Yah... That happened.

As I wrote about previously, I am a paradox: historically a decent athlete as well as a fairly frequent klutz. To my credit, it is rare that the two exist within the same realm, thus allowing me to (mostly) not injure myself too harshly in the throws of sporty goodness.

Though not a week had passed since I had run into Chase’s glass door, I considered myself recovered. Both internally as well as from the intense amusement my coworkers had been able to glean from the situation (after making sure I didn’t have a concussion). Jason and I decided to head outside for one of our epic bro-time breaks. Since I am partly fish, I perpetually have something to drink with me at all times. A water bottle in my bag, a can of soda in my hand, or, that particular day, a cup of office coffee - with no lid. You see where this is going, don’t you?

We walked around the corner to our favorite stoop: an office building occupied by very crabby people who were very selfish about sharing their stoop, even if they weren’t actively using it. After we had been out of the office far too long for a “short break”, we headed back to our own building - a large 30-some story high rise in the middle of Midtown Manhattan. Being from the west (and best?) coast, it had taken me a long time to truly grasp the usefulness of revolving doors. Once I understood that they were mostly useful for keeping the heat inside the building, while keeping the blistering cold outside, I realized why I had so very rarely ever encountered them. In Southern California, there is no need to keep the cold weather outside. To us, 65 degrees Fahrenheit is the appropriate temperature to “bundle up.”

Jason went to military school and is quite the gentleman, so he always allows me to enter a building, room, or store first. I stepped into my compartment of the revolving door and turned my head to see if Jason had made it into the next. As I turned my head back towards the front, I noticed it was my time to exit and stepped out into the lobby. The end.

You know that’s not what actually happened. That is what happens with normal, fully functional, non-klutzy adults - and also what trespasses in my happiest dreams where I conclude a day without incident or injury. Reality (and my extremely magnetic relationship with silly accidents) dictated a very different sequence of events. What I had actually seen when I saw my opening was the glass door in which the revolver was contained. And when I stepped into the “lobby” I had actually taken two steps very confidently straight into that very solid glass. My knuckles slammed into the glass as my coffee leaped out of its uncovered container and happily danced down the previously spotless glass.

As is the nature of working temporary assignments, co-workers come and go. As Edward Norton’s Fight Club character would say, they are, in some capacity, single serving. Some of the projects last a week; some, 4 months. And if the universe’s luck algorithm favors you, you will be blessed with the undesirable coworkers only on the former.

One of the shortest projects I decided to undertake was a 13 day project. The 150 of us had all (idiotically) committed to working 12-15 hour days for 13 days in a row without a single day off. If that wasn’t bad enough, sitting next to random people you have just met for the duration of the assignment can be a form of hell that even Dante hadn’t imagined. Luckily, Jason had claimed the seat to my right. To my left was Kelvin - someone whose face I vaguely recognized from a former project and who had previously struck me as a tad bit slow on the social uptake. As with every instance of judging someone after an extremely limited experience, I decided that I owed Kelvin some more time before I knew for sure.

A couple of days passed. I still wasn’t sure what I thought of the guy. Then, on our third day, a subject came up that is inevitable as a queer girl sitting between two straight men: strip clubs. Jason and I don’t have anything against strip clubs, but neither of us is very excited about the thought of going. Neither of us will ever go unless a good friend’s semi-important event dictates that our attendance is mandatory. Kelvin, who lives in Jersey, started to name establishments in Jersey that he frequents – frequently. I wasn’t sure just how frequently this decently attractive, educated, single man in his 30s felt the need to pay people to give him attention. Then he told me why he liked strip clubs. “It’s just a nice place to go and unwind, to relax. You know, the ambiance.” The best part? He was serious. At least the men who tell me they like strip clubs for the chicken wings know they aren’t fooling anyone. I won’t blame someone for enjoying a good view while eating some damn good wings, but this guy really believed the “ambiance” was the selling point for a post work, relaxing, and unwinding trip to a strip club.

I thought no one could top this absurd conversation. Then the girl to his left, Dory, did something to turn my expectations completely upside down. (Before you continue reading, keep in mind we are all attorneys. Which means we all had to get a bachelor’s degree in something, and spend 3 years in law school, then pass the bar exam, and become certified by a committee on character and fitness.)

