It'd be a nice metaphor, if that weren't somebody's life inside there

Last night, as I'm coming out of the subway, I spot three Hispanic men gathered together in the corner of the stairwell. Two of them seem to be helping the other shimmy into a red dress with white polka dots. I only catch a glimpse of his face before it disappears under the dress; it is bone-tired and expressionless, a patchwork of rivulets. That's what strikes me first, just before I see the huge red bow, the rosy cheeks, the black knobby nose, the pancake ears, and that unchanging, shit-eating grin.

I've walked in on Minnie Mouse.

I'd seen her cavorting and posing for money with Mickey a few times earlier in the week. As far as I could tell, they weren't doing it for any charitable cause; there was just a vessel, a pot, maybe, at their feet for donations. I remember ruing their presence as a sign of the season. The holidays have brought some of the vapid bustle of Times Square over to the normally stomachable Sixth Avenue (these are the street legs of my two alternatives for getting to work). But I'll think further the next time my first reaction is to give Goofy a swift kick to the groin.