When Jaymes's Forgetabble Friend Finally Called About The Job In Central Park

"Did I say 'job'. Ooo dear, I meant a little jog. Why don't we have a jog. In Central Park?"

"I'd be happy to jog in Central Park," I responded, "and I hope I get killed by a very rapid bicycler!"

"Don't instill fear about Central Park, you fool!"

"I just want to be dragged and straggled into it again, like a piece of mutton over and under a bicycle wheel, again and again. It seems like the whole thing has been discovered. There's no real ghost places."

"Why does your life revolve around ghosts?"

"Why does your stupid city have blue laws?"

"That's not an answer!" 

And this, so far, has not been literature, but some kind of vapid dialog. Feeling that his pencil had become blunt from illustrating sweet nothings, he quickly retracted and put away, revealing in the act several other writing implements beneath his coat.
 
"There's no blue laws," said someone, from Yelp.com.
 
"Because this is the communal bloody kind of reliability you need when you've been hurt by the blue! Misinfor-fucking-mation."

With this less sophisticated chit-chattery, in progress, I slowly went to a coffee shop, namely Starbucks whereupon I ordered my very big iced latte (just like in Italy), and gave my name as Ivan. Yes. Brown. Ivan. Well, I didn't want anyone to call me a Vagina, so.

IT WAS THE SLOWEST FUCKING STARBUCKS IN THE UNIVERSE OMG!

Seriously, the opening song from Roseanne began to play in my head, and 30 minutes later, only John Goodman had been introduced.

"Latte for Ivan," said someone very poshly, and I said thank you and ran out.

Finally I went to buy my gin, and I seriously wondered how I could have misjudged so terribly as to walk into that Starbucks. I sipped my coffee angrily, muttering about how it should freeze the fuck up in New York and stop being so bloody hot all the time. But I didn't want to tell Bill Murray that he was too warm.