Dory: Do you want some Shrimp Chips? Me: No, thank you. I’m vegetarian. Dory: Shrimp isn’t meat. It’s fish.

I figured she was someone (like many who don’t spend much time around vegetarians) who was just not well versed in the differences between “vegetarian”, “pescatarian”, “omnivore” and “carnivore”. No big deal, I see it all the time. Nothing a little vegetarianism-education can’t fix!

Me: I’m a vegetarian, which  means I don’t eat meat of any kind. Dory: Well, fish isn’t meat. I went to Catholic school growing up, and on the days where we weren’t allowed to eat meat, they served fish, so fish isn’t meat.

Okay, so she had a religious education that maybe defined things a bit differently. I can see how she might be confused. Hell, I’m sure if I was told fish wasn’t meat by my school every day for 12 years, I might not understand the difference either. Again, not a huge deal. Nothing a little more vegetarianism-education can’t fix… right?

Me: I think that may be a religious definition, but in actuality, meat is generally defined as the flesh of an animal for consumption. Dory: Fish aren’t animals.

Okay. I am officially stumped. Fish aren’t animals? Jason and I looked at each other. Maybe she meant fish aren’t mammals? That could be an easy to explain oversight?

Me: Fish aren’t animals? Dory: No. They’re fish. Me: Right, but fish are part of the animal kingdom. They aren’t birds, or mammals, but they fall under the umbrella of animals. As do humans. Dory: No. Fish aren’t animals. I’ll prove it to you. I’ll Google it.

Jason, Kelvin, and I are just staring in utter disbelief at each other at this point. Jason, who has a 5 year old son, called home to ask him if he would call a fish an animal. He was doing what most 5 year olds do on a beautiful summer day – he was playing. While we were waiting to get a text back from his wife with the answer, Dory piped up again, her face a mixture of shock and disbelief.

Dory: Guys, Google says fish is an animal. But they’re wrong.

How does someone go through 19 years of schooling, 7 of which were college-level or higher, in America and not know that a fish is an animal? I know the American education system is far, far behind most of the rest of the world, but this much?

We gave up. What else do you do?

So, while surrounded for 15 hours a day by fully licensed New York attorneys, I learned two things: strip clubs have a great “ambiance” and “fish aren’t animals”. 

I am historically a very active person. I played basketball, ran track and threw shot put, jumped hurdles, was in marching band, and danced competitively throughout my teenage years. I am also extremely adept at hurting myself - on open cabinet doors, while cleaning a cheese grater, and while walking up flights of stairs - in flat shoes, no less.  This combination of extreme hand-eye coordination and klutziness brings much amusement - and worry - to my loved ones. And much like a man’s wallet never being without a condom, my wallet contains Band-Aid brand band aids of three different varieties and sizes.

My friend, Tachi, is someone who shares this particular klutzy trait. After living with Tachi and her family (story for another day) for a year, I realized my klutziness had compounded with hers and rarely a day went by that one of us didn’t need an ace bandage, a super sized band-aid, an ice pack (paired, of course with a hot water bottle), or neosporin and bactine. When I moved back to New York after that year, I noticed that I was doing a little bit better. It became rare that I needed to use the band-aids in my wallet, and I think my neosporin has since expired - still full. I was sure I had grown out of it - finally. As (rarely) happens, I was proven wrong. Twice, in fact, in two days.

I am a creature of habit. Give me a routine and I will never leave its path it unless something immovable forces change. For example, my shower routine has not changed for at least 8 years:

Shampoo in. Shampoo out.  Conditioner in.  Face wash on.  Face wash off.  Body soap on. Shave armpits.  (Shave legs - if it’s that kind of day).  Body soap off.  Conditioner out.  Final rinse.  Towel on.  Q-tip in. Q-tip out. Face moisturizer on.  Deodorant on.  Fructis leave in conditioner in.  Towel off.  Clothes on.

