Brother, can you spare a dime... or at least pull up your pants?

By choice I live in the West Village. Its quaint compared to midtown. 'Single' compared to the Upper East Side. Quiet compared to the East Village. And cute and cozy compared to Soho. Its the place I like to be most.

Being a 'village brat' as I often refer to myself, means a few things more than simply liking my neighborhood.

It means I will live in an apartment the size of a shoebox. It means I will have to question if any guy 'checking me out' is more interested in potential designer labels I might be wearing than spending time with me as most likely he is gay. It means that I will constantly be seen as a 'nark' when strolling through Washington Square Park near the chess boards by the pot dealers. And it also means that situations like trying to buy a cup of coffee can become... should I say lively?

Take today for instance...I needed coffee -- both immediately, and for my apartment -- so I took a short field trip from the office to Puerto Rico Importing Company on Bleecker Street. They sell coffee by the pound and have a coffee counter in the back. While the barista ground up a pound of Aggie's blend, I visited the counter in back. There was a tall, black man in line, and he was doing some sort of jig as he waited for his coffee. Maybe it was more of a fancy shuffle... or two step... whatever the name of his dance, when he turned around his pants were falling down in front revealing half of his briefs.

He was wearing a belt all right, but had missed half of his belt-loops, causing a big 'swoop' of fabric in front while the back held on tight.

I was startled to say the least, almost reminiscent of the time I found I guy on my doorstep doing God knows what...

But I digress. The guy at the coffee counter tried to chat as we both doctored our coffees the way we prefer. Something about talking to a man wearing half of his pants was disturbing to me. And as he asked for money to get another coffee I bolted. Paid for the ground coffee at the front counter and left ASAP.

As I wandered back down Downing Street, past the townhouses and expensive restaurants, I had to laugh. As only in Manhattan can millionaires and vagrants and southern girls like me co-exist within feet of each other and carry out their days like normal. All dancing to their own beat, laughing to their own tune, and wondering what kind of crazy thing we are each going to witness next.

F