“I want to help you, Mendy,” I said. “But this isn’t the best place for this conversation”
“You don’t look like you’re from around here,” the cashier said, studying me as I paid for my coffee.
I was in a supermarket in Williamsburg, and its typical clientele had curlier peyos. In fact, at the moment, the cashier — whose nametag read “Mendy” — and I were the only men in the store without frocks.
“I’m from Passaic,” I replied with a grin, “but I’m in the neighborhood for a meeting.”
“What do you do?” he asked conversationally as he took my credit card.
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