice and hollandaise.
My friend Shayna and I were catching up over omelets and coffee at the Petite Abeille on Hudson when we noticed something going on around the newspaper box on the street in front of us. If you look closely at this grainy phone shot, you might notice the legs of a gangly ten-year old behind the newspaper in the window. Yup, he’s curled up inside the box.
Why was a little boy sitting in a newspaper box? For our entertainment.
Every time an unsuspecting couple walked by, a group meandering through the village, a little boy holding his dad’s hand, this kid would swing the door open at just the right moment and roar at the unsuspecting passer(s)by. He was consistently scaring the bejesus out of people.
When I saw what was going on, I had two thoughts:
Who is this kid? Is this a regular thing for him? Does he go around the city, terrorizing pedestrians and unsuspecting newspaper boxes at every turn? Where are his parents?
How is he doing this (his timing was perfect)?
My questions were answered when I looked at the deli doorway adjacent to us and directly across from the box. There stood the boy’s father, casually leaning up against the door frame, maintaining eye contact with his son.
Dad was helping. He scanned the street, and each time a good candidate walked towards the box, the dad would quickly nod yes and the door would swing open with a high pitched “Roowwwrrrrr!!!”
We sat, and watched, and laughed hysterically. The boy got a group of German tourists (fanny packs paired with socked sandals, that’s how), a cute little girl in a tutu with her mom, and a bunch of yuppies who thought he was adorable, yet lacking the proper supervision.
This was very responsible mischief though. Unsuitable scare candidates - an elderly couple on matching four-volt rascals, a young mom pushing a Bugaboo - were discreetly denied by the dad with a quick finger wag and the boy would stay perched, waiting for the next victim.
This went on for a solid ten minutes. At one point, a guy walked up to the box and tried to take a copy of The Voice. What he must’ve thought was a faulty door was actually a tug of war between him and the boy. The man eventually won, but didn’t get a paper for his troubles.
The entire cafe became this boy’s audience. Table by table, people looked up from their pancakes and huevos rancheros, wondering what the commotion on the street was all about. We all turned our seats to watch, and would excitedly shush each other every time we saw a potential mark. “Oh! this one’s gonna be really good!” “Look at those two; how freaked out do you think they’ll be?” “I LOVE this kid!”
The boy eventually came out to a round of applause from the restaurant and joined his dad. As they walked down the street and disappeared around the corner, the man sitting next to us with his wife turned our way and smiled. “Only in New York.”

I’m still looking through my archives and this is still one of my favorite things ever.

I mean this in all honesty. No hyperbole whatsoever.
This is a dream husband. Could be ugly as sin. Could be stupider than a rock. Wouldn’t matter.
If he wants to take our kid out trolling people for kicks, he’s ok in my book.

face-down-asgard-up:

how-to-kiss-distinctly-american:

librarianpirate:

adamiss:

And that’s why I love this town…

This story takes place about four Sundays ago. It was the first really nice weekend of the season, and the brunchers were out in full force. Sundresses mingled with aviators as thick editions of The Gray Lady lay unread on tables and under seats. It was a red letter day for tomato juice and hollandaise.

My friend Shayna and I were catching up over omelets and coffee at the Petite Abeille on Hudson when we noticed something going on around the newspaper box on the street in front of us. If you look closely at this grainy phone shot, you might notice the legs of a gangly ten-year old behind the newspaper in the window. Yup, he’s curled up inside the box.

Why was a little boy sitting in a newspaper box? For our entertainment.

Every time an unsuspecting couple walked by, a group meandering through the village, a little boy holding his dad’s hand, this kid would swing the door open at just the right moment and roar at the unsuspecting passer(s)by. He was consistently scaring the bejesus out of people.

When I saw what was going on, I had two thoughts:

Who is this kid? Is this a regular thing for him? Does he go around the city, terrorizing pedestrians and unsuspecting newspaper boxes at every turn? Where are his parents?

How is he doing this (his timing was perfect)?

My questions were answered when I looked at the deli doorway adjacent to us and directly across from the box. There stood the boy’s father, casually leaning up against the door frame, maintaining eye contact with his son.

Dad was helping. He scanned the street, and each time a good candidate walked towards the box, the dad would quickly nod yes and the door would swing open with a high pitched “Roowwwrrrrr!!!”

We sat, and watched, and laughed hysterically. The boy got a group of German tourists (fanny packs paired with socked sandals, that’s how), a cute little girl in a tutu with her mom, and a bunch of yuppies who thought he was adorable, yet lacking the proper supervision.

This was very responsible mischief though. Unsuitable scare candidates - an elderly couple on matching four-volt rascals, a young mom pushing a Bugaboo - were discreetly denied by the dad with a quick finger wag and the boy would stay perched, waiting for the next victim.

This went on for a solid ten minutes. At one point, a guy walked up to the box and tried to take a copy of The Voice. What he must’ve thought was a faulty door was actually a tug of war between him and the boy. The man eventually won, but didn’t get a paper for his troubles.

The entire cafe became this boy’s audience. Table by table, people looked up from their pancakes and huevos rancheros, wondering what the commotion on the street was all about. We all turned our seats to watch, and would excitedly shush each other every time we saw a potential mark. “Oh! this one’s gonna be really good!” “Look at those two; how freaked out do you think they’ll be?” “I LOVE this kid!”

The boy eventually came out to a round of applause from the restaurant and joined his dad. As they walked down the street and disappeared around the corner, the man sitting next to us with his wife turned our way and smiled. “Only in New York.”

I’m still looking through my archives and this is still one of my favorite things ever.

I mean this in all honesty. No hyperbole whatsoever.

This is a dream husband. Could be ugly as sin. Could be stupider than a rock. Wouldn’t matter.

If he wants to take our kid out trolling people for kicks, he’s ok in my book.

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