If something in that routine gets disturbed, I almost have to restart the entire process. On my last project, I walked to work a particular way when I exited the subway. Part of my walk involved the southwest corner of West 53rd street and 7th ave. I would walk from Broadway on the south side of 53rd and round a sharp corner when I hit 7th ave. to head south. This particular corner is graced by a Chase - the most prominent bank in NYC. If you don’t see a Chase on every two blocks, you may very well not be in NYC anymore.

This particular Chase’s 7th ave entrance has an incredibly heavy glass door. The architect, contractor, and construction workers all must have been stoned together for the entire time they worked on this building because the door swings outward onto the sharp corner. The geniuses also constructed the wall on 53rd so that someone rounding the corner has no way of knowing the door exists just around the bend. (5 points to anyone who sang the word “river” after the tail end of that sentence)

Here is the devilish door: 

I have knowledge of the existence of this door, and also it’s extreme heft. On more than one occasion, Jason has had to help my struggling body as I try to exit the ATM bay onto the street. Every morning I round this corner. And every morning, I make it to work unscathed. Until that day.   I was minding my own business, not thrilled to be having to go to work on this beautiful morning, but enjoying my time outside during my walk to the fiery pits of hell I felt I could call my second home. Suddenly - BAM, my head felt as though I had just walked into a very heavy, very fast-moving glass door. Oh, wait - I just had. The muscular man over a foot taller than me and at least a hundred pounds heavier than me had done what I had believed to be impossible. He one-handedly swung open the door with the ease of the Taco Bell Chihuahua moving through a mesh doggie-door. And I had walked straight into it.

I walked the rest of the way to work, without incident, though shaken and slightly upset that the man had barely glanced at me as he gave me what felt like a distant relative to a broken nose. With more-than-human strength, comes certain responsibility. This man clearly missed Uncle Ben’s memo? 

Yah, that happened. 

Staring at a desk for 10-12 hours a day sounds like a great way to make money without much effort... until you actually sit at a desk for 10-12 hours with one half-hour lunch break. The cons to this arrangement become quite glaring. Some of these come to light within the first day. For example, realizing that no amount of music shuffling actually keeps you entertained - even massive music confusion (shuffling K'naan, Owl City, and Imogen Heap) doesn't keep you on your toes as the hours drag by. Other revelations only become noticeable as time goes by. For example, to stay awake most of us always have coffee and some snacks on our desks. The half-and-half is crucial for a coffee drinker like myself - milk, no matter the fat content just isn't the same. The snacks (to be of the delicious variety) need to be crunchy and preferably cheese-flavored. And definitely that snacking at your desk to stay awake and alert leads to weight gain - a gain I obliviously did not foresee, nor did I notice until two weeks into the project.

In order to stave off monumental weight gain - and also insanity - I take breaks. Every couple of hours, Jason and I take a walk. Leaving the building, even just to walk outside the building in a one-block radius is helpful in ways I never imagined. We get away from the recycled air blowing from ineffective air conditioning vents to breathe the freshly humid, sticky, god-awful air outside. And we get to do the one thing that NY is the best place for: people-watching. Being reminded over and over again that there is no better place to find this degree of variety in a city's inhabitants.

On my last project, Jason and I decided to sit on the steps of a building neighboring ours. We had claimed this stoop as ours and often sat there watching people go by. The woman in a skirt and high heels riding a bicycle. The woman whose hideous outfit will likely end up Buzzfeed as the picture accompanying the article "Gaga's shock at woman's outrageous outfit! (Video)"  The couple that everyone knows are tourists by the fanny pack, sun burn, and chest-sized map of Manhattan leading them to walk directly onto dog doo-doo and into other tourists. (We New Yorkers have amazing reflexes - if dodging obstacles on a sidewalk were an Olympic sport, we would only be bested by India or China). I had always enjoyed this favorite past time of the Big Apple, but never in the past 4 years had I realized that I may be the subject of other people's participation in the games.

Until that day.

Jason and I were in the middle of a silly conversation, as is usual for us to break up the monotony of the day when neither of us have anything of substance to report. All of a sudden, I felt a presence directly behind me. I turned to stare directly into a face, connected to a body that had bent over to speak to me. He was a man in his 40s, white, and (to be kind) not particularly attractive.

