The Boy Next Door - Weebly

The scene--53rd and Madison. A forty by twenty foot hole has opened up in the middle
of the street. Surrounding this hole are police barricades, orange caution cones, bulldozers,
cement mixers, Con Edison trucks, a crane, television news reporters, about a hundred
cops, and twenty of the hottest construction workers this little computer programmer has
ever seen. The noise of the jack hammers and honking of horns by unsuspecting commuters, who
did not listen to the 1010 WINS traffic report before they left Jersey, is deafening. The
heat is oppressive. And the smell, my dear--well, I don’t know what those Con Ed boys
are doing at the bottom of that hole, but let me tell you, I strongly suspect they hit the
wrong pipe. It was as if a proverbial hellhole had opened up, right before that bastion of
all that is evil, the illustrious New York Chronicle , and attempted to suck it back down to
its creator, Mr. Satan himself.
And then, through it all, I saw on the face of our Miss Mel--who is, as I am sure you can
guess, already giddy with joy at the spectacle before us--a look of such delight that I
thought at first a Mr. Softee truck had appeared, and was handing out free chocolate
dipped cones. Then, following the direction of her dazzled gaze, I saw what it was that had
brought that beatific look to her face:
An Apollo. I am not exaggerating. An absolutely perfect specimen of manly beauty. He
was standing behind one of the barricades, gazing into the hole, looking as if he’d just
stepped off the pages of a J Crew catalog in his baggy chinos and soft denim workshirt.
The humid wind tugged softly at his brown hair, and I swear to you, Nadine, if one of
those construction workers had handed him a shovel, it wouldn't have looked the least bit
out of place in those big hands of his. Which is a lot more than I can say for my boyfriend.
But to return to our scene:
Our Miss Mel (screaming to be heard over the pounding of the jackhammers): John!
John! Over here! Apollo turns. He sees us. He turns a deep but nevertheless completely
attractive shade of umber. I follow our little Miss Mel, picking her way through the police
officers and outraged Chronicle employees, who, wearing their press passes, have descended
upon the poor souls from the Mayor's office and are demanding to know when their private
bidets-- don't try to tell me they don't have them up in those gold-lined halls they work in-are
going to be flowing again. Upon reaching the godlike creature she calls John, for reasons
which are still a mystery to me, our Miss Mel goes on in her usual breathless manner:
"What are you doing here? Did you come to take pictures of the giant hole?"
Max Friedlander: Um. Yes.
Our Miss Mel: Where's your camera?
Max Friedlander: Oh. Um. I forgot it.
Hmmm. Lights may be on, but no one seems to be home. At least until--
Max Friedlander: Actually, I already got the shot I need. I was just out here
because...well, you know I love a disaster.
Our Miss Mel: Do I! Here, meet my friend Tim.
Friend Tim shakes hands with Perfect Specimen of Mankind. Will never wash right hand again.
Max Friedlander: Hi. Nice to meet you.