I got off the bus at Port Authority, stepped off to the side to tighten my belt and the damn thing snapped right in my hand. My Bermuda shorts began sliding down. I dropped my camera case and grabbed the remnants of the belt, stuck my middle finger through a belt loop and proceeded to search for a store that sold belts.
You'd think in mid town Manhattan there would be one every few feet. I had to walk four blocks to 6th and 42nd Street before I found a gift shop that had belts. I paid $10.89 for one, stepped outside on a busy day and attempted to slide off my old broken belt and replace it with the new one. I ducked into a cubbyhole with a door leading to offices. With my hands fumbling, my shorts falling, my mouth grimacing, with a sudden surge of people who just had to get in those offices, I somehow looped the new belt and pulled it tight.
I did what I had to do, proud of myself for not panicking. Thank God for indifferent New Yorkers who notice nothing. I went home.
Then I took a close look at the new belt made in China. The top part was already separating from the under part. I took my staple gun and stapled that sucker about eight times. Now I just hope I don't rip up my fingers on protruding staple edges.
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