Man [as he touches my shoulder]: I'm sorry if you've noticed my wife and I staring at you the past few days...

I look to my left. I look to my right. I then look all around. There is no wife in sight.

Man: It's just that you look like a darker version of our daughter and we want her to have your haircut.  Me: .... Man: I know it's creepy to take a picture of a woman on the street, but I just wanted to tell you why we keep staring.. [Man leaves - no woman joins him]

Where to begin? The uninvited shoulder touch? The imaginary wife? The invisible daughter? The fact that he needed to tell the brown girl on the street that she wasn't white? How old is his daughter anyhow that he would still have decision-making power over her haircut? (And if she is that young, do you really want to give her a jarring faux hawk haircut to go with her cute size 2T elastic-banded baby jeans?)

By the way, thank you sir, I had not realized that I have spent my entire life incorrectly believing that the SoCal sun and my skin just had a great tanning arrangement.

So yah..  that happened.

This hair paired with a onesie.. fetch?

America is indeed a melting pot. One of the most apparent examples of this is the amazingly endless variety of (mostly) delicious foods you can find in any decently metropolitan city.

New York City is as diverse as all the movies show it to be. It is full of people that hail from places as near as Brooklyn and as far away as Pakistan, Brazil, and Oz. Okay, maybe not Oz, but if it existed I'm sure you'd find a little neighborhood in Queens full of Scarecrow's cousins. And as is the case anywhere, with all of these people, comes incredible food. Though NYC has literally dozens of restaurants, bars, and delis per block, one of the most amazing parts of the food culture here is the wonderous food trucks and carts. More specifically - the halal trucks with their street meat gyros, falafel, and chicken and rice. As a vegetarian, I am often told at most carts that the falafel is sold out. That doesn't stop me from asking the next cart half a block away.

Since my girlfriend, Mira, is amazing, I usually make my co-workers jealous with the packed lunches she makes me. You know the type. Made with the kind of love that drives a person to wake up 3 hours earlier than their work day demands in order to make fresh salad and sammiches for the woman she loves, complete with occasional post it love notes stuck to the Tupperware lid. Every so often, however, the salivating caused by the delicious smells from the food carts cannot be ignored any longer, and my healthy salad is forsaken for a spur-of-the-moment decision, wrapped in enough guilt to make a Catholic priest's head spin.

One of these spur-of-the-moment decisions happened while on my last project which placed me in Midtown West for three weeks. After two weeks of walking by The Halal Guys on 53rd and 7th multiple times a day and watching Jason scarf down multiple chicken and rices, I couldn't resist any longer. As Jason headed toward the smoothie cart for his pre-meal snack, I decided to join my friend Kelsey at the halal cart. I stood in line, more than eagerly awaiting my turn. Finally, after what seemed like 45 minutes (realistically about 6, but you know what the combination of hunger and amazing food smells can do to a person's sense of time) it was my turn.

Me: Falafel and rice please Mr. Halal Guy: Onions and peppers? Me (the South Indian girl): Yes, please - extra onions if you could. Thanks. Mr. Halal Guy: White sauce? Me: Yes, please. Mr. Halal Guy (as he is already starting to pour it): Hot sauce?  Me: Yes, please... Can I have more? Mr. Halal Guy (looks at me, hesitates, pours a bit more): Okay?  Me: Uhm.. a bit more please. Mr. Halal Guy (as he covers the rest of  the visible rice with hot sauce): Okay?  Me: Perfect, thank you. Can I get a couple pieces of pita too? Thanks.

Kelsey and I met up with Jason and walked around the corporate jungle in search of a place to enjoy our food outside. Sadly we found none (read: we were far too excited about our food to do more than a 30 second scan of the visible half block in our eyeline). We decided to meet Jessica upstairs in the sad looking room that was this office's excuse for a break room. As I tore open the bag to get to the deliciousness that lies within, all I could think of is a quote I had seen scribbled on the wall of Ample Hills Creamery, the best store made ice cream in all of Brooklyn - "I love you. Get in my belly."

