x The oof


x I'm in the area of New York around Third Avenue and 11th Street, yet none of the businesses or buildings seem familiar. I wander into a shoe store, try a few chunky black sandals, and leave without buying anything.

Next, I visit a Mexican fast-food place, but its main offering is actually clam chowder. They've got three vats you can choose from. The first two are traditional chowder recipes, the man behind the counter tells me, but the third vat is special. It's a combination of the first two recipes ... mixed with a two-liter bottle of Pepsi. People love it, he says. It was written up in the Times. I decide against it.

The restaurant also has vegetarian and meat pastries; the veggie ones are indicated by toothpicks with strawberries stuck at the top. What I end up buying, though, is a dessert. It's the shape of a corndog, but it's made of sweet batter that's fried, covered with powdered sugar, and stuck on a stick. It's called an "oof."

I leave the restaurant, eating my oof, and I notice I'm limping. I realize I'm only wearing one of my big lace-up black boots, and since its heel is three inches tall, this results in quite an awkward gait. In my absentminded dream state, I must have left my other boot in the shoe store. But since all the streets have changed around, I've no idea how to get back. I put my remaining boot in my bag of groceries (suddenly, I have a bag of groceries) and wander home in my socks.