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This evening Maxine finds herself abroad in this pageant of classic NYC behavior, having made the mistake of offering to spring for a turkey if Elaine will cook it, and compounded it by putting in an advance order at Crumirazzi, a gourmet shop down toward 72nd. She gets there after supper to find the place jammed tighter than a peak-period subway with anxious citizens gathering supplies for their Thanksgiving feasts, and the turkey line folded on itself eight or ten times and moving very, very slowly. People are already screaming at each other, and civility, like everything on the shelves, is in short supply.
A serial line jumper has been making his way forward along the turkey line, a large white alpha male whose social skills, if any, are still in beta, intimidating people one by one out of his way.
"Excuse me?" Shoving ahead of an elderly lady waiting in line just behind Maxine.
"Line jumper here," the lady yells, unslinging her shoulder bag and preparing to deploy it.
"You must be from out of town," Maxine addressing the offender, "here in New York, see, the way you're acting? It's considered a felony."
"I'm in a hurry, bitch, so back off, unless you want to settle this outside?"
"Aw. After all your hard work getting this far? Tell you what, you go out and wait for me, OK? I won't be too long, I promise."
Shifting to indignation, "I have a houseful of children to feed—" but he's interrupted by a voice someplace over by the loading dock hollering, "Hey asshole!" and here cannonballing over the heads of the crowd comes a frozen turkey, hits the bothersome yup square in the head, knocking him flat and bouncing off his head into the hands of Maxine, who stands blinking at it like Bette Davis at some baby with whom she must unexpectedly share the frame. She hands the object to the lady behind her. "This is yours, I guess."
"What, after it touched him? thanks anyway."
"I'll take it," sez the guy behind her.
As the line creeps forward, everybody makes sure to step on, not over, the fallen line jumper.
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