So apparently there’s more money in fruit stalls in Manhattan than Bangladeshi restaurants in Queens. So says my fruit guy and he’s done extensive research. He’s pissed off with always being outside during this crappy rain we’re getting and the shitty fucking winter. Although he was in Bangladesh for most of it, but it wasn’t nearly over enough when he got back for his liking. I don’t blame him.

Secretly though I am pleased. The fruit guy has been in my life since we moved offices to Union Squarish, aside from his 4 month trip to Bangladesh when I was without regular grapefruit. I had this regular routine. Grapefruit, nice chat, coffee, maybe a free donut, nice chat. Then the nice guy in the silver portaloo on wheels was replaced with the Greek guy who owns the silver portaloo on wheels. Routine changed to grapefruit, nice chat, coffee, no free donut, nice chat, some Greek. My Greek consists of “Please”, “Thank you” “I make good spinach pie” “I make good baklava”. You get the picture, it’s far from extensive, but well, it was a nice chat.

Gradually Greek coffee guy started to say things about coming to my apartment to make me coffee, which I ignored, as you do, and then things like going out for coffee, which I also ignored, as you do. It’s not even that his coffee is all that nice. But it’s quick and it’s in a bag and, well, it’s next to the fruit guy and I have this routine thing.

Anyway, then Greek coffee guy starts to ask for my telephone number which I never give him. It’s a daily request I ignore until one day he won’t give me my coffee until I give him my number, which takes me by surprise, really by surprise. I’m standing there like an idiot with about 10 people behind me giving me the evil eye. So I just walk off. And he comes running out after me, saying, “Here here here is your coffee, you can give me your number tomorrow.” So I take it and I never go back. Which gets kind of awkward because the fruit guy is right next to him and Greek coffee guy can see me, so I don’t spend much time with my fruit guy in the morning any more and sometimes I just make this huge dash across the street to Café Medina and the sanctity of the $1.85 large coffee and the fabulous and happy Brazilian ladies in there with their lulling samba music and once again my mornings are restored to their usual calm. Almost, if I ignore the stress of trying to go unnoticed.

Then the Greek coffee guy starts to yell out the back of his silver portaloo on wheels when he sees me in the morning, things like “hey, what’s the matter you? Don’t like my coffee any more?” “Hey come back and get some coffee” this kind of thing. So I usually ignore him or half-smile at him in a cowardly, conciliatory manner. I still don’t go back. One morning he comes out of the silver portaloo on wheels and follows me up the street. I stop a fair distance from him and he asks me to come back and have his coffee. I tell him I’m busy and trying to cut down. He watches me go into Café Medina. I feel the angry eyes of the 20 customers left waiting at the silver portaloo on wheels for his return along with his hurt and uncomprehending stare. He’s not there when I get out of Café Medina, thankfully. This happens maybe 4, maybe 5 times.

A couple of weeks later, I am crossing the street and he rushes out of the silver portaloo on wheels and crosses the street. He gets down on both knees and says “Please, please, what can I do? Please come back.” I say sure, this time, and march on head down. It’s my birthday.

I haven’t been back. Fruit guy whined yesterday that I never talk any more and then gave me a bunch of fruit. That’s all it takes with me Greek coffee guy. That and not being a total fucking asshole freak.