Sometime around the 5th inning of the Cardinals-Astros game 6 last night, I decided to put the laptop to rest and concentrate on the game. As I closed the computer, it made a crunchy noise. I'm pretty sure computers aren't supposed to make crunchy noises.

The broken plastic sound made me laugh. Earlier in the day, I'd had a problem with the computer and my computer technician friend had said, "I should start building a new laptop for you. That one you have is going to bust up in about 15 seconds." I'll call him Nostradamus from now on.

Midday today, I'd had enough of the gimp laptop. The monitor swung away from the base freely on one side. It was fun to wave it around, but it was time to stop playing with a broken toy. I dropped it off with technician friend, grabbed my coat, scarf and Cardinals hat and headed for lunch.

As I got into the half-full elevator, someone in the cab said, "Hey, a Cardinals fan." My hat brim blocked the view, and I lifted my chin to look at the source of the voice.

"Ohmigod," I gasped. Can't I play it cool, just once? "You're Will Leitch."

I've never met Will Leitch before.

Esther and I had lunch yesterday, and I had said I wished I knew of a bar in New York that's Cardinals-friendly and would be showing the playoffs. I recalled from his writing that retired web columnist and published author Will Leitch was a big Cards fan living in NYC. Maybe I could write him and ask him if he knows of a place. So when I got back to my desk, I did.

"I sent you an email yesterday. Just yesterday! I mean— We've never met. Hi, I'm C."

He laughed and we shook hands. The elevator reached the first floor. I explained that I recognized his picture from online and was just thinking of him yesterday and told him about the email I had sent. Unfortunately, he didn't know any Cards bars. We chatted baseball and I asked him about his book.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" I asked him on the curb outside the office.
"I work here," he said.
"You do?"

He works a few floors above me at one of the many magazines owned by the parent company of the web site I work for. I'm crushed. I was under the illusion that published book authors all cushy and retired and never had to work. Shattered. And more of my innocence slips away.

"See you around," he said. "Go Cards."

More baseball:
* The Boys of Summer
* Home Run

We tried on some sunglasses before heading up the escalator toward casual-wear.

“He’s not far from here,” Goober said.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. He’s over on some pier at a—”
“Beer tasting? I read about that.”

I held her sweater and zipped her up as she tried on a few dresses. I needed to be talked into this beer thing.

“I don’t have any money,” I said. “My first paycheck still hasn’t gone through and my rent check did. I am in the red.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ll pay for you and you can pay me back.”
“I don’t even like beer.”

The dress hunt was fruitless, especially compared to last week when I came here with the same goal—buy a dress to wear to a wedding—and I ended up leaving the store with three. My teeny chest fits into dresses a little more easily than her emphatically not-teeny one does, I guess.

We pushed through the department store’s revolving doors and out into the rain. We wore hats, no umbrellas for us today. We walked toward the river. Goober got her beer-tasting friend on the phone.

“WHAT? … I CAN’T HEAR YOU! … HA HA HA … I CAN’T UNDERSTAND A WORD YOU’RE SAYING!”

She was yelling into the phone. We were stared at. I laughed.

“Man!” she said. “He is wasted.”
“How do you get that wasted on little sips of beer?”
“I don’t know.”

We zigzagged around security guards and metal barriers, looking for the ticket booth.

“No more tickets,” we were told. “Only Designated Driver tickets left.”

“Hey,” a guy behind a table whispered to Goober. He said he could hook us up. We sat on a cement planter, smoked cigarettes and waited for a signal.

He sold Goober two VIP tickets for less than the price of two regular tickets. He armed us each with a green bracelet and a red VIP badge around our necks. And a little plastic cup.

We moved through the ID check and were each handed another little plastic cup.

“Let’s go.”

“Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!”
“Heyyyyy!”
“Fill them both up!”
“How’d you guys get two cups?”
“We’re VIPs!”
“What does that mean?”
“We don’t know!”
“I like this one, but I don’t like that one.”
“I’ll drink it. Pour it in this cup.”
“I need more beer.”
“What kind of beer is this?”
“I have no idea.”
“He just dissed you! He thought you were wearing a Boston hat!”
“Go Cards!”
“We’re VIPs!”
“Dad? Yeah, I’m out right now. What’s the score?”
“Fill them both up!”
“My hands are cold. The downside to having two cups!”
“I need to finish one of mine. I want to smoke a cigarette.”
“We can smoke and drink—at the same time!”
“Yankees suck!”
“Shut up! You’re going to get in another fight!”
“I need more beer.”

“HEY!”
“YEAH?”
“I SEE HOW YOU CAN GET DRUNK ON LITTLE SIPS OF BEER NOW!”
“ME TOO! AND I DON’T EVEN LIKE BEER! WOOOO!”
“I NEED MORE BEER.”
“ME TOO.”

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* More: She's Crafty: The Chair

Brady and I sat on grungy chairs and fingered through our purses, since we had nothing else to do while we waited. We crossed and uncrossed our pantyhosed gams while badged officers walked about the place. I smoothed my pink strapless dress, Brady tucked her shoulders inside a blue wrap, and police scanners cackled on the other side of the counter. The wedding reception had ended, and after a whole day in high heels, we were ready to turn in. After we deal with this whole police thing.

We sat in the crowded underground station and waited, but cheerfully, since we were still giddy with wine and romance. “This is so Heather and Dan,” we said about the wedding gift. We dished about who we’d talked to and danced with at the candle-lit restaurant. The cupcakes and the Canadians were so sweet. These cops were trying to be sweet, but it didn’t help. Sweet or sour, we were still going to get a ticket.

A policeman was questioning a middle-aged woman who was sitting next to us. “You don’t have any ID?” he asked her. She didn’t. She looked like a foreign tourist to me, so I was surprised she didn’t have a passport on her. Some out-of-view cop had our driver’s licenses and was making sure we weren't terrorists or wanted felons.

About five minutes earlier, as Brady and I hugged and headed toward our respective subway lines, we were approached by a Boy in Blue, and two others hovered nearby. We knew what they wanted and followed them. “Broken Window Theory,” Brady said to me as we followed the officer. Blast! Broken Window Theory!

“I’m sorry,” I said to Brady. It was my idea. I didn’t think we’d get caught. “If it’s less than $50, I’ll pay for it. If it’s more, we’ll split it. Deal?”

Now, a blonde ponytailed officer walked up to us, a ticket book in hand. She asked us for our phone numbers and ripped the yellow pages off the pad.

I tried to explain: The machine to buy a Metrocard with cash was broken and the other one wouldn’t take Brady’s card even though there’s money on it and I looked for my special emergency cash Metrocard that I usually keep in my wallet but it wasn’t there so I swiped my unlimited card and told Brady to piggyback with me.

Security cameras watched the whole thing.

“We each get a ticket?” I asked the officer.
“Yep,” she said.
“How much is it?”
“$60.”

We swiped our yellow tickets and ached as we stood up on our party-tired legs, and tried it again. Brady and I hugged and headed toward our respective subway lines. We couldn't let that be the end of our evenings. I went uptown to schmooze with the wedding party at their swank hotel. Brady went downtown where she met Josh Hartnett at a SoHo bar.

Getting a $60 ticket for jumping the turnstiles would normally make for a bad day. Luckily for us—with the exception of those 15 minutes we'll never get back—it was a very good day.