The flashbulbs catch a blur of neon spandex and thick leg warmers as a group of girls moves in an athletic, layered silhouette down 42nd Street. They look incredibly fly under the marquee for *Tightrope*, their oversized sweatshirts catching the harsh glow of a nearby Apple Macintosh display.
I duck into the corner bodega, grumbling as I fork over **$0.50** for a single loaf of bread that seems to get smaller every time these suits shuffle the deck at the banks. Outside, the summer heat vibrates to the synth beat of "Ghostbusters" while a kid on the curb aggressively snaps a plastic Transformer into a jet.
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