An Open Letter to the Young, Urban Professional Whom I Caught Picking His Nose in the Window of Starbucks - 273
Hal Wastes His Wages
December 29, 2008

Dear Young Urban Professional Whom I Caught Picking His Nose in the Window of Starbucks,
Hell, I don’t know your name, but you kind of looked like an “Evan.” In fact, for the sake of brevity, let’s go with that…
Dear “Evan,”
You had it all going for you, “Evan.” You had found your perch in the window of Starbucks on Washington Street, for all intents and purposes the very epicenter--the Mecca, if you will--of Hoboken’s collective young, urban professionalism. And it was your time to shine.

The L.L. Bean men’s Shearling Casual Mocs were practically out of today’s FedEx shipment, no doubt signed for by your doorman at The Sky Club. Despite the twelve-block walk from door to door, they still held that fresh, muted brown sheen, making me wonder if The Sky Club perhaps runs a shuttle bus to and from various Starbucks locations as a service to its upwardly mobile residents--as they should…

The British khaki J.Crew premium officer’s chino pants were meticulously ironed. Sure, they look like every other chino in the J.Crew catalog, but discerning tastes would know that you’d selected the officer’s chino because of the tell-tale watch pocket positioned on the right inner hip. So as not to obscure the officer’s watch pocket, the Brushed Sonoma flannel shirt you picked up at the Orvis outlet last weekend in Vermont was fastidiously tucked in to your chinos, cinched into place by a Nautica Saddle Leather Bridle belt, in brown leather to match the L.L. Bean Shearling Casual Mocs, of course. The buttons on the shirt, the buckle on the belt and the button-fly on the premium officer’s chino pants all lined up perfectly, signaling to even the casual observer that “Evan” was not a man to be trifled with. “Evan” is a man who shoots straight, dots his i’s and crosses his t’s.
The Oliver Peoples Sheldrake frames rested perfectly below your furrowed brow as you sat in front of your Mac and read the latest posting on Salon.com by Katharine Mieskowski, titled “What Your Loneliness Is Telling You.” Over your chair was draped a North Face Numskull Jacket, in Loden Green. And your hair was perfect.
But then you ruined it, “Evan.” As you placed your stainless-steel double-insulated travel mug upon the counter next to your Paul Stuart lambskin gloves, you committed the ultimate sin of public display.

You picked your nose.

I’m not talking a subtle caress of the fingertip across the nostril, or even the ol’ upside down thumbnail scrape. I’m talking full-on, knuckle-deep gold mining here, “Evan.” Shameless, unadulterated fossicking, right there on your pedestal. All that work you had put into it, man. All that online ordering and dry cleaning and ironing--a lifetime of toeing the line, conforming to the norm and keeping up with the Jonses, scuttled by that primal urge to shove your index finger up your nose. Oh “Evan,” how could you?

As I witnessed the travesty I thought to myself, “Evan” should know better. Here, of all places, on display for all of Hoboken to judge--even hoi polloi like I know better than to commit such an egregious act of self-degradation. As our eyes locked, I momentarily thought it best avert the scene and walk away. But then I realized a man like you, “Evan” was the sort of gentleman who wouldn’t think twice about heaping due scorn upon me should I falter. I figured I owed it to you,  so I broke stride and fixed my condemnatory gaze. At which point you did the unimaginable…

Having sensed my observation of your faux pas you paused, and obviously I expected you to retract your digit and lower your head in shame. But not you, “Evan,” as the day was yours, and nothing could take that away from you. You kept right on digging, as though it was your intent to have me see it all along. “Evan,” you magnificent bastard, it was at that moment when I realized you were in fact my superior. All the vainglorious veneer of superficial splendor fell immediately by the wayside.
 
Macs, mocs, chinos--they mean nothing in the real world. But a man who sees though with his nose picking after being spotted, well, that’s the sort of gumption you can’t order online for next-day delivery.

Kudos to you, “Evan.” And I dare the next yuppie upstart to come along and take that spot in the window of Starbucks from you, because, by God, you’ve earned it in my book.

Humbly yours,
Christopher M. Halleron

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Christopher M. Halleron, freelance writer/bitter bartender, writes a biweekly humor column for The Hudson Current and websites in the New York Metro area. He spends a lot of his time either in front of or behind the bar in Hoboken, New Jersey where his tolerance for liquor grows stronger as his tolerance for society is eroded on a daily basis. Feel free to drop him a line at c_halleron@yahoo.com

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