1 November

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He swung the plastic falafel bag back and forth on 4th Ave, it was his duty, as a scrawny kid who worked at Utrecht, to deliver his manager food and coffee daily. The first few months, he had grovelled to no end. But now, he was hungry, Utrecht was overpriced, he had never been good at art anyway, and these tight pants were really hurting his crotch. He realized all of these things, in one momentous blow as he crossed 4th Ave, ate the falafel, started running down towards SoHo, dropped his pack of cigs on the way there, turned back to get them, and then got out of breath. He shouldn't have eaten that falafel, and he couldn't run in mocassins. Then he realized he needed money to live, so glumly he turned back and bought another falafel, took it to his manager, then sat on a box of canvas bars in the back storage room and cried his 21-year-old wannabe artist tears out.