I had some work to do this morning that was not going to get done if I sat at home, what with the many potential distractions of television, Nintendo DS, staring out the window, grouting the bathroom tile, etc., so I forced myself out of the apartment and stepped into a Starbucks, where I got myself situated in a corner with a couple of ice coffees and plugged in my battery. I had been so consumed by my own concerns over doing what I needed to do that I didn't notice there was something unusual happening until I saw another adapter plugged into the outlet next to mine. It was connected to an unattended laptop which, it turned out, belonged to a gentleman sitting on the ground next to the sugar and napkin island a few feet away. He was speaking very slowly and methodically on his cellphone. It quickly became clear that he was talking to the police.

He was spelling out his last name, military style ("Victor, Bravo, etc.") until he was interrupted by the person of the other end of the phone, who must have told him that it was unnecessary. It was impossible to ignore his conversation, and it soon emerged that he had seen a suspicious bag somewhere, and that a pair of police officers to whom he had previously pointed out the package were dismissive and had left without investigating. One of the baristas came over, apparently not for the first time, to discuss it with him, but he waved him off, saying he was talking with the NYPD and not to disturb him. It seemed one of your regular disorderly patron situations.

This went on for a couple of minutes until a pair of police officers entered the store. Since this was all happening approximately ten feet away from me I figured at this point I'd put aside what I was doing and see how the whole thing played out. The two women, who were both extremely professional, asked him to explain why they were there. He gestured to his right, and it was at then that I realized the suspicious package about which he had been so agitated was right next to him, in the store. He was a regular, he said, and he had seen the bag when he'd come in, and he waited for someone to retrieve it for several minutes, and when no one did, he called the police, who had ignored it, and that's where we were.

One of the two cops reached down to grab the bag and the gentleman got extremely agitated, ordering her not to touch it. She explained that if there had been an actual bomb in the bag his cellphone use would have set it off already. He replied that, if there were some sort of trigger on the device, using his cell wouldn't have made any difference. Then he stood up very slowly and said, "Look, if you're going to do that at least wait until I clear out of here, because I don't want to be here when it explodes." He unplugged his charger, scooped up his laptop, muttered the phrase "see something, say something," and left. Those of us who had been watching from nearby tables remained in our seats.

I looked at the bag. It was one of those treated-paper store bags from one of your higher-end clothing places-the kind, say, your mother fills up with food when she puts you back on the train after you come out for a Sunday visit (particularly if your mother is mine)-and in it was another bag, possibly from the Gap, which appeared to be full.

The manager came up to the police and explained that the gentleman was, in fact, a regular, and that this morning was unusual, but that they were unable to dissuade him from making a scene.

The cop on the left shined a flashlight on the bag. She picked it up.

And... nothing. It was full of clothes. The cops handed the manager the bag, he disposed of it in the trash, and, after a minute or two, the cops left.

So, anyway, here's the thing: You live in New York, you learn to deal with the crazies. You get good at blocking out random mania in its many forms. And, of course, after the events of eight years ago, you've trained yourself not to flip out over every possible terrorist attack, no matter how ridiculous, because, really, what are the odds, and more importantly, you cannot function in a society if you spend every waking moment looking over your shoulder in fear.

That said: For a brief moment when the cop leaned down to pick up the bag I was very, very conscious of the fact that there might actually be a bomb in it. The first thing I thought, sadly enough, was, "Jesus, this laptop is all I have left. I hope it doesn't get damaged." Then I wondered if my license would survive whatever incendiary device was about to explode me so that my charred remains could at least be identified. Then I thought-and you know how these things go, it all happened simultaneously, in the space of second-So this is it. This is how it ends.

Then she picked up the bag.

I won't lie. I'm still a little shaken. (It happened about ten minutes ago, as of this writing.) I'm angry with the guy, angry with the situation, and mostly angry with myself, by being so affected by it. I allowed a man for whom the stress of living in this city got to be too much one morning and for whom a random unattended package became a precipitating event in his letting out some of the crazy to put me on edge to the point where I abandoned what I was doing to get this whole thing down. I should not be this rattled, and yet I am. So I'm angry. Because I thought I was better than that. And, like so many assumptions one makes about themselves, when faced with reality (or even-especially!-unreality), it turned out not to be the case.

On the plus side, the manager came around after and distributed coupons for a free cup of coffee to those of us who were here for the whole thing. So at least I've got that to look forward to.