Saturday Morning rules

Rule #1: The mailman is not allowed to ring the buzzer before 9 AM. Ya hear me? No deliveries before 9 AM! And that goes for anyone out there who's thinking about ringing my buzzer before 9 AM on a Saturday morning.

It's downright unAmerican.

And that's it. That's the only rule.


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So. Last night was interesting. I'm not even sure if I want to blog about it - I feel like blogging about it may somehow diminish the moment. Yet...I have a blog. I should say something about what happened. I guess.

A guy got shot last night in front of our bar.

In the shoulder. In the West Village.

We never saw the actual shooting - it happened in the street, away from the bar. It was the jarring experience of witnessing how others were reacting to the situation that really made the evening surreal.

An athletic black man in a sleeveless shirt and jeans stumbles to the door and collapses on the stairs outside, clutching his bleeding wound, looking more pissed and inconvenienced than hurt.

Commotion at the door. Some chick yelps. The door slams shut. The bartender cuts the music. Someone's been shot. Did anyone hear a shot? No one heard a shot. Someone's shot? Call 9-1-1. Call 9-1-1! I'm hopping up from my chair. One of the guys I'm with has grabbed his mini-CPR kit. I'm running through my head the basics of how to treat a shock victim. Not hearing a gun shot concerns me. It must have happened farther away. Stunned silence gives way to morbid curiosity. Some cooze assures her friends that its best to leave him outside because bringing him in is "bad for business." Her boyfriend verbally bitch slaps her. "Bad for business? There's a man bleeding on the steps! Who gives a fuck about anything else?" A spark of humanity.

A crowd of people stood and stared.

Give him room. Keep pressure on the wound. Keep his head above his heart. Elevate his legs. Keep him talking. Police arrive immediately. Props to the NYPD. Ambulance on the way. Everyone get back. He knew the guy who shot him. Doesn't know his name. He can describe him. Sirens wail. It happened down the street. He was on the way to the store. I'm wondering if he got shot over some dame. I'm wondering why I'm thinking in 1940s pulp terminology. I know the answer. Out comes a stretcher. The guy stands up and sits himself down on the stretcher. The evening resumes. A round of 'shots' for everyone, on the house. The gallows humor is lost on no one. The cooze and her friends leave. Her friends are looking at her a little differently now.

Everything's back to normal. But now we all know who we are.