Pelted With Juiceboxes

Last week I was brutally attacked on the streets of New York City. Actually, I was brutally attacked in a subway station, but- to be fair- the streets themselves were very nearby, just a couple flights of stairs away to be exact. In the interest of full disclosure, I should also point out that this was not the first time I was attacked on the streets of New York City (or in the subway for that matter). It’s just that it’s been a really long time since I’ve been attacked, so long in fact that this particular attack felt exciting and new.

The attack itself took place almost a week ago. I will be celebrating its one week anniversary tomorrow (nothing official planned just yet. I might have some friends over). Also, I should point out that the attack in question did not involve me being punched or kicked or beaten in general so much as it involved me being pelted with juiceboxes. This in no way lessened the severity of the attack however. In the hands of a trained assassin, a juicebox is not only delicious and refreshing- it can often be deadly. Fortunately, most of the damage I sustained in the attack was of the emotional variety however. It all went down something like this:

I headed into the city for a job interview on Tuesday afternoon of last week. I wasn’t exacttly sure what the job was since lately I’ve been applying to tons of different jobs on the Internet land haven’t been keeping any sort of record of where I might have e-mailed my resume. But a job interview is a job interview I figured, so I’d given careful consideration to my attire. Unfortunately, my wardrobe is extremely lacking at the moment and pretty much consists of the clothes that I sleep in, a pair of jeans that shrunk too much in the wash, and a handful of suits I bought during a time I thought it my life might somehow become simpler if I wore nothing but suits all the time. I decided to go with one of the suits. I would never want to work somewhere that expected its employees to wear suits to work everyday, but I figured as long as the choice was mine it was okay, like more of a fashion decision than another example of how the man is trying to keep down. Besides, I wasn’t planning on wearing a tie, so I thought my suit might give me that “man-about-town” look I was going for rather than the look of someone who really, really wanted and needed a job, any job.

As it turned out, wearing a suit to my interview turned out to be a big mistake. As I’ve learned since last Tuesday, over 70% of all attack victims were overdressed at the time of the incident. Making matters worse, none of the people at the company where I was interviewing wore suits. Instead, they all wore the kind of clothes one might wear to run errands or apply fresh grout between old, mildewy shower tiles. I felt pretty stupid showing up in that suit. And I’m not sure if my suit had anything to do with it, but it is my sense that the interview didn’t go too well either. I showed up for my interview at 2pm and was waiting back at the elevators by approximately 2:03pm. A three-minute job interview: This is usually not a good sign. By approximately 2:04, I was back on the streets of New York City and started making my way back to the subway, which was just a couple blocks away at 23rd Street and 6th Avenue.

Once I got down into the subway station, I realized my Metrocard was empty. Since I was pretty sure I didn’t get the job I had just interviewed for and all, I decided against springing for a brand new 20 dollar Metrocard (the kind I usually buy) and instead pulled a few dollars out of my wallet so I would at least have enough money on my card to drift around as needed for the rest of the day.

That’s when things started to get ugly.

As I began feeding a few old, wrinkly dollar bills into the Metrocard machine, I felt a blow to my back, just below the should area. I assumed someone had accidentally punched me or something, but when I looked over my shoulder I saw no one. After standing there with a confused look on my face for a few seconds, I noticed a crushed juicebox on the ground just a few feet away, its delicious cherry-colored remains slowly dripping into cracked cement.

TO BE CONTINUED....

Dave Hill