I’ve just exited the 14th Street subway station at 6th Avenue when I’m confronted by a self-styled street preacher marching down 15th Street with a PA system in tow. He’s headed my direction, admonishing people to ‘smile,’ ‘be happy,’ ‘show your love.’ He’s a diminutive, sinewy man whose face shows the haggard, hardened features of someone who’s lived a rough life, discovered religion somewhere along the way and embarked on a quest to impose it on others. I have a throbbing headache and the cacophony of street noise is already unbearable without this barking lunatic. I give him a dirty look as he passes by, and this is all it takes: ‘This guy here’s not smiling, he looks like he’s got a stick up his butt!’ I turn toward him. ‘Fuck off,’ I say, struggling to get a grip on a surge of anger. The light changes and I start to cross the street, but the street preacher isn’t going to let me have the last word. ‘Oh yeah, a major stick up his butt. He’s got a stick so far up his butt it’s making his hair fall out!’ So, I think to myself, he’s found my bald spot and assumes it’s my Achilles heel! It’s an absurd and comical gambit, this slightly deranged street preacher limping along with his PA, ranting about my bald spot as we advance down the crowded street. I decide not to give him the pleasure of a real confrontation, which he’s clearly angling for. Still, this harassment continues for a block and a half, and by the time the taunts die out I’m involuntarily imagining how I would explain myself to friends and family were I get arrested after assaulting this pathetic bully.