The ocean wind slaps Main St. like a camel herder slaps his beast’s behind.  Two yarmulk-porting conservative young Jews furiously maneuver themselves to what are presumably their worried sleep-deprived mothers in the up ahead in the unimaginable future.  A backpack burdened night laborer and I trudge along behind. It’s late.

B&H is closed, not only because it’s 2am, but because it’s also Sukkot until Monday.  But that’s far away.  A Mexican sorts vegetables behind the Big Banana’s “Closed until 7am” sign.  My Korean laundryman is no doubt sleeping soundly.  King’s Bagels is open, not because it’s not Jewish, but because it values most highly the harvest yet to be cullled.  This is known, which is why I am here.

One short backpacked guy is doing some kind of dance for the behatted white guy behind the counter.  Another young guy in light white tee shirt and parachute pants has probably never seen Greese as he parades up and down the glass refrigerated display, searching for the night’s treat.  “You want me to buy a fridge for $150?,” he asks his almost invisible friend in a thick Brooklyn accent.  I can’t hear the response from his Semitic young male companion.  “Should I return this tee shirt to Target,” he pleads, oblivous to his surroundings. “The tags are still on it.”

“Aren’t you cold” asks the burly hispanic man behind the counter. “Yes, I am” he responds.  “What’s this, is it chocolate?,” he asks.  “Yes, it’s truly excellent,” responds the older guy behind the counter.  Night shift workers are not paid on commission, so he must be serious.

The boy orders the chocolate pudding.  I slowly canvas the glass case hoping to sneak a peak of the truly excellent offerings I am missing in the otherwise desperate environs.  No chocolate pudding to be seen.  In fact, there’s nothing remotely chocolate at all, just some miserable precontained strawberry yogurt and vanilla ice cream.  Has this all been a farce?

My turn comes.  I order a toasted poppy bagel with scallion cream cheese.  Dinner.

Lunch was a small lamb kebab at Kings Highway Grill.  The Turkik guy behind the counter initial addressed me as “Sir”.  He gestured for me to take a seat.  I watched an exaggeratedly outraged Fox News correspondent lambast the liberal takeover of American political life on the flat screen t.v. for the ten minutes it took my lamb to baste.  Then the Turkik called for me.

“What would you like with it?”

“What can I have?”

“Whatever you like”

“Kasha and Shepherd’s salad”

“I have a boxer”

“Angry dogs…”

“No, he’s very sweet.”

“You know Portuguese Water Dogs?”

“You mean the one Obamas have?”

“Yeah, that one.  They have webbed feet…  swim fast.”

“Obama should have big pit bull with studded collar.  We need a president like this,” he gestures, miming obesity, thick lips, and sunglasses.

“A big black guy!”  I’m excited to be playing Charades.

“Yes.  Have you ever seen black guy like Obama?  He’s not even black!”

“He’s a nerd”

“Nobody take him seriously.  We need a big black guy with pit bull.”

Back to Kings Bagels at 2:15am, John Travolta and his friend exit, and the backpacked boy somehow has found a connection with the servers.  I hear “Rob Zombie“, “System of a Down” proposed by the white man behind the counter.  To which the the boy responds with “Devil’s Reject.”  The age difference between the two must be close to 20 years, but it seems not to matter.

The boy leaves, and I hear the two servers discuss.  “He’s mellow”, says the one.  “Pretty cool,” says the other.  Somehow they move on with the conversation, and I can’t keep track.   “It’s exactly what I’m talking about,” the one says, imitating someone.  “I ain’t goin to lie to you.  I tell it like it is,” says the other.  “He’s not at home with it.”  “She’s cute, right?”

I lose track.  My bagel is ready.  I buy a coffee too, anticipating the time spent on the blog post to come.  As I fill it at the self-serve station, the one says, “It’s cold out isn’t it?”  In a place and a time like this, I feel like he actually isn’t sure, and is not simply trying to make conversation.  “It’s getting there,” I say.  “The weather’s changing,” he says.  “It’s about time,” I say.  “Summer is nasty.”

“I’m just the opposite,” he says.  “I like the warmth and sun,” he says.

“You’d better move somewhere else,” I say.