With all the excitement of a five-year old (or even a grown woman in her 20s) in FAO Schwarz, I gushed to Jason about the hot sauce that had turned the entire aluminum pan (and everything in it) red. He gave me a look that read "oh no.. you didn't...did you?" Jason knows that my traditional Indian upbringing has developed into a love for spiciness that manifests itself in my eating raw habanero peppers, dousing my food in Sriracha, and starting every dish I cook with jalapenos. I wasn't concerned - Jason is, after all, a protective brother when it comes to me. He always has my best interests in mind, no questions asked. I unfolded the sides of the pan and took off the paper top. His mouth dropped.

Jason: D, be careful. Me: Yo, you know me. I got this. Jason: Yeah but these guys are different. Trust me. Their hot sauce is hot.

Kelsey and Jessica join Jason in his warnings, though their not having had the hot sauce at this particular cart meant that their warnings went unheeded, chalked up to the fact that neither of them much appreciates the scorching levels of spicy that I live for.

How hot could it be? This wasn't Jackson Heights, where the entire South Asian population settled in the immigration influx. Where everything you eat is categorically high level of spicy by default. This was Midtown. A lot of corporate suits - generally white men - who think Flamin' Hot Cheetos need a gallon of milk as a chaser, and tourists who were only interested in photographing the food to show to the folks back home. Eating a bite of a Thai chili causes panic attacks and heart palpitations. Wusses, all of them. How bad could it really be?

I dug in.

All eyes were on me and my red rice. I smiled, looked around while shaking my head in amusement and swallowed my first bite. The smile started to fall, and my friends weren't breathing. Had it happened? Had I just encountered the third ever experience of my life in which I had been bested by a hot sauce? The first experience was in a bar in Baltimore with one of my best friends Tachi, when my loose hand poured too much Voodoo Hot Sauce all over my half of the quesadilla. Tachi had to coach me through the process of water followed by fries followed by beer and water again to try to lessen the sweat dripping from my forehead. The second was when my law school best friend and cooking buddy, Anthony, bought me a bottle of Da Bomb, a hot sauce with a Scoville score of 1.5 million (15 times the scoville units of a habanero pepper). I decided to put a single drop (yes, it came with a pipette) into a huge pot of pasta and succeeded in pepper bombing my entire apartment and almost killing both my roommate and myself in the process. For about a day and a half after the incident, our eyes stayed red and coughing fits were not uncommon.

I was in denial. Surely this couldn't be happening. It was me, after all - queen of hot sauces, champion of spicy. I wiped my nose (which was starting to drip after the first bite) and readied another forkful.

Jessica: Don't eat it!  Jason: Seriously D... don't.

I stared at the rest of my plate, the remaining $5.93 left from my 6 dollar purchase, pleading with me to remember that the wastage of food is a grave offense in my book. I picked up a piece of pita, checked it for any speckles of red, and decided to keep going. Then it happened. My ears started to ring, the heat reached my ears, and my glasses started to slide down my nose due to the sweat that crashed through my bangs like thousands of tons of water through a badly constructed dam. With what I foolishly hoped was some restraint I half-sauntered, half-sprinted to the communal fridge where there was salvation in the form of milk. Ignoring the office manager's sign reminding the employees that milk was ONLY for coffee and tea, I poured out a full cup of whole milk, drank it with the quart in my hand, and filled it up again before heading back to my food. My water cup and Cherry Coke Zero sat sadly to the side, knowing they had been benched for the rest of the foreseeable future. The Jordan of the hot sauce game had arrived.

At this point, my friends were sure this was a bad idea. They individually expressed  their concern - very smart, logical, and rational arguments as other lawyers tend to do. Then Jason said it.  "You just CAN'T eat that! And no, that isn't a challenge!"

It was too late. The phrase that probably would drive my usually restrained and reasonable brain into “jump out of a plane into the ocean without a parachute” mode - you can't. His attempt to save me from hot sauce annihilation backfired, and no amount of insistence on his part that a challenge wasn't offered could change my mind. I would eat the rest of the rice. Challenge. Accepted.

I kept eating. One bite. One swig of milk. One bite. One swig. One bite. Two swigs.

