Confessions of a P.B.

The Trauma of the Pink Shirt

By SIMON CRITCHLEY, NYT

LET me tell you an odd little story, in anticipation of summer. Last June, just as New York City was turning back into a summer sweatbox, our friend Shirley called my wife and said she knew someone with a pool in New Jersey who was away for the weekend, and wouldn’t mind our using it. An irresistible invitation.

We made haste. An hour later, we were heading up Route 9W, windows open, looking out over the Hudson River on a lovely day.

At my suggestion, we stopped for some snacks and drinks. I was the last of the three of us to leave the gas station, a bag bulging with goodies in my hand.

That’s when I walked into a situation, right there in the parking lot. Three cars, one of them Shirley’s, were simultaneously trying to pull out of their parking spots. The two male drivers were screaming at each other, at Shirley and at my wife.

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