On my way to the pizza place to get a slice this afternoon I passed a young couple in the midst of a rather heated scene. I didn’t catch the whole thing, but I surmised from the girl’s facial expressions and the guy’s language that she had cheated on him. He was livid, and she looked utterly prepared to crawl under a rock and die. Unfortunately, she couldn’t, because she was on the clock for Liberty Tax Service. Yes, this poor girl was experiencing a relationship meltdown/breakup while swathed in one of those cheap-o Statue of Liberty costumes (teal snuggie w/ matching oversized styrofoam headband), morosely swinging a sign on a street corner to entice passing motorists into getting their refund on with Liberty. A couple times she tried to walk away from her perceived lover, but she was probably only allowed to go so far on the block (lest she run afoul of some other tax prep outfit).
I wanted to scoop this damaged Lady Liberty up in my arms and run away, whispering, “Let’s leave this all behind, sweetheart, and start anew in some coastal Connecticut village!” I wanted pizza more, though.