Westsiderag
by Yvonne Vávra
The day had just begun, and I already needed a break from it. I watched with simmering irritation as a blob of tourists oozed out of a bus and into the entrance of Central Park at 72nd Street. I’m grumpy about people who travel in groups of sixty. I’m grumpy about most things in the morning. But these full-bus travelers are a menace. They don’t know where they’re going or why. They feel safe in their herd, which makes them a danger to themselves and others.
I escaped into the thicket. But after my dog had completed his full investigation of every lingering smell from the night before, my grump wasn’t ready to move on. It dragged me back to one of the benches flanking the park entrance to sit and stew a little longer.
Another blob of sixty approached — bursting at the sea