Arctic winds that felt fresh off a glacier blew across the avenues and streets of New York last week. Customers along my delivery route seemed concerned about my red hands.
“Oh, they don’t hurt,” I assured.
“Do you have gloves?” a woman at a small real estate firm asked on Thursday as I stood inside the small office cluttered with papers and receipts galore.
“Yes, but they slow me down.” I have to take them off to text in names after a delivery is made.”
“Be sure to put on lotion,” the woman remarked like a mother.
Many of the businesses to which I deliver to are bars and restaurants. I have made friends with a pretty brunette who signs her name “Shannon” upon my manifest when in run into the dive-bar that she attends to on 2nd Avenue and 22nd Street. I have concluded that male messengers in New York City are treated as sex slaves to the women who greet them for signature. Shannon has not made any passes, which is why I like her, and wonder if she and I are the only two people left in NYC where it seems everyone is having casual sex with anyone who stops by.
The gay men terrify me. One gentleman at a place that gives authentic-looking hair-pieces offered to show me his cock one morning. (I swear.)
Young Mexican men are often the only ones working in the swanking restaurants along 27th Street when I stop by promptly at at 9:30 am with their precious pay checks in hand.
I feel like Donald Trump in a board room sometimes. These Mexican men seemed dazed by the radiant red skin that was that shade last week in the cold blast that came through town. One black -haired gentleman offered me coffee on Friday.
“No thanks,” I replied, “I’ll only have to pee and there is no where to pee for free in New York City.”