Razor's Edge

The other day, when work was cut short by a middling New York snowstorm, I capitalized by sharing some super happy hour brews with a friend. When a fortyish, silver-haired man my dad's age lumbered over to our stools, I figured he was a lonely accountant gone AWOL from the office party taking place in the far corner, or at most, a Murray Hill closet dweller with Chelsea dreams. Instead, he pulled out a generic plastic shopping bag from which he produced a single package of Gillette Sensor III. "Best deal you'll get." I examined the razor, admiring its virtues. "I'll sell you 4 for 20," he slurred. I thanked him, noting that with such a surplus, I'd have nothing to do but go out and slash people. The bartender, an ingénue, winced perceptibly. The stumblebum leaned in closer, whispering gently into my ear, "You can even take it into the bathtub." A fine point.