Across the table, on a tufted distressed leather sofa, sat a scruffy-looking man, probably in his late twenties, his back pressed firmly against the window. A peripheral glance suggested he was wearing a Chicago Bulls t-shirt, but a closer look revealed “Picasso Bulls,” accompanied by an abstract, disfigured, rearranged bull’s head.
This neighborhood – this whole city, really – is pricey, and only getting pricier. Every morning and every night you’ll see thousands of people just like this man, casually-dressed, no clear signs or plans of employment, flooding into the coffee shops in the afternoons and the bars at night.
Catch yourself before asking how they’re existing in a place like this, remaining so calm in the face of mounting pressure and draining demands, whether they’re a trust fund baby, sold a company already, got a book deal, or are just bumming around until the last dollar is gulped; if you’re there to witness it, to ask those questions, the same are being asked of you.
Yet, on the surface, we’re all placid. Budding social gadflies. Legends to be, all of us, in our own minds.