Today, I went to Shake Shack for a burger on the Upper East Side. It was terrible but reminded me to be grateful that I don’t have children. Don’t get me wrong, if I had a child I would love it with all my heart but aren’t they a pain in the ass? So much racket and fuss. I have never, ever, heard a kid tell a story that I had any interest in. Not once. Sometimes, I think a story’s going some place interesting and then it just ends with “I like the color red” or “Stephanie is my best friend.” Really, that’s what I waited 10 minutes for?

Anyway the Shake Shack was a disappointment until Susan Rabin sat across from me. Susan Rabin is the best selling author of books on flirtation. She’s been on Letterman, Leno, Oprah and Phil Donahue (time to update the website Susan). She’s a delightful person and we chatted for an hour. I asked her about my flirting skills. I told her to watch and observe as I smile at women in the Shake Shack so she could see how cold the women of New York City are. I looked around and there were only high school girls there so we both decided it would be best if I didn’t do that. She asked me the last time I opened a conversation with a woman.

It had been awhile. I told a girl a couple of weeks ago she had nice boots. I wasn’t lying they were cool boots. “Nice boots.” I said. Several months ago I was in a coffee shop in Brooklyn and I told the barista that she had nice teeth. They were nice, very white and even. “You have really nice teeth.” I said and I meant it.

When I sat down to write about Susan and the Shake Shack tonight I had a general idea of what I was going to say but as I wrote the last paragraph I realized that either of those comments could be misunderstood. Nice boots might sound like “nice boobs”. Nice teeth could be interpreted as “nice tits”. I’m just realizing this. Maybe the women of New York City aren’t cold, maybe I don’t enunciate very well.

I’m waking up Broadway to catch the subway at Union Square. Across the street I hear a ruckus. A young girl, early twenties, is crying loudly. A guy with a ponytail has her against a food truck and seems to be pushing her against it. There is a guy near me, also watching.

“Do we need to get involved in this?” I ask him.

“No.” He replies and points to a woman that has approached the couple. “I think she’s got it.”

The pony-tailed guy waves the woman away, “She’s my wife.” He yells at her.

I walk across the street.

“Oh great another one.” Pony-tail guy says, waving me away.

I go up to the girl. “Everything okay?”

Pony-tail steps between us. “She’s my wife.”

“I don’t give a fuck, I’m asking her if everything is ok or if I need to call the police.”
Note: This will be the first of many “fucks” I say in a very short time.

“I am the police.” He says, stepping up to me and putting his face in front of mine.

I push my face even closer to his. Our noses are almost touching.
“Fuck you, motherfucker.” I explain.

I should probably mention at this point that I have never been in a fight. This may have been some information I should have remembered before this whole thing went down.

He pushes me. I push him harder.

The girl looks at the cigarette in my hand and says. “Can I have a cigarette?

I realize that I’m involved in the drama of an idiot couple. You see them on the police shows all the time, lots of drama and then lots of kissing afterwards.

“No.” I shout at her. She starts crying again and runs down the street.

Oh God, how have I gotten myself in this situation?

Ponytail and I are still nose-to-nose, staring each other down. I’m thinking that when I get home, I ought to watch some youtube videos on how to head butt someone. It seems like valuable information I could use if I’m ever in a situation such as this. I suspect it involves my forehead and his nose but I’m not sure and, let’s face it, all I have to recommend me is my unmarred beauty.

I might have called him a bitch-ass ho’ but, at this point, the adrenaline is pumping so I’m not 100% sure. There is, apparently, a white trash hoodlum buried deep inside me that emerges in times of distress.

He pushes me again, turns and runs. I, for some inexplicable reason, run after him. At this point there is no rational brain in me, only lizard brain is showing activity. After a few steps I stop.

“What the hell am I doing?” I ask myself.
I turn around and walk back toward the train. The woman that first tried to get involved walks with me.

“I sometimes forget that I don’t know how to fight.” I tell her.
She laughs, “Oh well, you have to get involved.” She said.

I look across the street and see the guy that I had been standing next to. He looks away when I catch his eye. I ought to smack that punk ass bitch upside the head.