Two nights ago, I went to the movies and had to sit next to someone who smelled subtly but persistently like sour old vomit. Luckily, he kicked over my bag of popcorn as he took his seat, so my stomach was not as full—and therefore not as nauseated—as it might have been.

On the way home, there was commotion on the stairs down to the C train: a dead body lay sprawled at the bottom. (It looked dead, anyway.) A policeman was on the scene, looking irritated and apparently making no attempt to help; a couple of witnesses to the accident (the man had apparently fallen down the stairs) were upset because the officer did not want to hear their statements. As we all huddled near the top of the stairwell, wondering what to do, the "dead" man sat up and looked around, an action that heartened all of us gawking passers-by. Do not let anyone tell you that New Yorkers do not care about things. We pass dramatic and bizarre situations on the street every day without batting an eye, but if tragedy strikes, we tend to want to be a part of it, if only to be able to dine out on the story later.