Be aggressive, they said. Be tough. New York’s not like LA. You have to have balls in this city. So, I have managed a little over two weeks without much incident, give or take a suspected terrorist or two and a lost iPhone (spectacularly recovered from the local Jewish nursing home: never again will I speak out against the circumcision of infants, even though it is something I have come to admire in men over the years . . . But that’s a whole other story).
The man who has just entered the carriage of the B train heading Downtown to Brooklyn is standing six inches away from me. He sounds forceful. Not angry. Just forceful. Like he’s auditioning to play Brian Blessed. “And I’ll tell you what happens when you leave prison,” he booms. Now, I am very nervous. Not just because Patrick is speaking very loudly, but because he is wearing a rucksack.
You have no idea how angry a statue can get when trying to separate you from your dollars. “Not you! Selfie! Me! Reverse shot!” I yelled, in that way we have of talking to foreigners (and statues) who can’t speak English.