Do you want to know what I do? .....Well, I work on Wall Street.

I'm going to start saying Brother more often to other men—guys, if you will.  That might be my new thing.  The other day—now listen—the other day I was balancing some pesky boxes and trying to get through a door, and I noticed another, more shorter man, obviously, walking towards the door, as well.  The door was taller than the both of us, probably not combined, I'm not sure the store wasn't that tall—I mean, it wasn't City Hall or Puffy's great room—and the other man clearly planned to walk in as well.  Long story short, him being shorter, he said, I got you, brother and he held the door open for me.  My eyes popped out.  Now on this side, I cannot tell you how many positive emotions come up—probably about six—when I think about how good that made me feel.  It was a real good move.  He knew it, I knew it—I knew it wasn't necessary to ask for his phone number or plan some family get together or anything like that.  I figured I would just wave to his wife and kids after he was done pumping gas, give them a good send off.  Do you want to know what he was?  Well, he was Mexican.  I mean, he wasn't Pedro—he looked more like Miguel Cotto, similar plump, wholesome lips.  And Miguel Cotto's Peurto Rican...how do I know the guy's Mexican?  Hmm, should have quit while I was ahead...