Time magazine has finally made its
“Person of the Year” selection. I was on tenterhooks with anticipation and can
now rest easily. Anyway, befitting my blog’s general theme, I thought it
appropriate to personally select a local “Person of the Year,” and I have. I will
not even mention his name. In fact, I don't even know the man’s name. What I
do know is that he works very hard—six- and seven-day weeks—and supplies the area
with an excellent product. He sells pizza and assorted specialty dishes, gives
you a real bang for your buck, and he's an all-around good guy, too.
Yesterday,
while patronizing his establishment, which I often do, a fellow customer stood
by awaiting a slice of pizza that was heating in the oven. He had parked his
car in front of the shop but opted not to purchase a meter parking ticket. It's twenty-five cents for ten minutes now, which not too long ago was
twenty-five cents for fifteen minutes. The guy figured he would be in and out
in a flash—no biggie. But this is New York City in the twenty-first century
and, sure enough, a meter maid materialized with her computerized ticket writer in
hand. Lurking in the shadows and ready to pounce, meter personnel are
ubiquitous in the City That Never Sleeps, and the little guy hasn't got a
chance.
When the
pizza parlor patron ran outside to plead his case, my favorite Pizza Man
wistfully peered out his front window and shook his head. I said something
like: “The city needs money. This is how they get it today.” He replied with
something like, “You said a mouthful!” He then proceeded to tell me of the
perpetual health inspections he and countless fellow New York City eateries are
subject to nowadays: “This morning an inspector comes in while I'm preparing a
big order for a Christmas party. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘Do what you have to do,
but I’ve got to work.’ I told him that somebody was in here last week. He says
to me, ‘Really. I didn't know that.’ You wouldn't believe how much money they've taken from me.”
Sadly, my
Pizza Man’s tale of woe is commonplace. This is the reality of today's New York
City. And when combined with the exorbitant rents charged by conglomerate—and
mostly faceless landlords—it's often a lethal one-two punch. “It’s not like it
was," my Pizza Man said. Indeed, this small business guy—working his butt
off—summed it up succinctly: “They won’t let you rise!” This line struck
me as both eloquent and apropos—particularly for a pizza maker—in this once
special town. I would like to believe there are better days ahead for the
Average Joe and Jane in old New York. But the reality snapshot keeps whispering
in my ear: Fuggedaboutit!
