“I shit you not,” says the guy who looks like a St. Bernard in 13A. He folds his tattooed arms over his chest and looks out the window at the Jersey Shore, far below.
St. Bernard’s sweaty arm sticks to mine. I hunch my shoulders and twist away from him.
The pug-faced guy wearing a wife-beater in 13C says, “That’s un-fucking believable.” He slips a toothpick into his mouth. A sleek, longhaired flight attendant swooshes by like a best-of-breed Afghan Hound gliding down Park Avenue. Pug’s nostrils flare as he breathes in her scent.
St. Bernard cracks his knuckles. “Nothing surprises me any more,” he says. He coughs, his jowls quivering with each wheeze.
The lady in 12B slams her recliner back into my knees, her white poodle hairdo peeking over the top of the chair.
“What’s he gonna do now?” says Pug. He twirls the toothpick in his open mouth, making it do little backward flips with his tongue.
St. Bernard laughs. “Nothing. He’s fucked.” He pounds his fist on the armrest between us.
I scooch further away from St. Bernard.
“Hey buddy,” says Pug.
Pug taps me hard on the shoulder, his fingernail a black smile.
“I’m talking to you,” he says.
I turn, our noses just inches apart.
“Move over,” snarls Pug. “You’re in my personal space, Scooby-fucking-do.”