Please Don't Feed the Animals

So, I'm walking down to Citi Bank to withdraw some cash for the long weekend, when I pass Penn Station and there stands this big guy with a black back pack on his back. I didn't notice he was shouting until I got up closer to him (while pretending to mind my own business, of course) but as I approached I realized he was shouting at an even larger man in front of him.

"Fuck you, mutha fucka...cause you fuckin wit the wrong man..." he's screaming at the top of his lungs as New York's finest looks on, just as entertained as the rest of us. I'm still passing by, however, at a record low speed.

The larger man retorts, "Get the fuck atta heah! You not gon' do nothin anyway." At this point the first guy starts taking off his backpack, and I start moving faster. It's none of my business anyway. I wait with baited breath to hear gun shots behind me as I approach the crosswalk at 34th and 7th.

So, I'm standing at the corner of 34th and 7th in the crowed of hat-and-coated strangers waiting for the light to change and the traffic to clear when a man with rolling luggage walks by and accidentally drags his suitcase over another man's foot. He mumbles something, and the man with the maimed foot protests, "Well it's not my fuckin fault guy, you should watch where your goin." The victim has an accent, who the hell knows from where. Now the luggage baring tyrant turns around with a v-shaped brow, "I wasn't fuckin talkin to you! Why don't you just mind ya fuckin business!?" He starts to turn back towards Penn Station, and I'm assuming the spat has been settled. (Keep in mind this is LITERALLY 10 feet away from the backpack throwing guy.) Instead of the argument breaking up, the toe-victem decides to keep talking. What he says is now inaudible because I've started my decent from the explosive situation, inching my way into oncoming traffic because it seems like the smarter decision. All I hear is the clack of the suitcase-man's luggage handle to the wet pavement, and the rustle of a thick leather jacket coming off. A fight ensues as sirens sound in the background behind me (I'm halfway across the street by now) and I can only wonder which debacle the cops are coming to break up first.

As I cross the street, I'm thinking New York needs to take a nice long drag from the happy pipe and stop fighting with each other.

Then I walk into the Citi Bank ATM line and get cut in front of by a mousy brown haired woman wielding a roll-along suitcase. I bite my tongue and simply exclaim, "Happy Holidays" as the woman scowls at me from the corner of the first available machine.

QUESTION: Does luggage make you cranky, or do I just have a conflict magnet hanging from my ass cheeks?

Next fight I encounter, I'm jumpin in.