Street Scene.

Jammed at work, I made my way early this morning to northernmost of the two offices I am toiling at.

I stepped out of the deli, coffee and seltzer in hand and saw an old Hasid in the baggiest sweatpants I've ever seen shuffling down the street. His beard looked like an explosion at a mop factory.

I waited at the corner for the light to change, not daring onto 10th Avenue before I had full right-of-way. Tenth is a crazy avenue with people streaming uptown at speed from the Lincoln Tunnel, just four blocks south.

The Hasid caught up with me as the light switched. And as it did, a be-turbaned cabbie in a Ford Explorer hesitated his vehicle then tore through the red, just missing me.

"Hey!" I screamed helplessly.

"Don't yell," the Hasid said. "Cabbies are allowed to go through lights."

I turned and looked at his disheveled face. It was old and had seen things.

I was about to speak.

"You know that," he cut me off. "You know that."

I agreed. And walked, safely, to work.