Kelsey, Jessica, and Jason kept staring, words of caution at the ready in case I decided to waver in my resolve. I didn't. I was determined. Besides two extra large falafel balls (which were also covered in red) and a few pieces of lettuce, I ate it all. The brown-skinned girl turned a beet red (yes, apparently that is possible contrary to what the past few decades had taught me) and numerous napkins were littered around the table, soaked with sweat from my forehead. The top of my head was emitting so much heat through my hair that I could have heated 230 Fifth's entire rooftop bar and my sinuses had never experienced such a purge in their life.

The rest of the story isn't worth telling. I spent the rest of the workday feeling like the war was being waged inside of my stomach - and I was the Confederacy. I went back to The Halal Guys last night, out of nostalgia and a little bit of doubt as to whether my previous defeat had actually been as crushing as I remembered.

...I got hot sauce on the side.

Yah...that happened.

They mean it, they are different.

In this glorious economic market we seem to be faced with currently, I have found myself stuck with a New York State bar license that cost me around two hundred thousand dollars with no permanent employment to speak of. As most attorneys in this predicament (and sadly, many are), I have stooped to the lowest of legal jobs a licensed J.D. can acquire - a contract attorney.

This title - "Contract Attorney" - is deviously deceptive. It holds all the dreams of the naive and idealistic youth watching My Cousin Vinny - no law firm to restrict and constrict you, no hierachy to climb, no title of "Partner" to aspire to, and the ability to take any case that strikes your fancy, working whatever hours you desire. Sadly, nothing is farther from the truth.

When two big entities sue each other, there are documents requested from each side, ordered by the court in the form of a discovery order. To fill such an order, the corporation must dig deep into all business-related correspondence (mostly in the form of IMs and emails), presentations, spreadsheets, and accounting workbooks to find anything that is responsive to the court-mandated discovery order. The fancy law firm retained by such a corporation barely has the manpower to go through the hundreds of thousands of documents necessary for one client, let alone the millions of documents required for their full case load. So, as is the nature of humans, they outsource. They strike deals with staffing agencies that specialize in this particular kind of discovery. Agencies with lists and lists of sad unemployed contract attorneys. If you are lucky, they call you late one night to demand that you report early the next morning at one of their locations to start the glorious job of document review.

Document review, as I am sure you've deduced by now, consists of a lot of reading. Wait for it. There's more. You generally spend 10-12 hours a day (and most Saturdays) dressed in business casual attire in a big cubicle (called a pod) with about 12 other reviewers.

Part of a pod:

You stare at a screen, hooked up to a computer that allows for no internet access or application. Except for the Calculator, which is primarily used by reviewers to reaffirm the (monetary) reason they deal with the 12 hours reading through nearly a thousand documents a day, searching for a clue as to whether the document can be used for this particular litigation. Then the search for confidentiality. Then the search for attorney-client privilege. Then the search for redactions. Then, if your client is like most, the rules are changed and the steps are repeated - this time with the new protocol.

Pretty intriguing right? Well it gets better. The projects projected to finish in two weeks often take eight, the clients whose projects are projected to be six months often settle the law suit a week into it, and the "8-10 hours a day" requirement often becomes "a minimum of 10". Which wouldn't be so terrible if they didnt insist on the "no time and a half for overtime of any kind" philosophy. For this particular kind of job, you are considered a temporary employee - which means no health benefits, no stability, and shall we say, a very "flexible" schedule.

During the first project I worked on, the agency projected that the project would be over in two weeks. As I reported to the location confirmed the night before, I noticed Jason, an old buddy from law school, already waiting in the briefing room. After training was over, we headed to our pods, and luckily found two empty seats side by side. We didn't realize it then, but we must have been gifted all the luck in midtown Manhattan to get to sit next to another sane lawyer (more on that - and Lisa - in a post to come).

Since there are quite literally hundreds of thousands of documents, we get a batch of a thousand at a time. As we started our batches that day, I noticed my batch was full of email correspondence to and from Mr. Co-President of our client's company. Hundreds of emails. Emails marked high importance about the fantasty hockey league that MUST materialize because the draft is happening within the next two weeks. Emails to and from Mr. Co-President's wife about the planned extension for the already massive house - yes I was lucky enough to see floor plans. Emails about golf courses and elations about golfing 2 points under par for the particular course. Emails to and from the contractor about the pool remodel. Emails about renting a 500 foot sailboat in the Caribbean and sailing it without a professional crew (that email focused very much around whether or not one needed experience sailing to sail a boat - "it can't be that hard, right guys? I've been in a kayak before...why wont anyone rent us their boat?"). Emails with salary complaints - I *totally* understand why $434,700 a year with $300,000 in stock options isn't enough for someone who focuses on such demanding and important issues daily. Emails delving into far too personal issues with his college-aged son.

