One thing that grabs your attention in New York City is when someone comes running up behind you. A tall, gangly teenager wearing an ill-fitting private school uniform was enjoying his little jog through Midtown. Sure he was startling some as he passed, but I suppose it was all in good fun. He was around six feet tall with bright orange hair and not a lick over 150 pounds. A dead ringer for Napoleon Dynamite.
He was not the most coordinated lad, but he was having the time of his life zigging and zagging between the pedestrians. He dashed across Lexington onto 48th when a cup sitting in the middle of the sidewalk caught his eye.
I had no idea what might be in the cup, but the prancing prince was determined to find out the hard way. Just before he was about to pass the cup, he cocked his foot back and gave the cup a mighty kick.
A stream of some type of icy red slurpee/smoothie liquid shot skyward covering the teen from crotch to hairline. He stopped, stunned by the misfortune that was shining down upon him. He seemed unable to piece together what had happened.
First he tried to stare down the cup and then the people who were watching him. His head was darting back and forth, but I couldn’t be sure exactly what the kid was looking for. He even looked up, still not fully contemplating the events he had rained down upon himself.
It was obvious that the boy had transferred all the contents of the cup onto his darkening navy blue uniform and he was in search of someone to blame.
He finally let forth a little high-pitched growl, snorted and kicked at the air before stuffing his hands into his pockets and stomping off down the street. The sad part I noticed as he marched down the block was that the offending cup had actually landed upright in the same position it was in before Napoleon had delivered his punishing kick of death.
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