mind. “Thank God we won’t have to be sitting in that,” she said.
The girls had given them the entire rundown on what they planned to do. First they were going to hit SoHo for shopping and then meet up later with some of their friends for dinner at a trendy new restaurant in Chelsea. After that, there was a hot new club in Midtown they wanted to hit, but they didn’t want to be there too early. Heaven forbid they be the first ones there. So, it had been decided that if upon the initial drive-by there wasn’t already a line in front, they’d kill time at a spot they all liked on 56th called Town. They’d have a glass or two of wine and then try the club again later.
Though Marcy had been cool about letting the girls listen to whatever they liked in the car, she facetiously begged five minutes of forgiveness as she changed the radio over to WCBS to get a local read on traffic. She wasn’t a worrier by nature, but with what was going on in the Bronx, Brooklyn, and Queens, Marcy wanted to make extra sure they were steering well clear of any potential tie-ups.
According to WCBS, it looked like smooth sailing down to the Williamsburg Bridge and across into lower Manhattan, so Marcy switched the radio back to Power 105 and focused on the drive.
The girls laughed, gossiped, and lamented their last summer of real freedom before graduating from Yale—all the while acting as if the two adults sitting up front weren’t even there. That was okay with Tim and Marcy. They were more than used to being ignored.
When they hit the Williamsburg Bridge, traffic began to tighten up. Marcy put up with it for as long as she could, but it was maddening. Once she had enough space to slide over into the left lane, she signaled and made her move. About six car lengths later she could see why traffic was moving so slowly. An ugly, paper-bag brown utility truck labeled Birchman Landscaping was going at least fifteen miles an hour below the speed limit while everyone else was trying to do at least twenty over.
Marcy rolled her eyes at Tim and he responded, “Don’t even say it.”
“Just watch,” replied Marcy as she pulled alongside the truck.
Sitting inside were two dark-skinned males. Probably Mexicans.
“I told you,” she said.
“Give it a rest, Marcy. It takes all kinds to make up the world.”
“I know it does. The Germans are the fast drivers. The Italians the crazy ones, and the Mexicans are the slow ones.”
“I resent that,” replied Tim. “I’m Italian.”
“And that’s why I’m driving. I rest my case.”
Tim smiled. Marcy would never change. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “That truck’s got to be the ugliest color I’ve ever seen.”
“You’d think landscapers would be a little more creative, wouldn’t you?”
“Paint some flowers on that thing, or something.”
Now it was Marcy’s turn to smile. Sometimes she thought Tim had missed his calling in life. He really was pretty artistic. Although she figured that must come with being Italian. Caravaggio, da Vinci, Michelangelo…all Italians.
“Oh, check this out,” Tim added. “You work for Birchman and you not only get an ugly truck and matching uniforms, but they give you matching watches as well.”
Marcy looked out the passenger-side window and saw the men looking at their watches. “They must be late for their next appointment. That’s why they’re in such a hurry.”
Tim stifled a chuckle. He couldn’t help it. Though Marcy was often a little too off-color for his taste, she could be pretty funny. It used to bother him, but they’d been together for so long now that he’d come to accept it as part of who she was.
Marcy pressed down on the accelerator and as she passed the landscaping truck said, “How do you like that?”
Tim leaned forward, trying to see what she was looking at out her window. “What?”
“There’s another one of those landscaping trucks stuck in traffic the other way.”
“Where?”
“We just
The girls had given them the entire rundown on what they planned to do. First they were going to hit SoHo for shopping and then meet up later with some of their friends for dinner at a trendy new restaurant in Chelsea. After that, there was a hot new club in Midtown they wanted to hit, but they didn’t want to be there too early. Heaven forbid they be the first ones there. So, it had been decided that if upon the initial drive-by there wasn’t already a line in front, they’d kill time at a spot they all liked on 56th called Town. They’d have a glass or two of wine and then try the club again later.
Though Marcy had been cool about letting the girls listen to whatever they liked in the car, she facetiously begged five minutes of forgiveness as she changed the radio over to WCBS to get a local read on traffic. She wasn’t a worrier by nature, but with what was going on in the Bronx, Brooklyn, and Queens, Marcy wanted to make extra sure they were steering well clear of any potential tie-ups.
According to WCBS, it looked like smooth sailing down to the Williamsburg Bridge and across into lower Manhattan, so Marcy switched the radio back to Power 105 and focused on the drive.
The girls laughed, gossiped, and lamented their last summer of real freedom before graduating from Yale—all the while acting as if the two adults sitting up front weren’t even there. That was okay with Tim and Marcy. They were more than used to being ignored.
When they hit the Williamsburg Bridge, traffic began to tighten up. Marcy put up with it for as long as she could, but it was maddening. Once she had enough space to slide over into the left lane, she signaled and made her move. About six car lengths later she could see why traffic was moving so slowly. An ugly, paper-bag brown utility truck labeled Birchman Landscaping was going at least fifteen miles an hour below the speed limit while everyone else was trying to do at least twenty over.
Marcy rolled her eyes at Tim and he responded, “Don’t even say it.”
“Just watch,” replied Marcy as she pulled alongside the truck.
Sitting inside were two dark-skinned males. Probably Mexicans.
“I told you,” she said.
“Give it a rest, Marcy. It takes all kinds to make up the world.”
“I know it does. The Germans are the fast drivers. The Italians the crazy ones, and the Mexicans are the slow ones.”
“I resent that,” replied Tim. “I’m Italian.”
“And that’s why I’m driving. I rest my case.”
Tim smiled. Marcy would never change. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “That truck’s got to be the ugliest color I’ve ever seen.”
“You’d think landscapers would be a little more creative, wouldn’t you?”
“Paint some flowers on that thing, or something.”
Now it was Marcy’s turn to smile. Sometimes she thought Tim had missed his calling in life. He really was pretty artistic. Although she figured that must come with being Italian. Caravaggio, da Vinci, Michelangelo…all Italians.
“Oh, check this out,” Tim added. “You work for Birchman and you not only get an ugly truck and matching uniforms, but they give you matching watches as well.”
Marcy looked out the passenger-side window and saw the men looking at their watches. “They must be late for their next appointment. That’s why they’re in such a hurry.”
Tim stifled a chuckle. He couldn’t help it. Though Marcy was often a little too off-color for his taste, she could be pretty funny. It used to bother him, but they’d been together for so long now that he’d come to accept it as part of who she was.
Marcy pressed down on the accelerator and as she passed the landscaping truck said, “How do you like that?”
Tim leaned forward, trying to see what she was looking at out her window. “What?”
“There’s another one of those landscaping trucks stuck in traffic the other way.”
“Where?”
“We just
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