Part I: The Market Report
The Farmer's market, when I finally got up to frequent it, was bustling. My first stop was at the fish stand, where I bought a pound of scallops. While in line, I joked with a man about the system they have at the fish stand, in which one person weighs your fish, while another person rings you up for it. Much like a supermarket, they have divided the tasks into different jobs. Much like a supermarket, this system sucks. You get your order placed in a minute, then wait five minutes in line to pay for it.
Next to the fish stand was a woman selling zucchini and zucchini florets (I bought the zucchini but passed on the florets), and the first asparagus of the season. It was dark green in the stem, dark purple at the florets, and only four dollars for a bunch. I almost bit into a fresh stalk I was so excited.
My last three stops were at the mushroom stand for a half pound of “specials,” at the bread stand for our usual cranberry scones (which we would eat warm with a mug of Columbian coffee a short time later), and at the east end flower stand for a bunch of buttercups and lily of the valley. There were plentiful new garlic and ramps this week, but I forgot to get them. There were also fiddleheads, but I over did it with them last year, so I think I’ll pass this season.
Part II: If I Had a Hammer…
We spent our afternoon running errands, from SoHo to 34th Street and back again. I picked up some pants at Loehmann’s. Somehow, I also picked up a panhandler when crossing from 9th Avenue to 8th Avenue on 32nd Street. He saw us coming, asked some opening salvo (something along the lines of, “Hey man, can you help me out? I’m looking to use my 'go card' and wanna get home to see my momma"), then fell in step with us, me on one side, Shawn on the other.
He told me that it was his 32nd birthday on Easter, and that he had recently been baptized. He told me that he had just gotten out of jail, and his momma was looking at him like she didn’t even know him. He told me that he was special, he was different—he loved people, and he was a born-again Christian. The whole time I’m nodding along with him, not answering him either way, as this is an “in” for a panhandler. He told me the name of his psychiatrist, just in case I was “one of them,” which I didn't exactly get. He basically told me his whole damn panhandler sob story that I’ve heard in a hundred different versions from a hundred different shitheads, and the whole time Shawn is snickering and making faces and honestly, the guy was funny. Unintentionally. He gave up on us one block and one avenue later, just as I was beginning to get irritated.
His parting remark, after again asking if we could “help him out” was, and I quote, “The cross is on your back, the nails are in your pocket, the hammer is in your hand, and I know you pray every day.”
Part III. Yer Birthday.
We spent the evening with Drew and Sara, over at their place, in what amounted to the most casual birthday party ever. Since Sara recently hurt her lower back, and is unable to really get out and about, we decided to stay in. Shawn and I brought two bottles of red, and Drew and Sara supplied Joe’s pizza and cupcakes from Magnolia bakery. It was so nice to shrug off all the formality and pomp of The Birthday Party and instead do it like we did when we were kids (not counting the wine, of course). Shawn and I had been craving pizza lately anyway, and of course we’d never pass up a Magnolia cupcake. We ate and talked and drank our wine, chatting up until about 11:00pm, when Shawn and I started to glaze over, and the shenanigans from the night before began to catch up with us. We took the 1 Train home, the rhythm of the subway car gently rocking us to sleep.
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