It happens quickly. One minute you’re walking along Orchard Street asking yourself who casts these so-called “models” for American Apparel because they aren’t even remotely attrac—and bam! There he is, standing on the corner of Rivington.

All prior thoughts are inconsequential as you focus on one goal: find a hiding place. With the feline grace of a snow leopard you dive towards the first thing you see, a mailbox, and send a punk kid’s bagel soaring high into the air. Now there are two problems: the mailbox only covers you from the waist down and the punk kid is causing a commotion, demanding you pay for his smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel that he had only taken ONE BITE OUT OF. The number of bites is irrelevant you say which angers him more, so you thrust ten bucks into his sweaty hand and pray that the tall profile approaching your left retina isn’t who you think it is.