The Japanese Tourists and the Crackhead

"No, you don't understand," she screamed into the payphone receiver on 26th St. and 8th Ave., spraying the mouthpiece with yellow fever. "They cut the artery in my leg and made me leave before I was done with my goddamn tea!"

She was nearly in tears, and gripped the handle of the wheeled hold-all trolley, lined with a garbage bag, close to her.

She had already attracted the majority of a Japanese tour group fresh off the bus, all dressed in matching blue jackets, so as not to be mistaken with another Japanese tour group. The whir of the most high-digi-tech video cameras was almost audible above the midday traffic, and then some guy detonated a flash camera that nearly distracted her enough to ruin the unfolding drama. "Taruko-san," three people hissed simultaneously in hushed tones. Apparently their job was not to disrupt the wild animal in its natural habitat, but to silently document its beastly yowl through precise, fluid understanding of the proper recording device.

For a couple of seconds she seemed to be listening intently to whoever was on the other line. Then her brow furrowed in severe distaste.

"Ah, hell no! I don't even think so?no, you wait a minute. I sit in the Burger King at Penn Station every day and if you don't believe me, just look at the videotape. Oh, I know you mothafuckas is watching. Anyway, this new jack just came up to me and cut my damn leg?just cut it."

She made wild slashing motions through the air. The tour group backed off collectively.

"There's blood everywhere. Then he took my teacup, with the teabag still in it, and threw it away."

She was irate and almost turning purple, a big vein in her neck threatening to blow at any time.

Just then, a cab, driving at jackass speed, flew past, his tires scraping the curb, and hit a puddle splashing cold sludge up on the sidewalk. She got covered in muddy shrapnel. This must've been the last straw, and she didn't appear to have any more money for the payphone, or else the person on the complaint line hung up.

"Hello! Hello!" she screamed into the receiver to no avail.

Leading her trolley away with a definite limp, she muttered to herself, "My leg gonna be messed up for at least three to seven days. Sheeit."

Ten steps away, her footing became more sure and she turned back to the payphone.

"Fuck you Bell Atlantic. Damn phone ate my quarter."

The cameras panned right.