I’m posting this blog entry as I’m riding west on 27th street, in the back of a Manhattan Rickshaw Pedicab. My driver’s name is Trevor; I made an arrangement with him to pick me up at precisely 4:39 and take me to Penn station.
Man, it was everything I could have hoped for. Trevor had the pedicab neatly parked on the wide sidewalk in front of the building; I walked out of my lobby, through a dense, pinstriped cloud of executives vying for taxis, shook Trevor’s hand, hopped in the back of his rickshaw, and off we went. “Hey, what the hell’s that?” asked Jeff, our security guard.
That, my friend, is just a reflection of my station in life. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to close my computer and start shouting into my cellphone. “Sell that! Sell it!”
(Actually, believe it or not, a rickshaw is the very fastest way to get from East 25th to West 32nd at this time of day — sweating visibly, Trevor got us across town in 10 minutes flat. The jealous attention is great; I’m going to have to make this a Friday afternoon ritual. Next time, I’m gonna wear a top hat and a diamond stickpin, and I’m going to throw nickels to all the unsuccessful taxi-waving Hamptons escapees as I roll on by.