some more stuff.

The police took me to the 20th Precinct, which was tucked away on West 82nd Street near the criminal menace populating the Shake Shack and the Natural History Museum. The Fightin’ 20th serviced the mean streets of the Upper West Side, breaking apart heated conversations between besweatered labradoodles that had escalated into full-on arguments about the relative merits of Fuji Water, Saul Bellow, and Ingmar Bergman, and were occasionally deployed to enforce the policy against sending your West Indies babysitter to hold your spot in the checkout at Zabar’s. At the 20th Precinct, they dealt with septuagenarian residents whose vocal chord polyps were suddenly of no hindrance to volume when a livery cab had doubled parked, a shvartze shnorrer had begged too zealously, or a tree branch had been overpruned. These brave men and women had to oversee the highest ratio of broken hips of any precinct in the entire NYPD and their colors didn’t run.