Once one steps into the bubble of indulgence, a four billion dollar bubble in this case, the rules of reality no longer apply.
A week after that incident, Nadia found herself stranded in the Claridge’s Hotel in London as Iceland’s Eyjafjallajökull Volcano spewed noxious fumes into the atmosphere.
As if a harbinger of this Icelandic doom cloud, when Stan had awoken earlier the previous morning, he found oddly that the butler wasn’t in the kitchen, as usual, preparing breakfast. He marched into the butler’s quarters to see what was the matter and there he found him lying on the lumpy mattress along the far wall, which was …show more content…
Checks would be written or considered, or not, and each would compliment the other on the great things they were doing to further the species.
“Would you try?” Nadia’s voice pulls me from the fog of sleeplessness as she points to a soggy box in the congested freezer section of Trader Joe’s.
She’d returned from London the night before. Our cupboards and refrigerator had been barren for a week before that. I had subsisted mostly on the remains of two deep dish pizzas from Uno at the Seaport, which I rationed by microwaving a slice or two or three per day.
“Are you kidding? I, ah, love shrimp... on a stick,” I say uncertainly.
I stare at the bags and boxes of frozen chicken in the freezer section and I can 't help feeling that the news article I 'd read earlier had ruined chicken for me for life, or at least until I forget about it or until the media reveals some new horrific poison in our food.
Arsenic in chicken. You could gauge the personality of a publication 's editor by the headline:
FDA tells the truth about arsenic in chicken …show more content…
They 're going to brush off the dirt and the dust bunnies and the bits of hair and then place the snacks back on the plate as if nothing ever happened.
I haul our grocery bags from the 2 train down Wall Street while Nadia complains about the gaggle of people who obstruct our path by the stock exchange.
Metal barriers are aligned along the sidewalk, choking the pedestrians into a narrow walkway on the far edge of the street. On the other side, floor traders in matching blue jackets chain smoke cigarettes and casually discuss some matter of the day.
NYPD officers in SWAT gear hold M-4 carbine assault weapons under the statue of George Washington on Federal Hall National Memorial: the site where our first president had taken his first oath of office.
Washington’s right hand, with his fingers outstretched and palm facing the ground, seems to motion for the officers to lower their weapons, but they weren’t paying him any mind as they scanned the wandering tourists and brokers for any signs of terrorism.
We walk past an officer’s indifferent gaze once we’ve broken through the hordes near Broad Street. His rifle flags a group of old women while he stares unmindfully at the cobblestone street and shifts his weight from one foot to the