...and maybe 20 emails relating to business matters.

Since ending that project, I miss Mr. Co-President, his stay-at-home wife, and their far-too-indulged son. I know them so well now though, I'll just wait on my Christmas dinner invitation to catch up with them around their new pool.

So, as is unfortunately the case with many professional Brooklynites, a daily commute to the city has become necessary. For those who are fortunate enough to live close to the 4/5, the pain of the commute to the fiery pits of Midtown is lessened by the express nature of the line - but only barely. For those who haven't had the distinct pleasure of that particular trip, it is one that will drive a staunch atheist to pray with conviction to Allah, Jesus, and Krishna in succession for a monsoon of Febreeze rain to fall inside the train. It is crowded. It is smelly. And it is full of characters.

I left the apartment half an hour late that morning. 8 am and it was already over 85 degrees with levels of humidity you'd only expect to find in a tropical rainforest in the Congo. As can be imagined, the crowded platform wasn't much better (Read: the combination of smells, bodies, and stale air stuck underground made for a boiling tunnel that was unbearable - and inescapable - at best)

As is my custom when heading into my (temporary) corporate sell-out job, I was wearing my usual business casual attire - an H&M button-up with tight women's boot-cut slacks and men's shoes. A canvas shoulder bag hanging across my chest, my Samsung Galaxy S3 (read, mini-tablet) perching precariously out of my right back pocket (headphones plugged into it), and Greg Laswell singing directly into my eardrums.

Because of my tardiness that morning, the musical chairs game to which I am accustomed at 7:30 am (and also quite good at) was not even being played. As my 5'4" frame stood smushed against a filthy train door and an incredibly tall man's behind, I counted down the stops to my first chance of more than a hair's breath of space - Atlantic Ave/Barclays Center. As hoards of bodies pushed past me to exit the train, the few dozen waiting to enter looked extra menacing - their collective goal of making it onto this train not something I would be able to stand in the way of. I started to inch towards the middle of the car, bobbing and weaving under long arms and between backs and bags.

Suddenly there was a pull on my headphones and I realized that I had mere seconds to find whose belongings my cord has decided to leave me for - the edge of a woman's purse, the rod of someone's umbrella, or the button of a man's half rolled sleeve. To my surprise, tracing the cord with my eyesight didn't lead to any of the normal occurrences. Rather, a tall man in his 50s with a blank baseball cap ineffectively covering his face was holding my cord between his fingers.

I reached out and as I picked the cord out of his hands, I looked directly into his half covered eyes to let him know he had been caught. That today was not the day he will be getting a new free phone. That even though crowded subway car during rush hour had given him more of a chance at success, he had clearly picked the wrong target this time.

He looked directly back into mine. With eyes so accusatory that for a moment I believed he was the victim, and the always-ready, half-hearted apology all New Yorkers have on the tip of their tongue almost found its way to the air conditioned subway air.

I wanted to give him a tip. A tidbit of advice that, though unsolicited, might improve both his business venture and also potentially his life as a free man. To tell him that his skills needed to be improved if he was going to be a successful thief. That maybe he should practice on unassuming tourists in Times Square before taking on New Yorkers who can sniff out a pickpocket like a police dog sniffs out a pound of skunk weed badly packed in a sandwich bag - and not even the freezer kind Ziploc has perfected. That the phone that was essentially glued to my right butt cheek wasn't the best target. That the moment my headphones were disconnected, his attempt would be discovered, and his goal thwarted.

...And maybe also that if caught mid-thievery, it probably would be best not to give a look that, if voiced audibly, would have sounded something like - "My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father: prepare to die."

Yah... that happened.

Thank you NY MTA for making me aware: