Encounter with an authentic Nu Yoik character.

We wander into a Greenwich village vintage store and almost immediately get caught up in the onslaught of the proprietor’s relentless anecdotes. He’s regaling a disinterested employee about his days in Vegas, rubbing shoulders with gambler extraordinaire Kerry Packer or, as this garrulous dickhead prefers to call him, Carey Packard. His stories go nowhere, at high volume. Inevitably we get sucked in. I try on a skirt – it’s a loose wrap type thing with adjustable ties which looks like it might be forgiving of my imminent pregnancy heft. I make the mistake of mentioning this to Mr Crap Anecdote. He lurches towards me. “Ya know how I know you’re pregnant?” Er because I just told you, genius? “It’s all HERE” he says, pointing vigorously at the bridge of my nose. Apparently, it gets broader in pregnant women. And he should know, he has three daughters, all of whom, I imagine, are overjoyed that he's such an expert on the physiological changes during pregnancy. Interestingly, he didn’t explain how he could tell that the bridge of my nose was broader, having never met me before. But I suppose being a pathological bullshit artist means never having to explain yourself. Then, with a theatrical flourish of the hand that makes him look like some kind of Brooklyn Gandalf, he declares, “It’s a boy!” Great. If he’s wrong, he says, I should call him up and he’ll buy me lunch. We both know that I would be more likely to stuff live cockroaches into my ears than to claim my lunch, so he’s pretty safe in making the offer.