On
December 31, 2003, I was in the Mexican deli on 8th
Avenue waiting for my egg and cheese sandwich. The cook was about to
pour the scrambled
eggs onto the grill when he fumbled and spilled them all down the side of
the counter. At that precise moment, a large, gelatinous kernel of mucous
dropped down the back of my throat, popped out my mouth, and lodged in
my beard.
It
was as if the spirit of viscous spillage had passed through the room.
