Ftrain, by Paul Ford

I hate the little cafe near work, the one with the miniature glass bottles of soda and faux-rustic, pre-dented cabinetry. There is no order; no place to stand; no one there who cares about anything but the arrangement of sandwiches. Everyone looks like they have something better to do, except, of course, for the poor immigrant bastard who actually has to make my vegan sandwich while a cast of polyethnic liberal arts graduates do their scarf-and-dreadlock song-and-dance, no doubt feeling that they're slaving. They are as ornamental as the old wooden crates used to prop the $8 sandwiches. The poor man behind them slices tomatoes and dreams of his family. On my side of the counter the vilest haggery of Manhattan impatiently tap their pumps and angrily squint at the pastries. I feel that I have intruded into a diorama of cheap NYC pretension, all the way to the French-inflected name on the door. It is a dishonest place for a dishonest city and no place for giants to stand and wait.

I had this fantasy that I might stop halfway through the bag of chips. And I did, briefly. But I had no place to put the bag. And then poof. Upended over the mouth. Drawing board.