Today, we’re next to Port Authority and we pick up our newspapers.
Precious isn’t there and, instead, a guy takes her place. He jogs to the van, huffing and puffing.
“Yo, man, I’m sorry it took so long to get your papers,” he says, apologizing even though we spend exactly five seconds waiting for him. “But we got this fuckin’ new bitch across the street who just started workin’, and she ain’t done no fuckin’ shit at all today.”
“Oh my,” says one of the women sitting up front.
One of the guys who sometimes sits shotgun – I don’t know his name, but he sells parking garages for a living – chuckles.
“That means you have to train her better,” he says.