The Public Private Joke
Today at 23rd Street & 9th Ave, heavy traffic required a cop to direct it. He was an older wiry guy with silver sunglasses and a fine bristle of gray moustache. He waved columns of cars hither and yon with his white-gloved hands, expressionless, and happened to be just ahead of my stopped cab as the last few cars trickled through the intersection before the light turned red. The cop did an about-face just as a delivery truck rumbled past his back, and thus now right past his nose. He didn’t recoil, just stood there placidly letting the truck go by. But before it did, he daintily extended one white-gloved finger, letting his fingertip trail across the side panel of the truck. When the truck was fully past, he looked at his fingertip closely, as if inspecting it for dust. Then he rubbed his fingers together to dispel the (imaginary?) grime, shaking his head in tiny disapproving nods, like he was tut-tutting about the shabby hygiene of delivery trucks in this day and age. Then he went on his way. Though it seemed such a tiny moment, and only for his own private amusement, the cop was performing this bit of stage business in front of a line of halted cars which had nothing else to do but idly observe him, and I think he was very aware of it. I bet he does that routine a dozen times per shift.