The other night, I ordered pizza and the delivery man would not let me tip him.
He wanted to welcome us to the neighborhood, you see.
This is all very confusing to me.
Last week, we had sixty thousand cardboard boxes that had to be disposed of, and I wasn’t quite sure how mass-quantity recycling works up here, so I resigned myself to calling up the Public Works Department.
Really, let’s take a moment now and try to imagine what this phone call would entail in New York City. First, you would not speak to a human being for at least two hours; you would be transferred through a series of horrifyingly confusing menus and finally end up getting disconnected. When you did speak to a human being, he or she would respond to your question as if you had asked them how to whip up a nice little cote de bouef. And then you would be disconnected.
Your boxes would stay where they were unless some kid down the street who was moving the next weekend decided to steal them.
When I called my town’s Public Works Department the other day, this is what happened: a nice man picked up on the second ring, and told me no problem, oh yes, he knew the house we were talking about, welcome to the neighborhood, he’d be happy to take care of the boxes right away. And within two hours, they were gone.
He had even picked up all the little stray papers and stuffing things that I’m sure fell out of the boxes while they were being loaded; our curb was spotless.
This is all very confusing to me.
It’s also why I am staying put for the rest of my life, sprickets or no.
